Mr. Strange is tall and fills the doorway; this time, he has a cane, which I believe to be a prop, because he didn’t have one yesterday. He shuts the door, shuffles up to the front of the class, and mumbles, “English, English, English.” Then he looks up at all of us. “Do any of you know why you’re being made to study English?”
P’Fat, always the intellectual, says, “It’s for our careers, sir, and to help us out of the gutter.”
“True. But there is another reason. You see, if you know English, you will be able to read my books.”
“You’re a writer, sir?” says dainty little Pek.
“Yes, and I write about dragons, and princesses; gods, heroes, and monsters; I write about good versus evil, about rescue and redemption, beauty and betrayal, delight and despair.”
“I see all those movies,” Man says. “Especially the ones with dragons. Though the subtitles go by too fast.”
“I’m not talking about movies,” says Mr. Strange. “I’m talking about words. Words are all magic spells, and today, in the twenty-first century, the strongest magic resides in English. Not that there’s anything inferior about other languages, but you see, the gods take turns, over time: they used to speak Sumerian, then Egyptian, then Greek, then Sanskrit, and right now it’s English. For the moment, there’s truth in English. But it doesn’t work if it’s your native language, you see; then it’s just chitchat. You have to learn it, the way you’d learn a mantra. You have to form your tongue around those weird and wondrous words, imbuing them with a wild, inner vitality. Then they will become true speech, words that actually are what they describe.”
He has everybody’s rapt attention, but I, for one, am not buying it. On the other hand, he’s already given me his talk about truth and facts, so I know that what he’s trying to tell us is hidden. I only have to figure out—
Krit.
Huh? He’s still talking, weaving a skein of texture and symbol so audacious that no one can stop paying attention, but inside what he’s saying there’s another voice, and it’s speaking right inside my head . . .
<
When? I catch myself. My lips did not move.
<
But I just got four slices!
<
He’s right, of course. I don’t really have a choice. Big things are happening and I am a very great part of what is going to unfold. The coolness that emanates from Mr. Strange envelops me and comforts me.
I’ve never known what it’s like to have a father or mother, never been hugged by a parent, never just sat down quietly with an older person I totally trust and just basked in that trust; today, in this crowded classroom with the sweat-drops hanging in the air, I feel like I’m resting beneath a vast tree, shaded and protected by a power too big to comprehend. Today, I know that Mr. Strange and I are some kind of kin.
Come moonrise, I suppose I will learn what kind.
* * *
I don’t think I’m ever going to get to sleep, but the truth is I fall asleep instantly, and I fall into a kind of dream.
It’s a sort of jumble of everything that’s happened lately; of lottery tickets raining down from the sky, of gods cupping me in the palm of their hand, of generals trying to claw their way out of coffins. And through it all, there’s me, and I’m prowling through this fantastical nightmare jungle, my right hand clenching the handle of the twisty kris that came in the basket when I was a baby. Yes, I’m just stalking through dense undergrowth, bones crunching beneath my bare feet, my heart thumping like a pile driver. I don’t know what drives me. Fear, certainly. I’m being hunted. Who is hunting me? In the distance, I hear the footfall of something—someone—big. Like one of the demons that guard the Temple of Dawn beside the river. Or like a dinosaur. Or a dragon. I’m running now, heedless of the twigs that snap and dig into my soles.
<
I hear the laughter that’s like the wind. I hear a voice, with a subtle Indian accent, whispering <
<
I stumble on a clearing. The moon is behind a cloud and there’s only a faint radiance here. I stand in the silky half-dark and I cry out, “I want to see!”
All at once, the clouds shift and I’m bathed in moonlight. There’s only me and the moon and the glistening dagger. I glow in the light. I’m so bright that if someone were to look at me he would go blind.
And suddenly I realize it’s the moon that glows in my light. I am the source; the moon is only mirroring me. And it makes me lonely.
