Microcosmic God

by Theodore Sturgeon

  Now I never apologize to anybody, and I never back down, and I never take any guff from mere tradesmen. But this was different. I’d never been petrified before, nor had my nose rubbed in so many galling truths. I relented. “O.K., O.K.; let me break away then. I’ll buy something.”

  “Your tone is sullen,” he said complacently, dropping lightly to the floor and holding his atomizer at the ready. “You’ll have to say ‘Please. Pretty please.’ ”

  “Pretty please,” I said, almost choking with humiliation.

  He went back of the counter and returned with a paper of powder which he had me sniff. In a couple of seconds I began to sweat, and my limbs lost their rigidity so quickly that it almost threw me. I’d have been flat on my back if the man hadn’t caught me and solicitously led me to a chair. As strength dribbled back into my shocked tissues, it occurred to me that I might like to flatten this hobgoblin for pulling a trick like that. But a strange something stopped me—strange because I’d never had the experience before. It was simply the idea that once I got outside I’d agree with him for having such a low opinion of me.

  He wasn’t worrying. Rubbing his hands briskly, he turned to his shelves. “Now let’s see … what would be best for you, I wonder? Hm-m-m. Success is something you couldn’t justify. Money? You don’t know how to spend it. A good job? You’re not fitted for one.” He turned gentle eyes on me and shook his head. “A sad case. Tsk, tsk.” I crawled. “A perfect mate? Nup. You’re too stupid to recognize perfection, too conceited to appreciate it. I don’t think that I can—Wait!”

  He whipped four or five bottles and jars off the dozens of shelves behind him and disappeared somewhere in the dark recesses of the store. Immediately there came sounds of violent activity—clinkings and little crashes; stirrings and then the rapid susurrant grating of a mortar and pestle; then the slushy sound of liquid being added to a dry ingredient during stirring; and at length, after quite a silence, the glugging of a bottle being filled through a filtering funnel. The proprietor reappeared triumphantly bearing a four-ounce bottle without a label.

  “This will do it!” he beamed.

  “That will do what?”

  “Why, cure you!”

  “Cure—” My pompous attitude, as Audrey called it, had returned while he was mixing. “What do you mean cure? I haven’t got anything!”

  “My dear little boy,” he said offensively, “you most certainly have. Are you happy? Have you ever been happy? No. Well, I’m going to fix all that up. That is, I’ll give you the start you need. Like any other cure, it requires your cooperation.

  “You’re in a bad way, young fellow. You have what is known in the profession as retrogressive metempsychosis of the ego in its most malignant form. You are a constitutional unemployable; a downright sociophagus. I don’t like you. Nobody likes you.”

  Feeling a little bit on the receiving end of a blitz, I stammered, “W-what do you aim to do?”

  He extended the bottle. “Go home. Get into a room by yourself—the smaller the better. Drink this down, right out of the bottle. Stand by for developments. That’s all.”

  “But—what will it do to me?”

  “It will do nothing to you. It will do a great deal for you. It can do as much for you as you want it to. But mind me, now. As long as you use what it gives you for your self-improvement, you will thrive. Use it for self-gratification, as a basis for boasting, or for revenge, and you will suffer in the extreme. Remember that, now.”

  “But what is it? How—”

  “I am selling you a talent. You have none now. When you discover what kind of a talent it is, it will be up to you to use it to your advantage. Now go away. I still don’t like you.”

  “What do I owe you?” I muttered, completely snowed under by this time.

  “The bottle carries its own price. You won’t pay anything unless you fail to follow my directions. Now will you go, or must I uncork a bottle of jinn—and I don’t mean London Dry?”

  “I’ll go,” I said. I’d seen something swirling in the depths of a ten-gallon carboy at one end of the counter, and I didn’t like it a bit. “Good-by.”

  “Bood-gy,” he returned.

  I went out and I headed down Tenth Avenue and I turned east up Twentieth Street and I never looked back. And for many reasons I wish now that I had, for there was, without doubt, something very strange about that Shottle Bop.

