by Lori Lebow
The Motivator
Miss Ting was small in stature, but her personality had the force of an avalanche. When she began the Year Nine English lesson, she was like God creating order from chaos. She held up a black box and announced, “Year Nine, today is a life-changing opportunity. You are going to be asked to draw a ticket in the lottery. Prizes will be awarded. And you are going to meet my greatest teaching aid.” Before anyone could comment, she disappeared out the door and returned immediately, wheeling in a large object covered by a black, silk sheet that fluttered in the wind when the trolley moved.
Grant roused himself from his usual torpor to ask, “What is it? A phone booth?”
“It’s a frost-free refrigerator!” Jan decided, turning the page of the magazine in which she was reading an article called “Teen Age Rock Stars from Geology”.
Miss Ting replied to them, “This is called The Motivator. It will help you to work and stay on task until the assignment is complete. Your assignment, Year Nine, is to write a scene for a play. It must be at a crucial moment of action, featuring good dialogue between at most, four characters. It should be two or three pages. You have one hour to finish the task.”
“I can’t do that,” Grant objected. “I’m not a playwright like that Shakespeare dude.”
Miss Ting shrugged. “Never mind. Choose a ticket.” She held the box near so Grant could reach into it.
“What’s this for?”
“You will see. Anyone who is not working when I come to your desk must draw a ticket. You will be in the lottery.”
Jan groaned, “What is the prize? A free, all expenses paid trip to the Deputy’s office?”
“A lifetime supply of after school detentions,” Grant whined.
“Nothing like that. Take a ticket, Grant, since you haven’t started working. Don’t open it until your turn. Don’t cheat.” Miss Ting moved around the class. Some students pretended to work; others took tickets. “Now, Year Nine, about half of you have begun the work. And half of you are still fooling around. So I will ask Jan to draw the lottery. Jan, come up and take a slip from the box. If it matches your ticket, class, you will win the prize. Open it and read it to the class.”
Jan read, “It says: ‘You have won a turn with The Motivator’”.
Miss Ting addressed the students who were already opening their tickets, “Now, class, open your slips to see if you have won.” There were some cheers and groans.
“My slip is blank,” Grant waved the slip of paper.
“You are spared,” Miss Ting pronounced. “You may watch and learn. Who has a turn with The Motivator?” All of the other hands went up. “Jan, why don’t you begin?” With that, Miss Ting pulled the sheet off the object, revealing a huge robot.
“Who are you?” Grant asked.
“What are you?” Jan whispered.
The robot replied in a slow, deep, resonant voice, “I am The Motivator.”
“What do you do?” Jan was fascinated.
“I motivate people who are lazy, apathetic, or selfish.”
“How?” Jan persisted.
“I compel people to use their time and energy to good purpose.”
“How do you do that?” Grant demanded.
The Motivator slid toward Jan. “I will stay at your elbow until the task is complete.” The robot moved closer until it was leaning against Jan’s desk, her fingers caught between the robot’s hand and the edge of the desk. “You are not working.”
“Hey! You’re pressing my fingers,” Jan pointed out.
The Motivator replied, “It is only a little push in the right direction.” The Motivator increased the pressure on Jan’s fingers.
“You can’t do that!” Jan protested.
“I am doing it.”
“You are trying to break my fingers! Go away!”
The Motivator replied in a steady monotone, “You are not using them anyway.”
Grant intervened, “That’s not fair. You aren’t allowed to push students around.”
“I am The Motivator. Rules do not apply to non-human teacher aids. Besides, accidents happen. Are you going to do your assignment, now?’
“Yes! Yes! Give me back my hand!” The Motivator released Jan and she rubbed her fingers and started to work. The rest of class followed her example.
Miss Ting beamed, “Excellent decision. Now if anyone needs help you may ask The Motivator or me. The Motivator is programmed to perform a number of functions including help to write essays and stories for Year Nine, sing Heavy Metal Rock songs from the 1970s and prepare items from fast food franchises for immediate delivery.” Some members of the class expressed admiration. “But first you get your work done. Grant, are you thinking or dreaming?
“Thinking, Miss.”
Miss Ting nodded, “Good. Best use of class time ever. Well done, Year Nine.”
§ § §
“I’ve gotta go,” Brendon responded as soon as Mark concluded.
“What did you think of the story?”
“Stupid!” Brendon called over his shoulder. “If you see Catriona, tell her I’m ready to leave.”
The guests were beginning to depart from the reception room and head toward the venue where dinner was to be served. It was all within a short walk of the church, but some people wanted to drive so their cars would be closer to the reception centre after the party. Because the crowd was dispersing, Brendon could see that Catriona was not in the room, so he started to search outside, being careful not to approach the fountain court. As he came to the North corner of the church façade, he heard a familiar voice which froze him in his spot.
