“Ah!” exclaimed Phalanges. “I remember. What happened to the acolyte’s left arm? He had one the last time I was here, didn’t he?”
“I noticed that as well,” remarked Sidney. “What is the fate of that retractable arm of his?”
In a dramatic fashion, Doctor Hannersby inhaled and exhaled smoke. “The disembodied limb is currently in the basement, wholly submersed in formaldehyde, and contained within a pickle jar.”
A gentle knock sounded.
“You may enter,” said the teratologist.
The door opened.
Sweating and carrying a ceramic bowl, Hug entered the room. “Where shall I put these?”
Sidney patted the small table that stood directly by his chair. “Over here would be—”
“Thither—”
Doctor Hannersby pointed to the center of the room, where Hug soon ambled.
The oldsters watched the awkward progress of the anomalous boy, whose leg brace squeaked with each stride.
“And just how did he lose that arm?” inquired Phalanges.
“Yes,” Sidney added, “detail the event for us.”
The bottom of the bowl clinked upon a wood table. Boiled nuts slowly turned within the viridescent brine.
“Hug,” Doctor Hannersby said, “please describe your dislodgement to the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences.”
The anomalous boy withdrew a handkerchief, collected sweat from his forehead, and refolded the damp fabric. “It fell off when I was sleeping.”
“Remarkable,” said Sidney.
Phalanges cackled.
Doctor Hannersby motioned grandly. “Hug, please remove your jacket.”
“Okay.”
The anomalous boy unbuttoned and removed his red tuxedo jacket. Protruding from the shorn left sleeve of his shirt was a five-inch triangular stump that resembled the tip of a chicken wing.
Phalanges gasped. “He’s growing a new one!”
“Fascinating,” stated Sidney.
Full of pride, Doctor Hannersby beamed.
Hug reclaimed his jacket from the divan.
“Specime—errr . . . son. Before you don that very smart apparel, I have one more assignment for you.”
The anomalous boy waited.
“For the benefit of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences, I’d like you to exercise that nubbin.”
Hug waggled his nubbin.
“You may go,” stated the teratologist.
———
Hug Hannersby replaced his tuxedo jacket, strode from the parlor, and gently shut the door. His leg brace squeaked as he ambled along a narrow, red brick passageway that had been built into the walls of the house for servants who no longer existed.
From the closed room that he had just departed came the sound of applause.
“Hannersby,” said the portly one, “that youth is a wonder, an ever-evolving teratological wonder!”
“I never would’ve guessed that parenthood could be intellectually gratifying,” added the lank one. “Never!”
Fatigued and hot, Hug continued up the brick passageway and stopped near a small, cracked sink. There he turned a faucet handle, moistened his handkerchief, and applied the cloth to his forehead. A cool tingling sensation spread across his face and proceeded down his spine.
The anomalous boy squeezed the excess water from the fabric, refolded the cloth, and continued along the brick passageway until he reached the servant’s stairwell. This was his least favorite place in the entire house.
Hug filled his mismatched lungs with air, gripped the railing with his four-fingered right hand, and began his ascension. Old steps groaned, and his leg brace squeaked as he climbed the first flight.
Continually, his anomalous heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped inside of his chest. This three-part pulsation had greatly impressed a cardiologist with whom the teratologist was friendly.
Hug ascended the second flight and proceeded up the third until he stood before a place where two steps were missing.
A chill wind blew from the depths of this dark hole.
The anomalous boy gripped the rail, tensed, and lunged. His handkerchief came loose as he thudded on the far side of the gap.
Swiveling his head all the way around, he watched the fluttering cloth sink into the abyss.
“Darn it.”
The hinge of the leg brace squeaked as Hug labored upward. Sweat covered his face, and he soon reached the fourth floor, where he paused to breathe. His little lung burned, and the big one ached.
