Chapter Eleven
"Well, well! What have we here?" A deep voice boomed right above Soma's head so loudly she thought at first it was an earthquake. Whipping around, she saw, instead of boulders flying and mountains tumbling, an enormous man, at least six foot five, at least three hundred pounds, towering over her and Squee and peering down at them with tiny eyes concealed within a mass of shaggy hair. His beard seemed as long as the children were tall, and he was wearing old denim overalls over a red plaid shirt, and work boots as big as the rocks Soma had expected to come falling on her head.
"Ruffians!" the man exclaimed. "Vagabonds! Layabouts! Why are you sneaking around my house!"
"Your house?" Soma piped up, emphasizing the second word. "It's a wreck, more like it. How can somebody live here and claim it? I'd be embarrassed myself!"
"Yeah, it's a mess!" Squee chimed in. "And dirty, really dirty."
"My home nevertheless," the giant scolded them, "and I don't recall inviting any pipsqueak scalawags to rummage through my belongings. Where'd you get that?"
He grabbed the book Soma had been holding and tore it from her hands. After inspecting it for any apparent new damage, he brought it down and that's when Soma and Squee first noticed the cart. It was a rickety thing on ancient wheels, about waist high to the man, made of slats of pallet crate wood, with drawers barely attached here and there to its sides. The man pulled open one of these and stuffed the book in with the few others already inside it, then he slammed it shut before Soma could get a better look at them.
"That's private," he declared, "not for prying eyes, especially not some young ones."
"Why? What's so special about that old book?" Soma asked.
"Why, that's an original R.A. Gowdy," the man said, seemingly astonished at her ignorance. "Aye, and there's another," he nearly shouted, as the real Gowdy appeared in the doorway. The giant stepped over to him and snatched away the book he was holding as well.
"Two Gowdy's, he said. What do you know about that? You all must be collectors. Sent by the service, were you? Well, you won't get them. Nobody gets their mitts on my masters." He huffed back to his cart and shoved the other book into the same side drawer.
"What do you know about Gowdy?" he asked, staring down at Soma, who shrugged.
"Nothing," she replied.
"They say he never died," the man winked at her. "What do you think about that?"
"Some people can't!" Squee shouted, before Soma could get her hand onto his mouth to shut him up.
"But everybody dies," she quickly added,
"Do they now?" the man rubbed his beard and surveyed his visitors, the two children standing beneath him, and the oddly quiet man still standing in the doorway.
"I suppose it's how you define the word 'death'", he said. "There are those who are born to die, but then there are others," and at this he glanced at Gowdy again, "those who are made, and you cannot call their ends a death, now can you? It's more of a cessation I should say, a shutting down, a turning off. Them that aren't quite living if you know what I'm talking about."
"No," Soma declared. "I don't."
"But that's all for dinner table conversation," he said, suddenly smiling and rubbing his hands together. "I suppose you must be rather hungry, all out here in the middle of nothing at all for some reason."
"No thank you," she said, still keeping her hand near Squee's face. Squee had gotten the message, though, and wasn't planning on speaking again anytime soon. "We're not hungry."
"Not hungry? Well, that's saying something. Indeed," and again he glanced over at Gowdy and said, "some of you might have eaten the wrong thing, and that fairly recently, I'd guess."
"What do you know about it?" Soma asked. "What's happening to him, and how can we fix it, and what were those creatures back there, and where are we anyway, and who are you? My name is Soma and this is my friend Squee, and Bombarda there is our leader."
The giant laughed and said,
"You're a little girl with a lot of questions now, aren't you?" He studied her face for a few moments.
"As for me," he said, "call me Red Cliff. As to where you are, well, let me first ask you this. Where do you want to be?"
Soma sighed and looked over at Bombarda, but he gave no indication that he was even following the conversation. His blank expression gave her the impression that he was actually fast asleep on his feet.
"We want to be where the people are," she said, "the real people, I mean."
"Yes," Red Cliff nodded, "the real people. I know what you mean. Sometimes we long for the good old days, don't we, when it was possible to know, for sure. When the only genetically modified organisms were the ones you ate, not the ones you were. Back before the people were bred, like sheepdogs. Like sheep, more like it. Happily grazing all day long! Oh, you can find a real person now and then, but people? A whole bunch of them at once? That will be hard to do, young lady. Doesn't matter where you go."
"But where are we?" Soma repeated.
"And when?" Squee blurted out. He couldn't help himself. It was something Bombarda had drilled into him, the wanting to know about the when.
"Been away?" The big man queried.
"Just wandering a bit," Soma said, "We kind of lost track."
Again she glanced at Bombarda, but he was still of absolutely no use. They'd finally encountered someone who could help him with his scheme, she thought, and now he was - what was he?
"What did they do to him?" she asked, pointing at Bombarda. "He ate some of their food back at the beach."
"And drank something too, I'd wager," Red Cliff said. Soma nodded.
"Orange juice?" he asked, then shook his head. "No, if it were orange juice, he'd have more facial hair. Soda pop? But then he'd have more energy. If I had to guess, I'd say it was probably lemonade. The hair, you know, and the lethargy."
"He had a fever," she said, "and he's lost a lot of weight."
"More than that," Red Cliff told her. "Chances are he's lost his mind as well. His old mind, that is. The one with the usual thoughts and memories. He'll have a new one now, but it will come pre-configured, initialized, if you will, stocked with selected thoughts and memories. Good ones, for the most part. Happy ones."
"How do we get him back?" Soma asked, alarmed. Red Cliff shook his head.
"Never heard of it," he said. "I'm not saying it's impossible, mind you, just that it's never been done."
Soma suddenly burst into tears. She'd suspected as much, but now that Red Cliff had confirmed her worst fears, she was overwhelmed by the realization that Bombarda truly was no more, and that everything he was, everything he had ever been was lost forever.
"But if you want to find people," Red Cliff hurriedly went on, disturbed by her outburst and wanting only to get rid of these unwelcome guests, "here, take this," and he opened another drawer, and pulling out a rolled up sheet of paper handed it to Soma. She unfurled it and saw at once it was a sort of map, crudely drawn, but there on the bottom, that had to be the ocean, and the hotel was marked with a large red 'X'. Above it were grasses and above them were squiggles and curves that were meant to be the mountains right in front of them now. Off to the left there was a long stretch of grasses ending at the ocean once again. To the right, still on this side of the mountains, there were smaller hills indicated, and tree-like shapes, and what looked like a collection of houses, squares and rectangles clustered together. She put her finger on that area and looked up at Red Cliff.
"Yes," he told her,"that is Greenland. You'll find people there. Many people. Maybe not the ones you're looking for, but at least there's some. Even real ones, yes. Maybe you'll find who you're looking for."
Maybe, Soma said to herself, but how will I know?
Prisoners of Perfection - An Epic Fantasy by Tom Lichtenberg and Johnny Lichtenberg Page 11