  I didn’t simmer down until I got home; but once I had a cup of black Italian coffee under my belt I felt better. I was skeptical about it at last. I was actually inclined to scoff. But somehow I didn’t want to scoff too loudly. I looked at the bottle a little scornfully, and there was a certain something about the glass of it that seemed to be staring back at me. I sniffed and threw it up behind some old hats on top of the closet, and then sat down to unlax. I used to love to unlax. I’d put my feet on the doorknob and slide down in the upholstery until I was sitting on my shoulder blades, and as the old saying has it, “Sometimes I sets and thinks, and sometimes I just sets.” The former is easy enough, and is what even an accomplished loafer has to go through before he reaches the latter and more blissful state. It takes years of practice to relax sufficiently to be able to “just set.” I’d learned it years ago.

  But just as I was about to slip into the vegetable status, I was annoyed by something. I tried to ignore it. I manifested a superhuman display of lack of curiosity, but the annoyance persisted. A light pressure on my elbow, where it draped over the arm of the chair. I was put in the unpleasant predicament of having to concentrate on what it was; and realizing that concentration on anything was the least desirable thing there could be. I gave up finally, and with a deep sigh, opened my eyes and had a look.

  It was the bottle.

  I screwed up my eyes and then looked again, but it was still there. The closet door was open as I had left it, and its shelf almost directly above me. Must have fallen out. Feeling that if the damn thing were on the floor it couldn’t fall any farther, I shoved if off the arm of the chair with my elbow.

  It bounced. It bounced with such astonishing accuracy that it wound up in exactly the same spot it had started from—on the arm of the easy chair, by my elbow. Startled, I shoved it violently. This time I pushed it hard enough to send it against the wall, from which it rebounded to the shelf under my small table, and thence back to the chair arm—and this time it perched cozily against my shoulder. Jarred by the bouncing, the stopper hopped out of the bottle mouth and rolled into my lap; and there I sat, breathing the bittersweet fumes of its contents, feeling frightened and silly as hell.

  I grabbed the bottle and sniffed. I’d smelled that somewhere before—where was it? Uh—oh, yes; that mascara the Chinese honky-tonk girls use in Frisco. The liquid was dark—smoky black. I tasted it cautiously. It wasn’t bad. If it wasn’t alcoholic, then the old man in the shop had found a darn good substitute for alcohol. At the second sip I liked it and at the third I really enjoyed it and there wasn’t any fourth because by then the little bottle was a dead marine. That was about the time I remembered the name of the black ingredient with the funny smell. Kohl. It is an herb the Orientals use to make it possible to see supernatural beings. Silly superstition!

  And then the liquid I’d just put away, lying warm and comfortable in my stomach, began to fizz. Then I think it began to swell. I tried to get up and couldn’t. The room seemed to come apart and throw itself at me piecemeal, and I passed out.

  Don’t you ever wake up the way I did. For your own sake, be careful about things like that. Don’t swim up out of a sodden sleep and look around you and see all those things fluttering and drifting and flying and creeping and crawling around you—puffy things dripping blood, and filmy, legless creatures, and little bits and snatches of pasty human anatomy. It was awful. There was a human hand afloat in the air an inch away from my nose; and at my startled gasp it drifted away from me, fingers fluttering in the disturbed air from my breath. Something veined and bulbous popped out from under m
y chair and rolled across the floor. I heard a faint clicking, and looked up into a gnashing set of jaws without any face attached. I think I broke down and cried a little. I know I passed out again.

  The next time I awoke—must have been hours later, because it was broad daylight and my clock and watch had both stopped—things were a little better. Oh, yes, there were a few of the horrors around. But somehow they didn’t bother me much now. I was practically convinced that I was nuts; now that I had the conviction, why worry about it? I dunno; it must have been one of the ingredients in the bottle that had calmed me down so. I was curious and excited, and that’s about all. I looked around me and I was almost pleased.

