"No, no, I'm sorry, I'm sure it's very funny," he said.
"Surely you know that a drowned man will face downwards, a drowned woman will face the sky? Surely you haven't lost that knowledge in that big city of yours? A man drowns because he is thinking too much of hell, a woman because she is dreaming of heaven. In our village, if you drown face down you are a man, if you drown face up you are a woman. The mayor became a mayoress that way, after his death (though what he was doing out there at night I don't know. That's a question that's never been answered.). Much to the surprise of his constituents, I might add, though not to his wife, by all accounts, who had been visiting with another man for quite a while. Name not to be mentioned, but a man about town, I might say, a well-known fellow in our village. And there was the little Brown girl, a child she was, drowned face down in a puddle and was buried as a boy. It makes for some confusion in the parish books, but if you don't stick to tradition and the law, where are you? What other way is there?"
Marvo watched her mouth, its elastic redness perfect for storytelling. Only the thought of Andra kept him from taking her as his assistant.
He did not see anyone in the village without those blue beads, except the Araby family. The blue beads did so much for these people. The children wore them to ease cutting teeth.
King's Evil did not trouble them. Epilepsy, the falling sickness, did not bother them.
Most of the dogs in the village became used to him as he walked up and down the streets. One, though, hated him more each time and eventually it managed to sink its teeth into his ankle.
The owner, a woman of sixty who ran the yoga class, told Marvo he should keep his ankles away from the dogs.
Marvo said to the mayor, "Dogs who bite are very dangerous, because they will bite again. But they usually belong to a human who loves them, who will not let them be taken away and killed for a bite."
"There's no real intention to put down the dog, Marvo."
"He will bite again and it may be a child this time. To cleanse the bite properly, the dog's liver must be eaten. I can eat the liver to cleanse the bite, or you can leave him free to kill a child."
It was a good lesson to pass on to them; a good explanation. Understand your superstitions, seek their source, and you will no longer fear them.
The dog owner was angry with Marvo and called him an Araby, but he gave her a new dog, a soft-toothed gentle thing, and she soon forgave him.
He found traces of Doctor Reid; she had been with the Araby family, had visited, or rather hidden, it seemed, for a week.
"She scrabbled about in our library the whole time," said Lady Araby, Roland's oldest grandchild. She took Marvo there; it was possibly the largest collection of magic books since the burning of the Great Library.
The Great Library
It was fever, spurred by fire, exploded by the horror of what they were doing.
It began with a small pile; the books and papers on magic and related filth. But the pile burnt too quickly; the excitement too great to let go.
They pulled out books with black covers next, then those involving sex, then youth stories. Death stories, all fiction, were selected as evil. The Bibles were the last to be consigned to the fire; at this time they were blinded by smoke, blackened by the work of years.23
When the library had been emptied of books, their job was complete. Every man went home, unable to catch the eye of others.
#
Marvo said, "I could only watch. It was beyond my control. I knew it was foolish to try. I knew that I could not control every action of others. Crowd fever is the truly terrifying, uncontrollable thing. There is nothing an individual can do; only another insane crowd can make a difference."
Lady Araby was horrified by his story – even scared.
Marvo could not deal with crowds. He felt too small amongst them.
With a blink, Marvo marked the scene. Instead of a library gutted deliberately by fire, she saw a Miss Universe beauty pageant, the final voting about to begin.
It was clear to Marvo that the villagers were fearing the wrong thing. The Arabys meant tradition, stability and comfortable superstition. Over the hill lay a growing, screaming, crawling child of a city, which would grab and stretch, swallow and shit. Marvo could see the future of their village; there was none. And he could do nothing, but leave them a mist in reserve to use when the cinema came, the power lines, the TV, the fast food high buildings tourist industry artificial ice cream came to take over the town.
Marvo drove away from the village of Araby, sorry that Doctor Reid had gone, and, presumably, taken many books with her. Books about a certain region where magic and witchcraft were said to be strong. Marvo knew that was the next place he should go.
A hitchhiker on the road was no cause for fear for Marvo. He knew who was good and who was bad. He knew who would have a story to tell. He picked up the young man, not more than twenty years old.
As the man got into the car, Marvo said, "Do you have a story you can tell me?"
"Yes," said the man without hesitation. "I have a terrible story, something that happened to me. It is still happening."
"Very good," said Marvo. He had left three people standing by the side of the road, people who had not responded this way.
"Tell me your story," Marvo said.
