[Parents place child in crèche.]
Officiant: We now ask [name]’s parents to place the crèche into the Baptismal Canal, which stretches the length of the Church, representing the River into which Our Lord was once placed by the same almost certainly loving but again—it must be said—rather dim parents, but also representing the same River into which we all arrive, be it in a crèche, or lashed to a log, or tied to a bundle of smooth river stones, the ballast of which we might struggle against our entire lives, forever aching and gasping for breath. I also invite [name]’s godparents to place into the crèche a sleeve of saltine crackers, as a reminder of the crackers placed in the crèche of Our Lord by His parents, and as a representation of the minor affordances and occasional kindnesses that we might receive on our journey down the River.
[Parents place crèche in Baptismal Canal. Godparents place sleeve of saltines in crèche.]
Officiant: [Name], as you travel down the first few bends of the Baptismal Canal, I invite your brothers and sisters, your cousins, and all of the children gathered here today to place their hands in the water of the canal and splash you a little bit, just a little bit, to represent the small torments that one encounters while navigating the River; the whirl of its eddies, the snag of its drooping branches, the mocking of its water fowl. I would also ask some of the children to submerge their arms up to the elbow and make small serpentine motions—yes, just like that—to represent the vipers and eels of the River, which wait just below the surface, looking for an unattended limb or a twiddling finger to latch on to and drag under. Parents and godparents, do you understand the predatory nature of the River’s many shallow lurkers?
Parents and Godparents: We do.
[Acolytes distribute water pistols filled with imitation ape urine to older members of congregation.]
Officiant: Now, as the Baptismal Canal winds its way between pews and folding chairs, I invite the older members of our community to look upon [name] disapprovingly, as the apes with semihuman intelligence once looked upon Our Lord from their treetops above the River, where they sneered simian sneers and took turns urinating into His crèche, jealous, perhaps, of the sleeve of saltines, or the untroubled ease of His passage. As we bring to bear these plastic water pistols filled with imitation ape urine and squirt [name] as Our Lord was squirted, we recall those times when we were urinated upon, figuratively speaking, by the many sneering apes of the world, and how this wasn’t so bad in the long run. How we survived being urinated upon, realizing, as [name] inevitably will, that being urinated upon is part of being on the River. Parents and godparents, do you recall being figuratively urinated upon by your own version of the apes, whatever that might be?
Parents and Godparents: We sure do.
Officiant: And did you survive it?
Parents and Godparents: Ultimately, yes, we did.
Officiant: [Name], as you float down the River in a small pool of imitation ape urine, know that the dampness is only temporary, that the smell of ape urine fades, that the insults of the apes are but one moment on the River. Remember that the River is long, and wide, and gets worse.
[Congregation meditates on this. Officiant and acolytes remove their vestments and don hard hats and reflective vests. Acolytes begin operating whirring blades.]
Officiant: As [name] now floats silently down the Baptismal Canal, past the emergency exit and the wicker shrines erected to Our Lady of Baffled Wonder, we recall Our Lord’s encounter with the Sawmill, activating the whirring blades and lighting the trash fires to remind us of the industrial perils of the River. We also point the PA system directly at [name] as [he/she] bobs between the miniature cranes and smokestacks, playing a recording of Sawmill sounds at maximum volume to remind us of how loud the actual Sawmill must have been, how it must have rustled the water and shaken Our Lord’s infant resolve.
[PA system plays Sawmill sounds at full hork. Acolytes direct whirring blades alarmingly close to crèche.]
Officiant (bellowing over PA): [NAME], AS YOUR EYES WATER AT THE SMOKE AND SMELL OF BURNING GARBAGE, RECALL THE TEARS OUR LORD MUST HAVE SHED AS HE LOOKED UPON THE SAWMILL, WITH ITS SMOKEFUL CHIMNEYS AND RAINBOW-SLICK WATER. WE NOW SPRINKLE SAWDUST INTO YOUR CRÈCHE AS A REMINDER THAT NOT EVERY BREATH ON THE RIVER IS A CLEAN LUNGFUL. AS YOU WINCE AT THE SAWDUST IN YOUR EYES, OR THE WHIRRING BLADES PASSING WITHIN INCHES OF YOUR FACE, RECALL HOW OUR LORD MUST HAVE WINCED AT THE SIGHT OF THIS DULL AND TAINTED STRETCH OF THE RIVER, AND AT THE CRIPPLED AND DISFIGURED WORKMEN, WHO SURELY PUZZLED OVER HIM, SAYING:
[Acolytes each slip one arm from its sleeve to suggest maiming.]