“The young couple, Larry and Iona Rosenbloom, agree to stay for the night, and accept Florian Gothik’s invitation to have dinner with him. After they have changed clothes, they meet him in the main dining room where he has dinner served. They notice that he is a bit dishevelled and his hair is dripping. He has muddy shoes, his shirtsleeves are rolled up but are wet, and he is drying his hands when they arrive.
‘Apologies, my friends,’ he greets them. ‘I had to unblock a drain just now. This old place needs constant repair, but everything is secure. Please, sit down.’ He offers them wine and they chat over the dinner. He is an engaging raconteur, and they find the food delicious. Eventually he gets around to presenting his book Read for Your Life. He asks them if they would read some of the stories before they leave the hotel and let him know what they think. ‘I feel I don’t exist unless someone is reading my book,’ he tells them. So they take the volume up to their room and read the two stories that follow. Would you like to see what you think?” And before the person being addressed could object, the book was thrust into their hands, and they read the first story:
The Knight of the Black Rose
Once upon a time and space, the immortal gods created a world inhabited by men and women. Its climate was mild; its forests were full of life and its cities were comfortable. The gods observed their creation with pride. From their castles in heaven, they gazed at the lovely Earth and congratulated themselves on the beauty of their achievement. “Surely our planet is mantled in the greenest countryside; bathed in the clearest waters and enriched by the broadest diversity of life in the universe. On such a gifted planet all people must thrive in joy.”
However, the fervent prayers reaching the gods revealed universal suffering and abject misery. Human beings begged for relief from the burden of their existence. Life, it seemed, was unliveable in the best of all possible worlds. The immortal gods determined to visit their planet to discover the source of peoples’ anguish.
At first, even the gods were startled by the majestic beauty of the world. Nature humbled them. The wonderful complexity of life in all its forms and the sounds and sights of every landscape impressed the creators. “Human beings have nothing to complain of here. They have been provided for better than we have provided for ourselves.”
When the gods confronted men face to face, the source of mankind’s trouble became evident.
People were born old, lived entire life spans crippled by the disabilities of Age, and died without ever knowing the vigour or comfort of Youth. “This is terrible,” the gods agreed. “Mankind must be released from this torment. If only we could destroy what we have created to spare them their distress.”
Unfortunately the gods could not destroy the Earth, so they returned to their heavenly citadels to confer about finding a solution to Earth’s problems. Their king announced that only if one of the gods sacrificed his life, would the conditions for mankind improve. The king asked for a volunteer, yet none came forward. So, the unhappy people continued to drag through lives of unrelieved misery. When three sorcerers augmented mankind’s suffering by inflicting greater hardships on them their prayers for deliverance reached Heaven with growing urgency, but no immortal was willing to sacrifice his life in order to save humanity.
One day, a magnificent white charger, wearing a surcoat edged in black roses, raced over the countryside of the unhappy planet. On his back rode a knight, splendidly clad in silver armour. When horse and rider encountered an armed opponent wearing red mail, the Silver Knight tipped his lance in challenge.
“So,” cried the Red Knight. “You have come at last to try your skill against me. Do you know who I am? I am Poverty. My dominion covers the globe. Let us see how strong you are against my weight and breadth.”
They rode full tilt together, meeting with a crash that rolled thunder across the dome of the sky. After the dust had settled, Poverty lay still in the pool of his own shadow. “Who has slain me?” he asked of his conqueror, but the Silver Knight only pointed to the black rose on his surcoat. “The Knight of the Black Rose,” the fallen warrior gasped. “Beware, then, for I shall be revenged.”
The Knight of the Black Rose saluted his foe, and rode off. He had not travelled far when, near the bank of a raging river, a second armed knight confronted him. “Stand, murderer. You have killed my brother. I will avenge him, for I am Disease, and by my power you will die.”
So saying, he lowered his lance and rode at a full gallop toward the challenger. The Black Rose deftly escaped injury. Three times Disease hurled himself and his charger against the Black Rose, and three times the adversaries parted to renew the contest with vigorous attacks. After each joust, Disease continued to battle without sign of fatigue or injury, while the Black Rose seemed weakened. On the fourth skirmish, the Silver Knight’s lance pierced Disease’s breast. He fell to the ground, mortally wounded as black blood oozed from his armour.
The Black Rose dismounted, knelt by his slain enemy and gently removed the dying knight’s helmet. Disease’s face was pale and wasted, not from the pain of his wound, but from a lifetime tormented by sickness. His dull eyes struggled to focus as he exposed his rotting teeth in a feeble smile. “Thou art a mighty champion to have slain a dead man,” he whispered. “My brother will avenge us both.” He died, and his head fell back into his conqueror’s arms. The Black Rose watched as, before his eyes, Disease’s corrupted flesh decayed.