I wake up in the dark, all sweaty, floating on a sea of young boys’ snores.
* * *
So, here I am, in my standard-issue Sacred Heart Orphanage pajamas, standing just outside the gate. It’s late, terribly late, and I am in the moonlight as in my dream, and yes, I feel alone.
The moon is full and makes me glow. Behind me is the orphanage; to my right the Buddhist temple; to my left the Hindu shrine. This patch of ground, parched because there’s been no rain, feels hemmed in somehow by the three places of worship. I wonder if I shall ever be free.
Father Duvalier did tell me once that the Jesuits believe that if they have a child before he turns five, they have him forever.
Where’s Mr. Strange?
First, the sudden coolness. Then, the smell of ripe bananas, and the still air becomes sweet, as though someone has been spraying a sugar atomizer around. The sugar sort of ripples like a heat wave. I stick out my tongue and really, the air tastes sweet, like a delicate syrup ladled out over wafer-thin pancakes. It’s a feeling of immense joy and calm.
But Mr. Strange’s words are far from calm.
“You almost ruined it!” he says.
He’s behind me. I never heard him sneak up.
“Ruined what?” If someone would only tell me the whole truth instead of always assuming that I can guess things . . .
“You’ve been listening to too many dead people. You’ve been slapping a great cosmic shut-up on the universe . . . do you know how much energy that cost? Probably killed off an entire star cluster in some backwoods galaxy. And that party trick of yours with the nine-one-nine and the six-one-six . . . personal gain, yet! You broke the cardinal law of the avatar code: never use your powers for personal gain!”
“But it was for P’Waen’s gain,” I protest.
He grabs my shoulders, stares me down. “I suppose it was at that,” he says, and sighs. “Nevertheless, it is karma. Cause and effect. I was hoping to begin this adventure with a tabula rasa, but instead you’re setting off with a hefty handicap: forty-two karmic demerits.”
He lets me go. “Chew on that for a while. And no more sugar, you’ll rot your teeth.”
At once, the rippling syrup transforms into the bitterest of cough medicines, and I start to retch.
“Don’t get sick on me yet. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. The revelation. I’m going to tell you everything. Well, I’m going to tell you a lot. Keep your wits about you, because you only get to hear this exposition once.”
“Why?”
“Oh, there you go. Stop whying or we’ll be here all night. But since you ask, this is the answer. You are part of a great cosmic story. And in such stories, it is customary that the expository lump should be kept to a minimum, because we don’t want to lose our audience.”
“Our audience?”
“Yes. Das Publikum. The silent majority. The myriad inhabitants of the myriad worlds. We are doing th
is for them, not for ourselves. Before I start, perhaps you have questions.”
“Only one. You keep using words and ideas I’ve never heard of, and yet I seem to get them right away. But I know I’m just an average kid. I don’t do well in school. What are you doing to me?”
He laughs and jabs me in the middle of my forehead. “You have, my little disciple, a third eye. Yesterday, it blinked open. By next week, you will see far more than you ever dreamed.”
He claps his hands and the taste of cough syrup vanishes. But the sugar doesn’t return. Instead there is just the usual burning city air. “Illusion,” says Mr. Strange. “All is illusion. It’s simple physics. The universe is a mass of dancing waveforms that pretend to be particles that blip in and out of existence in a femtosecond or less, and the real world that you touch, feel, smell, taste, love so much, why that’s just a diaphanous wisp of a thing that happens between the cracks of time and space. That’s what the Buddha taught, and that’s what Stephen Hawking teaches.”
“Who’s—never mind.” I have a fleeting image of a wise but voiceless professor in a wheelchair, communicating by wiggling a single finger on a computer touchpad.
“Come, Krit,” he says, taking me by the hand, “today I will give you the earth, the moon, and the stars.”
He jabs my forehead once again. And yes, something happens. Wham! Colors I’ve never seen, planets I’ve never visited, quick images that flash by like cuts in a music video. He jabs. He jabs. And he starts talking again, quicker than a human being can talk, and my mind is opening up and taking it all in . . .