Acolytes: WE ARE PUZZLED. WE ARE PUZZLED. WE ARE PUZZLED BY THIS CHILD. WHO IS THIS CHILD? WHO WOULD WILLINGLY FLOAT A CHILD DOWN THIS DULL AND TAINTED STRETCH OF RIVER? LOOK AT WHAT WORKING IN THIS SAWMILL ALONG THE RIVER HAS DONE TO US. COUNT OUR MISSING FINGERS, OUR SUBTRACTED LIMBS. OBSERVE THE GROSSNESS OOZING FROM THE DRAINAGE PIPE, WHICH GATHERS ON THE SURFACE OF THE WATER LIKE SOUP SKIN. BREATHE THIS HORRIBLE AIR. WHAT MANNER OF PARENTS WOULD SET A CHILD UPON THIS COURSE? HOW ALMOST ADORABLY NAÏVE THEY MUST HAVE BEEN TO DO SUCH A THING!
Officiant: PARENTS AND GODPARENTS, DO YOU REALIZE THE INDUSTRIAL PERILS TO WHICH YOU HAVE EXPOSED [NAME] SIMPLY BY BRINGING [HIM/HER] HERE AND SETTING [HIM/HER] UPON THE COURSE OF THE RIVER?
Parents and Godparents: We do.
Officiant: SPEAK UP, PLEASE.
Parents and Godparents: SORRY. YES, WE DO.
[Congregation meditates on this. PA system is turned off. Officiant and acolytes remove reflective vests and hard hats. Acolyte posing as Child’s Secret Enemy, masked and wearing turtle shell, approaches Baptismal Canal.]
Officiant: [Name], as you leave the Sawmill, drifting farther down the Baptismal Canal, out of the Church proper and into the hallway near the restrooms, we ask that you keep in mind that not all perils of the River are easily recognizable. Recall now how Our Lord encountered the Spiteful Turtle, His Secret Enemy, who pretended at first to be His pal, paddling alongside Him and singing the ridiculous songs of the river turtles, only to later capsize His crèche for no apparent reason.
[Secret Enemy caresses child’s chin with forefinger in transparently false act of fondness and security.]
Secret Enemy (singing):
Loo-de-loo, loo-de-loll, river turtles are so small
Loo-de-lim, loo-de-leek, river turtles feel so weak
Loo-de-loo, loo-de-lie, river turtles can’t say why
Loo-de-lim, loo-de-lutz, river turtles hate your guts
[Child’s Secret Enemy rocks crèche, first soothingly, then stormily, then hatefully. Crèche takes on water. Child should cry anxious and/or terrified cries between gasps for air. Parents and godparents should regret everything.]
Officiant: Parents and godparents, do you regret everything you have done to [name] in bringing [him/her] here today and leaving [him/her] at the mercy of strangers and confusing, perilous rituals?
Parents and Godparents: We do. We are up to our ears in regret.
Officiant: And do you shudder to realize that, through the gatehouse and the barbican, near the entrance to the parking lot, the Baptismal Canal will empty out into the rushing torrent of the honest-to-God River, depositing [name] into the very real perils that this ritual has heretofore only simulated?
Parents and Godparents: We do. Oh God, we do. We are literally shuddering.
[Crèche follows Baptismal Canal out Church door, through gatehouse and barbican, into raging storm outside. Sharpshooters on parapets overlooking Baptismal Canal paint crèche with laser sights until child is covered in a quivering red pox. Congregation dons rain slickers and ascends stairs to parapets overlooking Canal, rubber-belted Inclined Conveyor, and honest-to-God River beyond. Rain falls as it always has. Thunder cascades across a gray world, intimating a general lack of sanctuary. Congregation meditates on this.]
Officiant: [Name], you are
outside the walls and battlements of the Church, and have been targeted by those with the power to destroy you, just as Our Lord of the River was targeted by those who found His teachings reckless, misguided, and needlessly cruel. But what else was He to learn on His infant journey? What is the chief lesson of the River, if not needless cruelty? For example, look at you now, [name]. Your crèche is rain-soaked, and sawdust-soaked, and ape-urine-soaked. You are alone, desperate, panicked. What can you do? Parents and godparents, what can you offer [name]?
