Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day

by Ben Loory

  He runs—unseeing—right past the boy.

  A moment later, the villagers come after him.

  The boy takes off running after the hunter, with the villagers behind in pursuit. The boy runs for his life, without looking back; he runs as fast as he can. He runs until his heart thumps in his chest and all he can hear is his breath. And, in his mind, he hears the screams of villagers as the hunter hacked them to death.

  Somehow, the boy makes it back to his own village alive, with his pursuers left behind.

  And there he finds the hunter already by his hut, jamming the three new heads into the ground.

  Late that night the boy enters the hunter’s hut and stands over him in the dark. He wants to know why the hunter kills those people, wants to know why he chops off their heads. But there is nothing about the hunter’s sleeping form that explains anything to the boy—anything at all about what’s in his mind, why he does the things that he does.

  When the boy finally turns and steps from the hut, he finds six severed heads out there waiting.

  You have to kill him, says the first.

  You have to do it, says the second.

  You’re the only one who can, says the third.

  If not you, then who? the three others say.

  If not you, then who? the heads say.

  The next day the boy hides in the shadows of his mother’s hut and watches the severed heads as they talk. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but he knows it’s about him—their eyes keep glancing his way.

  The boy is holding a knife in his hand—a small knife he found in the dirt.

  He feels the edge of the blade with his thumb.

  He winces as it threatens to break the skin.

  That evening when the hunter returns from the jungle, he doesn’t even bother with the stakes. He just dumps all the heads he’s carrying in a pile by his hut and goes inside and lies down to sleep.

  The boy stares at the pile of heads, and the heads in the pile stare back.

  Some time passes.

  And then some more.

  And then it gets very dark.

  The boy rises from his hiding place and steps forward.

  Do it, whispers one of the heads. Think of his head as a toe, it says. Be like the raccoon, it says.

  Do it for us, says another head. And so there will never be any more.

  Do it, say the rest. Do it, do it.

  Do it, say all of the heads.

  And so the boy does it.

  There is a lot of blood, and it takes quite some time. But when he finally emerges from the hut with the head, the boy’s mind feels strangely calm.

  He places the hunter’s head on a stake and jams it into the ground.

  The other heads have closed their eyes.

  The boy slips into the jungle and is gone.

  THE DUCK

  A DUCK FELL IN LOVE WITH A ROCK. IT WAS A LARGE rock—about the size of a duck, actually—that was situated off the bank of the river a little past the old elm. Every day after lunch the duck would saunter off to admire the rock for a while.

  Where are you going? said the other ducks.

  Nowhere, said the duck. Just around.

  But the other ducks knew exactly where he was going and they all laughed at him behind his back.

  Stupid duck is in love with a rock, they sniggered. Wonder what kind of ducklings they will have.

  But there was one duck—a girl duck—who did not laugh. She had known the strange duck for a long time, and had always found him to be a good and decent bird. She felt sorry for him; it was hard luck to fall in love with a rock. She wanted to help, but what could she do? She trailed after the duck and watched him woo the rock from behind a tree.

  I love you, the duck was saying. I love you I love you I love you. I love you more than the stars in the sky, I love you more than the fish in the river, I love you more than . . . more than . . .

  There he stopped, for he could think of nothing else that existed.

  Life itself? said the girl duck from behind the tree. She hadn’t meant to pipe up. The words just sort of leapt out of her.

  The duck spun around to look at her. He was terrified.

  It’s okay, said the girl duck, waddling out from behind the tree. I know you’re in love with the rock. In fact, everyone knows.

  They do? said the duck.

  Yes, said the girl duck. Yes, they do.

  The duck sighed and sat down on the ground. If he had had hands, he would have buried his head in them.

  What am I going to do? he said. What am I going to do?

  Do? the girl duck said.

  How can it go on like this? said the duck. I love a thing that cannot speak, cannot move, cannot . . . I don’t even know how it feels about me!

  The girl duck looked at the rock. She didn’t know what to say.

  I know, said the duck. You think I’m crazy. You think it’s just a rock. But it isn’t just a rock; it’s different. It’s very different.

  He looked at the rock.

  But something has to happen, he said, and soon. Because my heart will break if this goes on much longer.

  That night the girl duck had a hard time sleeping. She kept paddling around in circles, thinking about the rock and the duck and his heart that might break. She thought long and hard, and before morning she had an idea. She went and woke up the strange duck.

  Things happen when they must, she said, as if it were an extremely meaningful statement.

  So? said the duck.

  So I have a plan, said the girl duck. And I think that it will work.

  Well what is it? said the duck, nearly bursting with excitement.

  We will need help, said the girl duck, and it will take some time. And also we will need a cliff.