"Well, I've been travelling a long time now, four years. I was sixteen when I left home, but that's not the story. That's a usual story, a plain story.
"This is about travelling, because that's what I do mostly, plus a few jobs now and then when I need some money. I never pinch it though. I work for it."
"I know," Marvo said, and the young man, accepting this, continued.
"This is about the road; about one road in particular.
The Hitchhiker
I first heard about the hitchhiker from a man I met at a party. He was very drunk, drunker than I was, and he cornered me so I had to listen.
The Father: I wouldn't have touched her in the flesh, I swear. She's my daughter for God's sake. I never even consciously thought about it till I saw her standing at the crossroads underneath the tall four-way sign. I stopped, pulled up beside her. "Hi, Dad," she said as she climbed in. It was my daughter, all right. Her at sixteen, except for the pale blue eyes. She talked to me about school. I didn't ask what she was doing there on the road. I didn't want to know. She kept looking at me sideways, watching my face to see my reaction. The long road was dark; only my headlights lit the blackness. It was hot in the car; my breath was like a stream train, a slow train whistling heat into the air. But I didn't want to open the window, in case I let it out, whatever it was.
I stopped thinking that she was my daughter. Tried to forget I had known her since the moment she was born, could remember the fuck that made her. Remembered it clearly because it was the first for a while; the last for a long while. None of which is any reason or justification, of course, but some men would support me; if you're not getting it you're not a real man. Or something. I felt a butterfly on my thigh and moved my hand to brush it off. My daughter's hand stroked its way toward my crotch.
The father closed his eyes to speak.
I stopped the car and did it right there, in the pitch black. Her body was soft yet firm, and she said, "Daddy, Daddy."
I sat for a moment before turning the headlights on. When I did, she was gone.
I drove about my business and went home two days later. My wife was there, and my daughter, eleven years old and very pretty. It wouldn't be long before she was sixteen.
I didn't tell my wife what had happened. I told her I could no longer live in her cold world, and we decided to separate.
I see my daughter every second weekend. Supervised. She is safe.
I see my daughter nightly, pick her up at the signpost and take her for a drive.
This was the first I heard of the crossroads. The man was drunk, and unreliable, but I couldn't help but be fascinated by his story. Who would I see, at the signpost? Who would I
pick up?
I believe I was meant to go there; I kept hearing about it. Next was my boss, who resigned without explanation one Monday morning. They threw him a big farewell dinner and he got blind, vomiting drunk. I found him in the toilets.
"I don't want to think anymore," he said. I gave him wet paper to wipe his mouth. "About what I've done. What I dream of doing."
The Boss: I can't remain in a position of power, not after the signpost.
I was alert; my attention was caught. I nodded sympathetically, I listened for clues.
It was dark. I drove alone, needing some space. There were no street lights, but ahead I could see a well-lit signpost, pointing four ways.
I slowed as I reached it, thinking it a symbol, a crossroad in the middle of nowhere, and me with decisions to make.
As I neared it I saw a man in a three-piece suit with a briefcase. It didn't seem all that strange, a man like that, out here, so I slowed and picked him up.
He smiled a pathetically grateful look.
"Thank you for the opportunity," he said.
"Everyone deserves a second chance," I said. I could picture his resume before me. The man was a recently recovered nervous breakdown. He was no one I knew, but he reminded me of any number of people who come to me for help.
I felt a deep hatred of him, of his need, his dependence.
"However," I said, "I don't think we can start you at the level you are accustomed to." The man nodded.
"Perhaps dispatch, or the typing pool," I said.
"I can't type." His voice was soft.
"Perhaps an assistant then. Do you have a problem with making tea or coffee?" I looked at the middle-aged man. He was gritting his teeth. He has come a long road, I thought. He turned and looked at me. His flat blue eyes made me shiver.
"No, that's fine," he said. I nodded.
"Hand me a cigarette from the glove box, will you?" I said.
Behind the cigarettes was a gun.
"Salary, of course, will be at assistant level," I said. He had four children; the oldest boy would be earning more than he.
"And you will have to wear a uniform." I stopped the car and watched him, in the light of the headlights.
"Give me another cigarette," I said. He took the gun. He held it unsurely, then lifted it. He turned it to his head.
I nodded.
The explosion covered the interior of my car with his blood and his brains.
I laughed, turned off the headlights so I couldn't see, and drove into the darkness, slowly.
By the time I reached town and light filtered in, the car was as clean as it had been when I set out.