  The walls were green! The drab wallpaper had turned to something breathtakingly beautiful. They were covered with what seemed to be moss, but never moss like that grew for human eyes to see before. It was long and thick, and it had a slight perpetual movement—not that of a breeze, but of growth. Fascinated, I moved over and looked closely. Growing indeed, with all the quick magic of spore and cyst and root and growth again to spore; and the swift magic was only a part of the magical whole, for never was there such a green. I put out my hand to touch and stroke it, but I felt only the wallpaper. But when I closed my fingers on it, I could feel that light touch of it in the palm of my hand, the weight of twenty sunbeams, the soft resilience of jet-darkness in a closed place. The sensation was a delicate ecstasy, and never have I been happier than I was at that moment.

  Around the baseboards were little snowy toadstools, and the floor was grassy. Up the hinged side of the closet door climbed a mass of flowering vines, and their petals were hued in tones indescribable. I felt as if I had been blind until now, and deaf, too; for now I could hear the whispering of scarlet, gauzy insects among the leaves and the constant murmur of growth. All around me was a new and lovely world, so delicate that the wind of my movements tore petals from the flowers, so real and natural that it defied its own impossibility. Awestruck, I turned and turned, running from wall to wall, looking under my old furniture, into my old books; and everywhere I looked I found newer and more beautiful things to wonder at. It was while I was flat on my stomach looking up at the bed springs, where a colony of jewellike lizards had nested, that I first heard the sobbing.

  It was young and plaintive, and had no right to be in my room where everything was so happy. I stood up and looked around, and there in the corner crouched the translucent figure of a little girl. She was leaning back against the wall. Her thin legs were crossed in front of her, and she held the leg of a tattered toy elephant dejectedly in one hand and cried into the other. Her hair was long and dark, and it poured and tumbled over her face and shoulders.

  I said, “What’s the matter, kiddo?” I hate to hear a child cry like that.

  She cut herself off in the middle of a sob and shook the hair out of her eyes, looking up and past me, all fright and olive skin and big, filled violet eyes. “Oh!” she squeaked.

  I repeated, “What’s the matter? Why are you crying?”

  She hugged the elephant to her breast defensively, and whimpered, “W-where are you?”

  Surprised, I said, “Right here in front of you, child. Can’t you see me?”

  She shook her head. “I’m scared. Who are you?”

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I heard you crying, and I wanted to see if I could help you. Can’t you see me at all?”

  “No,” she whispered. “Are you an angel?”

  I guffawed. “By no means!” I stepped closer and put my hand on her shoulder. The hand went right through her and she winced and shrank away, uttering a little wordless cry. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean … you can’t see me at all? I can see you.”

  She shook her head again. “I think you’re a ghost,” she said.

  “Do tell!” I said. “And what are you?”

  “I’m Ginny,” she said. “I have to stay here, and I have no one to play with.” She blinked, and there was a suspicion of further tears.

  “Where did you come from?” I asked.

  “I came here with my mother,” she said. “We lived in lots of other rooming houses. Mother cleaned floors in office buildings. But this is where I got so sick. I was sick a long time. Then one day I got off the bed and came over here, but then when I looked back I was still on the bed. It was awful funny. Some men came and put the ‘me’ that was on the bed onto a stretcher-thing and took it—me—out. After a while Mummy left, too. She cried for a long time before she left, and when I called to her she couldn’t hear me. She never came back, and I just got to stay here.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I got to. I—don’t know why. I just—got to.”

  “What do you do here?”

  “I just stay here and think about things. Once a lady lived here, had a little girl just like me. We used to play together until the lady watched us one day. She carried on somethin’ awful. She said her little girl was possessed. The girl kept callin’ me, ‘Ginny! Ginny! Tell Mamma you’re here!’; an’ I tried, but the lady couldn’t see me. Then the lady got scared an’ picked up her little girl an’ cried, an’ so I was sorry. I ran over here an’ hid, an’ after a while the other little girl forgot about me, I guess. They moved,” she finished with pathetic finality.

  I was touched. “What will become of you, Ginny?”