  Two days later they set out. It took four ducks to carry the rock. They worked in teams and traded off every fifteen minutes. Everyone joined in, even though they’d laughed, for ducks are all brothers when it comes right down to it.

  The cliff is over that hill and then quite a ways to the south, said the most elderly duck. I remember flying over it when I was a fledgling. It looked like the edge of the world.

  The ducks trudged on under their rocky weight for hours—for hours, and then for days. At night they camped under hedges and strange trees and ate beetles and frogs.

  Do you think it will be much farther? said one of the ducks.

  Maybe, said the oldest duck. My memory is not so good anymore.

  On the sixth day, the ducks began to tire.

  I don’t believe there is a cliff, said one of them.

  Me neither, said another. I think the old duck is crazy.

  My back hurts, said a third duck. I want to go home.

  Me too, said a fourth. In fact, I’m going to.

  And then all the ducks began to turn for home. The rock fell to the forest floor and lay there.

  The strange duck looked imploringly at the girl duck.

  Don’t worry, she said, I won’t leave you.

  They watched all the other ducks flee homeward, and then they hoisted the rock onto their backs and trudged on.

  What do you think will happen when we throw it off the cliff? said the duck.

  I don’t know, said the girl duck. I just know it will be something.

  Finally they came to the edge of the cliff. The drop-off was so great they couldn’t see the ground—just great white clouds spread out before them like an endless rolling cotton blanket.

  It looks so soft, said the duck.

  Yes it does, said the girl duck. Are you ready?

  The duck looked at the rock.

  This is it, my love, he said. The moment of truth. And whatever happens, please remember—always remember—I love you.

  And the two ducks hurled the rock off the cliff together.

  At first the rock simply fell. Like a rock, one might say. Like a stone.

  But then something began to happen. It began to slow, it began to grow, it began to
change. It narrowed, it elongated—and it also spread sideways.

  It’s becoming a bird, the girl duck said.

  And it was. It was becoming a beautiful gray bird—really not that unlike a duck. Its wings began to move slowly up and down, up and down, and it dove down and then coasted up. It looked back over its shoulder at the two ducks on the cliff, and it called out just once—Goodbye! And then it was going, going, getting smaller and smaller, flying off, over the blanket, across the sky.

  The ducks did not speak much on the way home.

  Do you think it will be happy? said the duck.

  I hope so, said the girl duck, and that was all.

  They really didn’t say any more.

  When they reached the pond, the other ducks gathered around and clamored to hear what had happened. The duck and the girl duck glanced at each other.

  Nothing, said the girl duck. It fell.

  In the days that followed, the duck stayed to himself. The girl duck went and swam around in circles. She thought about that rocky bird flying off into the sky; she saw it over and over in her mind.

  And then one day, not too many days later, she looked and saw the duck come swimming up. He was carrying a small salamander in his bill.

  For me? the girl duck said.

  And the duck smiled.

  THE WELL

  A BOY IS PLAYING HIDE-AND-SEEK WITH HIS FRIENDS, when he slips and falls into the well. He treads water at the bottom and screams and screams for help, but for some reason no one seems to hear.

  The boy tries his best to climb out of the well, but his fingers keep slipping from the stones. Soon they are raw and torn and bloody, so he gives up and treads water. And hopes.

  The day drags on.

  The boy grows tired.

  Finally, he starts to go under. The water pushes up, past his chin, past his mouth.

  Then it goes into his nose.

  Abruptly, the boy realizes he can fly. He flies up out of the well. He flies way way way up into the air, and looks down over the surrounding area. He spies his friends far away, reading comic books behind a barn. He flies over and lands, then walks up behind them.

  Hello, his friends say when he comes into view.

  Aren’t you wondering where I’ve been? the boy says.

  Okay, where’ve you been? his friends say to him.

  But it doesn’t really sound like they care.

  The boy stands there a minute, then turns and walks away. Then he stops again and spins around.

  I fell into the well! he says very loudly.

  Did you? say his friends. How’d you get out?

  I flew out, says the boy. I flew right out!

  We didn’t know you could fly, say his friends. Why don’t you fly here, for us, right now?

  Okay, says the boy, and he leaps up off the ground.

  And immediately comes back down.

  His friends all laugh and laugh and laugh.

  The boy tries again and again. But each time he tries to fly, nothing happens.

  It worked before, he says. I swear it did!

  Sure, his friends say. Sure, sure.

  And they laugh at him again and shake their heads.

  Late that night, the boy climbs out his window. He shimmies down the drainpipe to the ground. He stands in the yard and tries to fly for hours.

  Nothing happens.

  Something’s missing, something’s wrong.

  Maybe it has something to do with the well, the boy says, and he turns and heads back across the field.