I wanted to turn back and do it again, right then, but I didn't. I waited a week, and there was another one just like him.
I called the boss's wife and she came to take him home.
I asked and questioned everywhere until I found the road to the signpost.
I didn't know who I would find, but when I saw him, it was right. It was a man who had hurt me. He had hurt me when I was in jail, ruined my body and soul. I was only inside because I couldn't afford to pay my speeding fines.
There he was under the signpost, his thumb out. I could have run him over, but I didn't. I stopped, my headlights lighting those dead blue eyes.
It was cold outside the car, but he wore bike pants and a singlet. He had muscles, all right, and I saw him as he was on that day, sweaty, enormous.
I removed my jacket, laid it carefully on the bonnet of my car.
I have never hit anyone before, not deliberately, but that punch felt natural, smooth and hard.
He reeled back, and I followed him.
He offered no resistance as I had not, that time.
I beat him till his face was bloody, then worked at breaking his body.
I threw up in the middle of it; what I was doing was disgusting.
Even as the wreck lay by the road, I kicked and jumped, kicked and kicked.
My exhaustion lasted two days, after which I went and killed him again.
#
Marvo said, "Crossroads are such interesting places. European custom has it that if a child was born feet first it was considered unclean and was strangled. To confine the spirit it was buried at crossroads. Perhaps so it couldn't find its way home. Suicides were also buried at crossroads."
In return for this story, Marvo provided the man with an easy death, a quiet sinking, a tying-up of ends, a time to say goodbye and I love you.
Marvo dropped the young man off and continued to his destination.
He knew that the local shop is often a good place for information and he was rewarded for this knowledge.
He spent a lot of money in the small shop and asked the woman about the figurines she had on the shelves behind the counter. He listened for half an hour, maybe more. No other customers entered the shop.
"What are you doing in our small town?" she said at last. "You seem a long way from home."
"Home is where the story is," he said.
"You're so right. You really are."
"I'm looking for someone. I only met her twice but there was magic there and I want to find her again."
He described Doctor Reid in glowing terms, a man in love.
"I know her!" she said. "She was here! She only bought tins of tuna, nothing else! And I know where she went next because I sent her there. She wanted to know about our orphanage, long since shut down. But I know the man who runs Give the Kids a Go. So I sent her there. I can take you, if you like."
Marvo smiled. "Let me just close up and we'll take off now. It's quiet today."
Marvo slipped some rubber bands into his pocket, and a receipt he found on the floor. He took three paperclips. She took Marvo to see the director of the agency, which was designed to feed hungry children. She said, "If you want to meet a kind man, this is the kindest man I know." In return for a week's grace, a week not thinking about the children, a week without the guilt or responsibility, the director told Marvo a story.
The Legend of the Imprisoned Grandfather
I will tell you my story, because it makes me proud. I have done nothing in my life to make a story. I can only tell you my grandfather's story.
He is a very thin man. He has never got used to eating full meals; he remembers that the only people who get full meals are the ones about to be shot. He does not want to be shot.
He will only eat half of what he's given. My grandmother long ago thought to give him twice as much on his plate, and that alone kept him from starving to death.
He thinks a lot about food; he brought my father up to think about food a lot, and I, too, think a lot about food. As you can tell, food sits happily on my bones and chooses not to leave.
My grandfather spent three years in a dim prison cell. He was not given exercise time. The only time the door opened was weekly, when they would come to empty the toilet bucket. Even then he would not see a face because he would be facing the dirt wall, breathing deep of its earthiness. He describes this smell clearly; he smelt it one hundred and fifty-six times.
They would search his cell when they emptied his bucket, once finding a scrap of newspaper which had flown in the wind and clung to the bars, but never finding anything else.
He was fed very badly, as were the rest of the prisoners. They could talk, three in a row, through their window bars, but communications were never clear.
"I am starving," one man would say.
"They don't feed us enough," another would respond.
"I would prefer to starve outright, than this teasing," the third would say. They never talked of escape, and this was how the captors had planned it.
It is not a hero story of my grandfather; he waited one hundred and fifty-six weeks then he was released. His real story comes with the work he did for hungry children, but that you know about. That he is famous for. He never felt a sense of the ridiculous; luckily for the children he never felt ridiculous.
#
The charity director
told Marvo that Doctor Reid had given a large donation to another charity to establish a market garden. "She is a good woman. She sees the realities of life."
Mistification (Angry Robot) Page 31