  “I dunno,” she said, and her voice was troubled. “I guess I’ll just stay here and wait for Mummy to come back. I been here a long time. I guess I deserve it, too.”

  “Why, child?”

  She looked guiltily at her shoes. “I couldn’ stand feelin’ so awful bad when I was sick. I got up out of bed before it was time. I shoulda stayed where I was. This is what I get for quittin’. But Mummy’ll be back; just you see.”

  “Sure she will,” I muttered. My throat felt tight. “You take it easy, kid. Any time you want someone to talk to, you just pipe up. I’ll talk to you any time I’m around.”

  She smiled and it was a pretty thing to see. What a raw deal for a kid! I grabbed my hat and went out.

  Outside things were the same as in the room to me. The hallways, the dusty stair carpets wore new garments of brilliant, nearly intangible foliage. They were no longer dark, for each leaf had its own pale and different light. Once in a while I saw things not quite so pretty. There was a giggling thing that scuttled back and forth on the third floor landing. It was a little indistinct, but it looked a great deal like Barrel-head Brogan, a shanty-Irish bum who’d returned from a warehouse robbery a year or so ago, only to shoot himself accidentally with his own gun. I wasn’t sorry.

  Down on the first floor, on the bottom step, I saw two youngsters sitting. The girl had her head on the boy’s shoulder, and he had his arms around her, and I could see the banister through them. I stopped to listen. Their voices were faint, and seemed to come from a long way away.

  He said, “There’s one way out.”

  She said, “Don’t talk that way, Tommy!”

  “What else can we do? I’ve loved you for three years, and we still can’t get married. No money, no hope—no nothing. Sure, if we did do it, I just know we’d always be together. Always and always—”

  After a long time she said, “All right, Tommy. You get a gun, like you said.” She suddenly pulled him even closer. “Oh, Tommy, are you sure we’ll always be together just like this?”

  “Always,” he whispered, and kissed her. “Just like this.”

  Then there was a long silence, while neither moved. Suddenly they were as I had first seen them, and he said:

  “There’s only one way out.”

  And she said, “Don’t talk that way, Tommy!”

  And he said, “What else can we do? I’ve loved you for three years—” It went on like that, over and over and over.

  I felt lousy. I went on out into the street.

  It began to filter through to me what had happened. The man in the shop had called it a “talent.” I couldn’t be crazy, could I
? I didn’t feel crazy. The draught from the bottle had opened my eyes on a new world. What was this world?

  It was a thing peopled by ghosts. There they were—storybook ghosts, and regular haunts, and poor damned souls—all the fixings of a storied supernatural, all the things we have heard about and loudly disbelieved and secretly wonder about. So what? What had it all to do with me?

  As the days slid by, I wondered less about my new, strange surroundings, and gave more and more thought to that question. I had bought—or been given—a talent. I could see ghosts. I could see all parts of a ghostly world, even the vegetation that grew in it. That was perfectly reasonable—the trees and birds and fungi and flowers. A ghost world is a world as we know it, and a world as we know it must have vegetation. Yes, I could see them. But they couldn’t see me!

  O.K.; what could I get out of it? I couldn’t talk about it or write about it because I wouldn’t be believed; and besides, I had this thing exclusive, as far as I knew; why cut a lot of other people in on it?

  On what, though?

  No, unless I could get a steer from somewhere, there was no percentage in it for me that I could see. And then, about six days after I took that eye-opener, I remembered the one place where I might get that steer.

  The Shottle Bop!

  I was on Sixth Avenue at the time, trying to find something in a five-and-dime that Ginny might like. She couldn’t touch anything I brought her but she enjoyed things she could look at—picture books and such. By getting her a little book of photographs of trains since the “DeWitt Clinton,” and asking her which of them was like ones she had seen, I found out approximately how long it was she’d been there. Nearly eighteen years. Anyway, I got my bright idea and headed for Tenth Avenue and the Shottle Bop. I’d ask that old man—he’d tell me. And when I got to Twenty-first Street, I stopped and stared. Facing me was a blank wall. The whole side of the block was void of people. There was no sign of a shop.