Replenished, the anomalous boy ambled across mismatched throw rugs until he reached the end of the hallway, where he opened a door and entered his room. Brown-and-green paper still hung in pieces from the wall, but the books, medical apparatuses, and opaque jars were now clean and neatly arranged on shelves. The tedious organization of this space had taken the anomalous boy no small amount of time, but at least the undertaking had been educational.
Exhausted, Hug shut the door, hobbled over to his bed, and sat down upon the inflatable mattress that had replaced the bird coop two years earlier. He exhaled wearily and glanced at the room’s lone window, which he had also cleaned. This cracked pane admitted a view of the distant downtown factory, a red brick structure from which extruded thirty-seven cylindrical smokestacks of various heights and widths.
The anomalous boy stretched his limbs and focused his thoughts.
It was time for him to work on his plans.
From the nightstand, Hug claimed his spiral notebook, which he then opened.
The first page was an illustration of a multipurpose weapon that could function as a ray gun, a bug sucker, and a hairdryer. This drawing had been rendered in crayon and lacked detail but was acceptable.
Upon the second page was an illustration of a rocket ship that was adorned with numerous wings, fins, spikes, satellite dishes, racing stripes, lightning bolts, lasers cannons, and ballistas. The anomalous boy had presented this picture to the teratologist, who had spoken at length about something called drag, which would decrease the speed of this vehicle during liftoff.
This scientific information had dramatically impacted the designer’s aesthetic.
Hug turned the page, which revealed another rocket ship. In the nosecone of this streamlined vehicle and gripping the steering wheel was a boy whose brown eye and red eye were visible through his helmet visor.
This young and anomalous astronaut stared forward bravely as he soared alone into outer space.
“Someday . . .”
Hug turned to a blank page and claimed his mechanical pencil.
A bell tinkled, tinkled again, and tinkled a third time.
The anomalous boy looked up.
Again, the tarnished bell that hung above his bed jingled thrice.
“Darn it.”
X | The Mushroom Hunters
Doctor Hannersby, Sidney, and Phalanges walked along a trail that wound through a dim and remote part of the forest. Depending from the bent left arm of each member of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences was a large wicker basket.
Behind this trio ambled the five-year-old Hug Hannersby, who wore navy blue shorts and a matching shirt. His metal brace squeaked, repeatedly and shrilly, as he attempted to match the not especially quick pace of the oldsters.
“That noise is an assault,” said Sidney, who was gritting his teeth.
“It is malefic,” Doctor Hannersby agreed, looking over his shoulder at Hug. “Nigh the edge of intolerability.”
“Sorry,” said the anomalous boy, who then covered up the knee gear with his hand in an attempt to muffle the sound.
Again, the leg brace squeaked.
“Holy Mexico!” exclaimed the portly phrenologist. “That noise threatens sanity!”
The teratologist nodded. “Action must be taken against this strident audiological offense.”
“What’re you talking about?” inquired Phalanges. “It’
s quiet out here.”
Perplexed, Doctor Hannersby wrinkled his mouth. “Do you not hear the damnable squeaks of my speci—my son’s ambulatory apparatus?”
The lank mycologist turned a large, flappy ear toward the anomalous boy. Shrilly, the leg brace squeaked.
“What noise?” inquired Phalanges.
Doctor Hannersby was incredulous.
“Phalanges is selectively deaf,” stated Sidney. “He doesn’t hear high-pitched frequencies.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed,” replied the portly phrenologist. “Years ago, he and I went to the opera, and every time a woman sang, he leaned over and asked, ‘Why isn’t she saying anything?’”
Doctor Hannersby nodded. “I suddenly understand how his marriage lasted for so many years!”
Again, the leg brace squeaked.
The teratologist stopped walking as did his peers.
Hug halted and looked at the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences, which loomed before him like a three-headed creature. His brown eye blinked, followed by the red one, and his nubbin waggled.
“Hug.”
“Yes Doctor?”
“Come hither.”
The anomalous boy observed the frowning mouths of the oldsters. “Is something amiss?”