Parents and Godparents: We have given the child a sleeve of saltines. What more would you have us do?
Officiant: Assembled brothers and sisters, is there anything you can do for [name]?
Congregation: From this parapet, we can but watch in dumb horror.
Officiant: [Name]’s Secret Enemy, how close are you to [name]?
Secret Enemy: Even atop these battlements, I am so close, and growing closer. Close enough to smell ape urine. Close enough to smell [name]’s name. I am always just a few bends behind you, [name], for I am driven by a wild jealousy that even I don’t fully understand.
[Crèche approaches Inclined Conveyor.]
Officiant: [Name], know that it was here, when all seemed lost, that Our Lord of the River chose to become a Famous Celebrity.
[Crèche enters Inclined Conveyor, begins to ascend.]
Officiant: Why did He choose to become a Famous Celebrity? How did He manage it? What does a celebrity even look like? We cannot say. The world is so much darker, and the celebrities who once littered our skies are more distant from us now than they ever were. We cannot make you a Famous Celebrity, little [name]. We do not know the secret. We cannot even tell you where to begin, except to tell you to begin at the River. But we can raise you heavenward for a brief moment before giving you to the River, that you might know what it is to see the world shrink beneath you, as Our Lord did when He ascended the gilded ranks of fame and fortune and left this doomed world behind.
[Crèche ascends.]
Congregation: We are smaller. We are smaller. We are like ants.
Officiant: Why do we tell [name] this story, and why in this way? How else might we tell it?
Congregation: How? How?
[Crèche ascends.]
Officiant: Here’s how: One day a man and a woman, for reasons they never bothered to explain to anybody, put a baby into a river, wherein it listened poorly, learned poorly, and made mostly poor decisions until it died. But there’s nothing to be gleaned from that account, no way to make it meaningful. It’s a sad, empty story. It needs a better hero. Plus danger and excitement. Mystery and ritual. Hope spitting in the dumb donkey face of an inexplicable and indiscriminate evil.
[Crèche ascends.]
Officiant: And look around you, [name]. As you approach the apex of the Inclined Conveyor, look at this roiling maelstrom, these wind-warped trees, these angry roadkill-lined streets ripe with faunal decay. We must have meaning in a world like this, [name]. As you teeter at the Inclined Conveyor’s precipice, look to the River below.
Congregation: Look! Look!
Officiant: It is a swallowing River, [name].
Congregation: Loo-de-lim, loo-de-leek!
Officiant: A devouring River.
Congregation: Loo-de-loo, loo-de-lie!
Officiant: Feel it dragging you forward, [name], pulling you in, like the baited hook at the end of the—
Congregation: WHEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!
[Crèche slides down what remains of Baptismal Canal into River, landing with a cannonball-esque sploosh. Along River, apes with semihuman intelligence should already be sneering, Sawmill furnaces already smoking, sort-of-otters already bobbing in dagger-toothed flotillas. Crèche should surface. Crèche usually surfaces.]
Officiant: Brothers and sisters, the Rite of Baptism is complete. I now invite the parents and godparents to leave the safety of the battlements and run breathlessly toward [name]’s point of impact. Trust that our sharpshooters will do their best to cover you while you attempt to rescue [name] from the River. As you do, remember that, metaphorically speaking, there is no rescuing [name] from the River, just as there is no rescuing anyone, which makes the lack of rescuing bearable, and beautiful, and forgivable. Amen.
Congregation: Amen.
[Parents and godparents descend battlements, exit gatehouse and barbican, rush to River’s edge. Parents and godparents should arrive sooner than they do. Storm should howl. Parents should howl. River should course with a deep, unsolvable howling. Congregation meditates on this, descends battlements, returns to sanctuary. Hymns are hummed. Slickers are held tight. Little is said. All is forgiven.]
Blunderbuss
Welcome! Welcome!” the time travelers say, their voices echoing through the too-spacious, too-empty lobby of the Time Travel Institute. The students, startled by the sound of adult voices, look up from the controls of the lunar rover, and down from their ascent of the stegosaurus skeleton, cautious, unsure.
“No, no,” the time travelers insist, “don’t stop. That’s why we have that stuff. That’s why it’s here in the lobby. For climbing and roving! Take your time. Take turns, and when you’ve all had a good climb and a good rove, we’ll go into the conference room and start our day.”