“Let’s talk numbers first. This point you’re standing at is zero, the still center of the careening universe. Do you see that pebble?”
He points to the ground. Sure enough, I see a single pebble set in the dried mud. “That pebble,” he tells me, “marks the navel of the world.”
“Sure,” I say. I bend down to pick it up.
It’s stuck in the earth. I try to yank it free but it’s heavy. I’m panting. I get frustrated. I try again. Nothing doing.
“I can’t pull the stone out of the earth,” I say, remembering many an epic movie watched on video night, “which means I’m not the rightful king of England.”
“To move that stone,” says Mr. Strange, “is to move the whole world. And yet, there will come a time when you must do it.”
“I think I’m ready for that expository lump now,” I say. “I promise not to interrupt you again.”
“Very well. Zero: the place we stand in. The still point of the turning world. The moment before the big bang. Now, listen carefully because this is all about numbers. You’ll think twice before you ever dare change a nine into a six again.
“ONE: that is the Indivisible. The principle that guides the universe. The Atman. Do you know who it is?”
“Um . . . Ishvara?”
“Good boy. You don’t miss a trick. Now TWO: two stands for karma. Cause and effect. You pick up this pebble here, well, somewhere out there, a pebble picks you up. This is the unbreakable law of the universe . . . as opposed to the many breakable laws. THREE is the ways that you can see Ishvara. You are standing at the exact conjunction between them. You see? You can worship Ishvara as many, like the Hindus; you can worship him as one, as the Jews and Christians do; or you can worship him as none, as do the Buddhists and the particle physicists.”
“And four are the elements?”
Mr. Strange laughs. “Sort of. FOUR are the sleeping dragons whose bodies, locked together, are the world. Yes, they are sometimes called earth, fire, air, and water. They have other names too. You will be meeting one soon, the one named Jade. He’s a bit of a problem.”
“And what are five?”
“FIVE are the wise ones, or rishis, who guard all wisdom in this world. If you’re ever in trouble, you must find one of them. He will not answer you directly, but will give conundrums inside conundrums.”
“Are you one?”
“No. I’m one of the SEVEN. At any given moment in the world of men, there are seven guardians. They are gods, celestial beings, sometimes even demons, because karma isn’t about good and evil, but about balance, about cause and effect. They have come to Earth as avatars. They have a mission here. But when you are born, you do not remember your past lives, unless something happens to trigger this moment of supreme gnosis; you must learn who you are, gradually, figure out your mission, and accomplish it. Do you know which being I am?”
The bananas? The sugar? “I’m guessing Ganesha?”
“And you’re lucky it’s me. I’m the god of creativity and truth. I cannot lie. Any other one wouldn’t be nearly as straight with you about the nature of reality.”
“And what is your mission?”
“My mission, Kris, has been to locate you, as quickly as possible, and it was a pain, let me tell you! I’ve been looking for you for almost a hundred years! It is to find you and to start you on your mission.”
“Which is?”
“It seems that you are the only member of the SEVEN who is able to tame the FOUR.”
And now I’m really perplexed. Nothing is sinking in. From a nobody living in a dorm with thirty-nine street rats, I’ve turned into someone quite different, someone I don’t know. Mr. Strange looks at me, and I feel his concern; I’ve always been his special project, I suppose. And suddenly he says, “Let’s go get some bananas. I’ll tell you the rest along the way. Hop on.”
Mr. Strange gets down on his hands and knees. Now I’ve seen it all, but okay, I jump up on his back and just like that, Mr. Strange is an elephant; not one of those mangy, pathetic creatures that parade up and down the street trying to earn a few baht from the tourists, but a magnificent creature, wild-eyed and trumpeting, with terrifying tusks. Actually, only one tusk; the other is broken. I remember the myth; Ganesha broke off one of his tusks and made it into the magical pen with which he wrote down the Mahabharata.