“Have no fear. We just need to do some surgery on that girl leg of yours.”
“An impromptu medical operation,” Sidney added, “nothing more.” These conciliatory words assuaged no fears.
“I’ll be quiet,” Hug promised while nodding his head. “I can just drag it along without bending it so that the gear doesn’t squeak.”
“Come hither.”
“Okay.”
Dragging the weak leg like a log, Hug proceeded forward. No noises emerged from the brace that supported the unbent limb.
“Do you see?” asked the anomalous boy. “I’ve—”
“Bah!” decried Doctor Hannersby. “That is no way for my adopted specimen to perambulate.”
Hug soon reached the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences. “If you want, I could just wait here until—”
“Bah!” The teratologist eyed the portly phrenologist. “I’d like to borrow that sprayer of yours.”
“A fine remedy,” said Sidney, who then yielded a small metal cylinder to Doctor Hannersby.
The teratologist kneeled before the anomalous boy, raised the sprayer, and aimed the nozzle at the leg brace. “Close your eyes.”
Hug obeyed.
Twilit woods and wrinkled oldsters were replaced by darkness.
“What should I—”
“Remain still.”
The nozzle hissed, hissed a second time, and hissed again. A minty smell filled in the air.
The anomalous boy felt cold fluid upon his left knee and a stinging sensation on that leg where he had two scabs. “May I open my—”
The nozzle hissed.
Peppermint filled his mouth, and he coughed twice. His tongue burned for a moment, but otherwise, the sensation was not unpleasant.
Hug opened his eyes and saw Doctor Hannersby, who was gesticulating circularly.
“Ramble about,” said the teratologist.
The anomalous boy walked in a circle. His leg brace was silent.
Doctor Hannersby returned the sprayer to Sidney and deferentially bowed his head. “It appears as if your multi-purpose sprayer is effective for both lubrication and breath freshening.”
Upon the portly phrenologist’s face was an unbelievable smugness. “Indeed.”
Phalanges cleared his throat in a very hideous fashion. “It’s getting late. And we’re supposed to be hunting for mushrooms, not spraying the acolyte!”
Ashamed, Doctor Hannersby and Sidney lowered their gazes.
Hug licked the tingling insides of his mouth, which still tasted like peppermint.
“Let’s continue the hunt,” said the lank mycologist.
At present, the oldsters and the anomalous boy continued along the forest trail. Leaves crunched, and twigs snapped.
Hug struggled to match the unhurried pace that was set by the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences. Every hill presented him with two challenges—one ascending and the other descending—but inexorably, he followed.
Time passed.
Chirping birds turned into buzzing cicadas. The overgrown path grew more tortuous and obscure.
Hobbling, Hug surveyed the environs.
The spaces between the leaves were darkening, and the sun had vanished, though there was still some light in the western sky. Never before had the anomalous boy been this far into the forest, and rarely was he out so late in the day.
At present, the group ascended a steep hill and reached a plateau.
Hug replenished his aching lungs and looked at Doctor Hannersby, who was out of breath, Phalanges, whose face was the color of questionable milk, and Sidney, who was red and covered with sweat. It seemed like the oldsters were also getting tired.
The teratologist sucked in a big breath. “We must return . . . soon . . . as I still need to fix . . . the sprinkler system . . . in the Barnatorium.”
“I could . . . continue . . . indefinitely,” said the wheezing phrenologist, “but if you need . . . to rest
. . . I won’t think . . . any . . . less of you!” A large volume of air was sucked into the portly fellow at this time.
“Are those . . . what I think they are?” inquired Phalanges, who was staring down a decline from his vantage at the far edge of the plateau. “After all these years . . . have I finally found them . . . ?”
Sidney, Doctor Hannersby, and Hug proceeded to the precipice.
“Success!” cried the lank mycologist, whose right eye was affixed to a spyglass. “Great success!”
“What’re you going on about?” groused the portly phrenologist.