The students, third graders all, resume their play. They are unimpressed by the words “conference room,” which don’t sound nearly as exciting as a life-size climbable dinosaur skeleton, or a rover that really roves. If allowed, they would never leave the lobby. All of time could empty itself onto the floor, and still they would pound against the back doors of history, scraping away paint and rust, demanding just a few more hours to make use of their arms and legs, to summit this prehistoric hill of bones, to run this rover into the ground.
After a while, the time travelers, in their standard-issue saggy gray jumpsuits, begin to question their commitment to the phrase “take your time,” but they want the children to have an affirming extracurricular experience, to go back to their friends and parents and say what a total blast they had at the Time Travel Institute, and what good work the time travelers are doing there—what good, important, funding-worthy work. They do not want to jeopardize this report, and the rigid dictums of time travel regularly warn against meddling in the natural unfolding of events. Some things, the time travelers know, must simply be allowed to run their course.
But there is also a schedule to keep, a concatenation of discrete moments that will and must occur that has already taken a beating thanks to the unanticipated popularity of the lobby. Time travelers can get itchy about schedules.
Isn’t there an adult they might appeal to? A teacher? A chaperone? The Time Travel Institute’s events secretary must have been in contact with someone responsible for delivering the students at an appointed time and in an appropriate state of readiness, bodies clothed and brains eager. Surely they had not arrived by sheer providence. A bus driver, at least. Someone with a means of identification, a driver’s license upon which hard dates of birth and expiration might be found. But there is no such person here in the lobby, and so, for almost a full hour and a half, during which time the children’s enthusiasm and the time travelers’ patience appear equally inexhaustible, there is a standoff.
In the end, biology wins. The students play long enough and hard enough to acquire an unignorable thirst.
“Do you have a water fountain?” they finally ask in exhausted huffs.
“We have better than a water fountain,” the time travelers reply. “We have juice. And donut holes. In the conference room.”
The students look to the conference room door, then to the stegosaurus, wiggle, consider.
They ask: “What kind of juice?”
The answer is: “All kinds. Apple and orange. Cranberry. Cran-apple and cran-orange. Grape. Grapefruit. Peach. Pineapple. Mango. Guava.”
The students swoon at
the selection. Their thirst compounds. They enter the conference room and drain carafe after carafe as the time travelers prepare their presentation materials and steady themselves against the twitching of their own nerves. This is the first time they’ve hosted a field trip of this kind, and they’re not off to a great start.
The Time Travel Institute’s conference room is larger than most conference rooms in most institutes. This is to accommodate the many historical artifacts on display in every corner of the room. There are other overly spacious rooms in the institute in which the hard science of time travel is performed, and the soft science of researching the hard science, and the nonscience of requesting, managing, and allocating funds to pay for the hard and soft sciences, but none of the other rooms are designed to impress like the conference room. The conference table, for instance, is an enormous slab of ancient sequoia. The number of rings from edge to center suggests that it is older by far than anything else in the conference room, which is saying something. The artifacts lining the walls are exquisitely practical: collapsible telescopes, pocket watches, spectacles, all appropriately antique-looking and resting on ornately carved wooden stands that are themselves antiques. But it is the armaments that capture the students’ attention: the fanned cutlasses and taut crossbows, the crossed Mycenaean spears and Chinese qiang, the French muzzle-loading rifles and their German breech-loading descendants mounted in decorative martial columns, flanked by revolvers, and polearms, and primeval stone grenades.
The students have arranged themselves according to an inbred system. The more eager and scholarly students sit at the front of the table close to where the time travelers are setting up, while the easily distracted and generally more troublesome students sit at the far end, where adult supervision fades and hijinks thrive. The back-of-the-room students spin in their chairs, gazing at the gallery of treasures revolving cyclonically around them, wondering privately which to make a move on first, imagining which might be the easiest to handle, the most interesting, the most exhilarating. Brains unattuned to formal mathematics suddenly find themselves calculating mass, density, and, in the case of the glittering Japanese shuriken and the complete set of Venetian stilettos, velocity. Heavy items are more exciting as a rule, but smaller ones make for easier concealment. Breaking is always compelling. All the students in the room have a natural aptitude for breaking things. It is a skill they have come to embrace, and, in the case of these back-of-the-room students, hone.
The Sea Beast Takes a Lover Page 16