On his back, draped over his flanks, is a caparison of gold and silk. There are soft red pillows. I lean back. He’s as smooth and as cushiony as a Mercedes-Benz. And he even comes with a built-in iPod and some minispeakers. “Mr. Strange,” I say, “they sure named you well.”
He sets off. And I will say this: no one has witnessed our conversation, or the transformation; no one but the moon. Beyond this little triangle of slumland and religious establishments, there lies Bangkok; I have to say that I have never left our neighborhood, except a few times, in Father Duvalier’s car (he does have a Mercedes, though he says it was a gift from a sponsor) to help him carry groceries. But in thirty seconds flat, Mr. Strange has bounded through the alley between the orphanage and the shrine and has popped out in Sin City, with bars and women of ill fame (another Father Du expression) beckoning like sirens from every corner; with stalls huckstering everything from fake DVDs to fake Armani; with cars all crammed together and honking and motorcycles weaving between the gridlocked cars, with little children hawking flower garlands, and people, people, people. Neon in garish colors flashes everywhere and gas fumes clog my nostrils.
When they see us bounding down the sidewalk, people scurry out of the way. Tourists snap photographs. The food stalls, the ones on wheels, are shunted closer to the shop fronts. I see a woman frying bananas in a massive wok and Mr. Strange says, “Get me some. And if you see any sugarcane, I’ll take it as well.”
There’s money in a pouch next to me on the silk rug. Mr. Strange bends down, bends his legs so I can clamber down, and I buy a bag of deep-fried bananas. I feed them to Mr. Strange, who gets impatient, seizes the whole thing with his trunk and shoves it down his throat, paper bag and all. It’s one of those bags made from recycled old fashion magazines, and I daresay the ink is poisonous, but I suppose those things don’t matter much to a god.
“That’s better,” he says, and his elephant body begins to shimmer and he just sort of morphs back into Mr. Strange the human being. No one in the street notices a thing. He’s just standing there and the paper bag see
ms to have passed through his system, because he’s scrunching it up and tossing it into a dumpster in a side alley next to a foot-massage parlor.
“You were going to explain about SEVEN and FOUR,” I remind him.
“I feel like coffee,” he says. He makes me follow him into a 7-Eleven, where he buys a large black coffee and gets me a plastic bag full of dim sum to munch on. Then, we leave again and we walk together, getting farther and farther away from the world I know; all the way, I’m acutely aware that I am walking around in a crowded street at midnight in my pajamas, but, as I’ve said, no one seems to see us unless we want them to.
“You’re here to make the four dragons shape up. Because whenever a sleeping dragon wakes, it’s almost certain to be a disaster. And Jade is a tough one: he’s a fire breather. Why do you think it hasn’t rained yet?”
“Oh, I know the answer to that,” I say. “Father Duvalier showed us that movie with Al Gore. It’s the pollution, and the carbon, and the greenhouse effect, and all sorts of scientific stuff.”
“Those are facts,” says Mr. Strange, “but we deal in truth. They will try very hard, all those activists and those well-meaning Americans, with their graphs and their carbon credits; but unless you can put the Dragon Jade back to sleep, you’re soon going to be able to fry an egg on the pavement in Saskatchewan.”
“So, my mission is to stop global warming?”
“Don’t be so prosaic. You’re going to assemble a team of stalwart adventurers. Mighty heroes, strong-thewed Amazon women, or maybe even just the dregs and rejects of society—who’s on your team is completely up to you. You will fight your way to the dragon’s lair, and you will drug, seduce, or sweet-talk him into going back to sleep, but on no account can you kill him; you need him to breathe, or there won’t be any rain forest in Brazil.” This adventure’s becoming more outlandish by the minute. “And that’s not your mission per se; well, just a small part of it. Your mission is dragon control in general.”
The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2020 Page 9