  When he gets there, he stands, staring down into the dark. He can’t see the water; it’s just black.

  But at this point, the well doesn’t scare the boy anymore. Not like it used to, back before he flew.

  Maybe if I go down there, he thinks, I’ll remember.

  So he climbs over the edge, and lets go.

  It’s different in the well at night, the boy finds—much different. Darker, and much, much colder. But the boy is not frightened. He treads water, and waits.

  He can’t wait to fly like that again.

  But as the hours pass, and he again grows tired, the boy begins to fear that he won’t fly. He begins to fear, in fact—and this is very strange—he begins to fear that he never flew at all.

  Did I really fly up out of this well? he thinks. Did that really happen? Did I do that? Did I actually climb out—climb up the side? Like a normal person, holding on to the stones?

  Or maybe, he thinks, maybe I dreamt it? Maybe I dreamt the whole thing? Maybe I wasn’t even down here in the well? And none of what I remember even happened?

  And as the boy thinks and thinks these terrible thoughts, he finds his body growing heavier.

  And then it grows heavier, and heavier still, until it finally seems like a rock.

  And then—suddenly—the boy is seized with panic. He’s going to drown here! Right here! In the well! He reaches out and lunges in the dark for the stones, and desperately tries to hold on to them. But he finds his fingers now are even worse than before; they’re bloody and shredded to the bone.

  And he finds himself slipping off, down into the water; falling, again and again.

  Somehow in the night, it seems the boy’s screams carry farther than they did during the day, and in his bed, the boy’s father hears them and awakens.

  He follows his son’s screams across the field.

  When he gets there he knows that the boy is slipping under; he can hear it in his son’s voice. There is no rope, no ladder—there is no way down—so the father just steps forward and jumps.

  He lands in the water, and comes up, arms out—but his son is no longer there. The father dives, dives on down—reaching, reaching, searching—until his hand finds his son in the dark.

  The boy’s father pulls the boy back up to the surface. The boy’s lips are blue; he is not breathing. The father holds him close, tries to pump the water from him, but it’s too hard, treading water, floating upright in the dark.

  The father is sobbing. His son is going to die. He needs to get his son to the surface. He needs the grass, he needs the ground. But there is no way up. There is no way up. There is no way up. There is no way up. There is no way up.

  Just then the father realizes he can fly.

  THE SHADOW

  ONCE THERE WAS A MAN WHO WAS AFRAID OF HIS shadow.

  Then he met it.

  Now he glows in the dark.

  THE TV AND WINSTON CHURCHILL

  THE TELEVISION THINKS IT KNOWS BETTER THAN THE family that’s sitting there staring at it.

  Why do they watch this garbage? it thinks. It’s so empty—so stupid, so dumb.

  So the TV decides to stop showing the family football and game shows and soaps, and instead it shows them only educational programs. Mostly opera, and shows about Churchill.

  The TV really likes Winston Churchill.

  The family, on the other hand, does not.

  Why does it only show opera? they say. And what’s with all this Churchill stuff?

  The family takes the TV to a repairman, but he tells them there’s nothing he can do.

  It’s like the thing has a mind of its own, he says.

  So the family takes it to the dump.

  The TV sits in the dump alone. It has no electricity, so it can’t do much.

  I guess I’ll just have to think about stuff, it says.

  And so that’s what it does.

  After a while, the TV starts to whistle. It whistles on and on.

  Hmm, says the TV, this is weird. I seem to be writing a song.

  The TV concentrates on the song, and the song grows and grows. And then the TV notices the song is giving rise to others.

  Am I writing an opera? the TV says.

  And it is. That’s exactly what it’s doing.

  The TV is writing an opera of its own—an opera about Winston Churchill.

  When the opera is finished, the TV is happy.

  What a great opera! it thinks.

&nbs
p; It sits there in the junkyard and goes over it and over it, editing and polishing and perfecting.

  I wish I could show this opera to someone, the TV thinks, looking around. I guess I’ll just have to go to town.

  So it gets up and waddles down the road.

  The TV walks down the main street into town.

  Come one, come all, it says.

  Look, everyone says, a talking TV!

  And they all come and gather around.

  Plug me in, the TV says, and I’ll show you the best show of all time!

  So one boy runs and gets a long extension cord.

  Minutes later, the opera begins.

  It is indeed a marvelous opera. The TV weeps with joy for it. It weeps with joy to see it performed, and it weeps with joy to show it. It watches its images wash over the crowd’s faces, and thrills as its melodies soar.

  It can’t believe it’s made something so good.

  It can’t believe it hasn’t done it before.

  On-screen, Winston Churchill is singing.

  If you’re going through Hell, he is singing.

  If you’re going through Hell, he is crying out.

  If you’re going through Hell, keep going!