Gleefully, Phalanges collapsed his spyglass, wriggled his dirty hands, and pointed an uncommonly long index finger.
A brown eye, a red eye, and two sets of matching eyes looked in the indicated direction.
Seventy feet below and in the bottom of the decline lay a fallen oak tree that was covered with moss.
“Is that tree dead?” asked Hug.
“Beautifully,” said Phalanges. “And look at the base of it—in those roots—”
The anomalous boy and the remainder of the Society for the Advancement of the Great Eccentric Sciences redirected their gazes.
Amidst the latticework of rotting roots were the bulbous, olive-green caps of a dozen large mushrooms that had wispy, white beards.
“We’ll dine well tonight!” exclaimed the lank mycologist.
“These mushrooms are safe to consume?” inquired the portly phrenologist, who seemed skeptical.
“Certainly. They are Bearded Rot-Bonnets.”
Sidney and Doctor Hannersby entertained doubts while Phalanges delightedly wriggled his long, dirty fingers. Hug did not think that the name of these mushrooms made them sound very appetizing.
Importantly, the teratologist cleared his throat and eyed the lank mycologist. “And what are the attributes of these fungal specimens?”
“The natives who lived around here claimed that Bearded Rot-Bonnets lengthened the lifespans of everybody who ate them—and quite a few of the tribesmen lived to be over a hundred years old. There was also a study that showed Bearded Rot-Bonnets enhanced virility.”
Doctor Hannersby gave his wicker basket to Hug. “Fetch those mushrooms.”
“Okay.”
“But don’t eat any of them,” stated Sidney.
“Okay.”
Hug slung the basket handle over the nubbin that protruded from his short left sleeve and walked to the steep precipice.
“Be extremely careful—” Doctor Hannersby sneezed, “—with those mushrooms!”
The anomalous boy dropped to his knees and crawled onto the declining slope. His hand dislodged a round rock, which rolled for twenty
feet and smacked against a tree trunk. Bushes snagged his white hair, clothing, and limbs as he descended. His knees and hand dirtied, and on his nubbin, the wicker basket swung like a pendulum.
Hug filled his lungs with air and shot ticklish leaves from his nose slits. The distance between the crawler and his destination soon diminished to a few yards.
Winded and dirty, the anomalous boy reached the rotting oak, which smelled like wet shoes and the kind of perfume that was worn by old women. He stopped crawling, turned, and looked up the slope that he had just descended.
Atop the hill loomed the three-headed silhouette of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences.
“I’m here!” shouted Hug.
“Collect them all!” replied Doctor Hannersby. “Without exception!”
“Okay!”
Hug sat up, slid his hand between the exposed roots of the dead oak tree, and plucked from the dirt a white-bearded, olive-green mushroom.
This capped fungus he gently set upon the moist towel that lay inside of his wicker basket.
“When you’re through,” Phalanges shouted, “cover them with their natal soil!”
Instructions echoed.
“Okay!”
Hug delicately unearthed Bearded Rot-Bonnets and laid them inside of the basket. The eleventh and final mushroom was soon deposited, at which point, the anomalous boy poured local dirt over the entire collection.
“Hurry back!” shouted Sidney. “We aren’t getting any younger!”
“Yet,” added Doctor Hannersby.
Phalanges cackled.
Hug replaced the basket handle over his nubbin and dropped to his knees. Brambles swatted his face and loose stones rolled in his wake as he crawled up toward the plateau. His heart beat heavy triplets, and his little lung ached.
At the two-thirds mark, the anomalous boy looked up.
Licking their lips at the top of the hill were the three oldsters.
Twilight twinkled eerily in their watchful eyes.
Hug crawled onward and soon reached the plateau, where Doctor Hannersby leaned over, claimed the basket, and patted his lumpy head.
“Very well done.”
“You’re not supposed to eat more than two in a day,” advised Phalanges.
Hug Chickenpenny: The Panegyric of an Anomalous Child: The Panegyric of an Anomalous Child Page 6