A wild cry interrupted the Silver Knight’s contemplation. He turned from the corpse in time to see a mounted knight in bronze armour charging toward him. Vaulting into his saddle, the Black Rose wheeled his horse into battle against this fierce adversary. In the first encounter, his lance shattered on impact with the Bronze Knight’s shield. On the second, his sword was knocked from his hand. Screaming, the Bronze Knight flung his steed at the disarmed Black Rose, and struck the Silver Knight in the breast, throwing him from his saddle. Cackling in triumph, the Bronze Knight spurred his horse for the kill, but his mount reared and fell backward, heaving his rider into the river. Vainly the Bronze Knight struggled to escape its sucking grasp, but to no avail. His cries of rage were drowned in the rush of water that held him imprisoned in his own armour.
The Knight of the Black Rose recovered the Bronze Knight’s body with great difficulty. When he had the heavy, armed corpse on the shore, he pried off its helmet and beheld a face more terrible than those of suffering Poverty or wasted Disease. For the Bronze Knight wore, even in death, the mindless expression of Ignorance.
The Knight of the Black Rose rested for many days after his confrontation with Ignorance. He was lying in the clearing while his horse grazed across the glen, when he was startled by the appearance of a mounted knight who quickly rode between him and his charger. “Now I have you at a disadvantage,” laughed the Black Knight, drawing his sword. “Defend yourself, murderer, for I will avenge my kinsmen: Poverty, Disease and Ignorance, who you have slain without mercy.” He spurred his mount and struck a mighty blow at the Black Rose, who was only able to rise and draw his sword, which shattered in his hands. “Foolish knave. What use is thy flimsy weapon against mine? I am invincible and merciless. Your strength is great to defeat Disease, Poverty and Ignorance. But you will never defeat me, for I am eternally victorious.”
The Black Knight roared and plunged toward his helpless victim, whose agility saved him from countless blows of the deadly weapon. “I tire of this game,” growled the Black Knight at last. “Now you will taste the dregs of your soul.” His black mount reared, then crashed down on the silver warrior, who grasped the Black Knight’s waist and dragged him backward from his saddle. They struggled savagely until the Black Knight raised his sword over his crest to sever the Silver Knight’s head from his shoulders. As the death blow descended, the Silver Knight kicked the Black Knight and rolled away from the falling blade. When the Black Knight staggered and fell, the Knight of the Black Rose recovered his opponent’s sword and held it at the knight’s throat.
“I yield!” gasped the prone knight. “Mercy, I pray thee!” The Black Rose paused, until, with a mighty thrust, he plunged the Black Knight’s sword into the aventail at his neck. The Silver Knight felt his victim twist, then collapse and lay still. Exhausted, he knelt by the Black Knight, his head sunk with relief and fatigue. His quest was complete.
The Knight of the Black Rose was roused by faint laughter, as though a distant observer were amused by the violent scene just enacted. Quickly he sprang to his feet, grasping the black sword in both hands as he realized the demoniac laughter emanated from within the helmet of the slain warrior.
Lifting the visor, he beheld the Black Knight’s hideous, white skull, grinning in fleshless mirth. “Yes, I am Death,” panted the Black Knight. “Thou hadst arrested me, though thou shalt never slay me. What dost thou desire for my ransom?”
The Knight of the Black Rose placed the tip of his sword at the skull’s throat. “Mankind must be granted Youth and Hope before Death.”
“This may be done,” replied Death, “only if an immortal god sacrifices his own life.”
“Then, I shall sacrifice myself,” The Knight of the Black Rose declared, “for I am an immortal, and my father is the King of the Gods.”
The Knight of the Black Rose grasped Death’s gauntlet and helped him to his feet. They stood, hands clasped, appraising each other for a long moment. “I will surrender Youth and Hope to mankind, if thou givest me thy immortality,” swore Death. “Show me thy face.”
The Knight of the Black Rose removed his helmet and revealed, not the face of a seasoned warrior, but that of a young girl. Her dark hair clung to her head with the sweat of her exertion. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were flushed.
Death regarded his conqueror with amazement. His scornful laughter echoed across the glen and round the face of the Earth til the gods in Heaven were chilled by its icy ring. Then, he kissed her on her lips and the Knight of the Black Rose vanished forever.
§ § §
Brendon did not wait to hear the reader’s critique. He retraced his path and found Catriona amongst a group of friends. All were laughing and enjoying the conversation. Brendon realised that the bride was with them, and much of the commentary concerned how the bride and groom had met early the previous year. When Catriona saw Brendon she slipped her arm around his waist and hugged him. “I thought I’d lost you,” she grinned. “Are you re
ady to go for dinner?”
“Absolutely,” he cried with relief. “Emma, it was a terrific ceremony. I’m famished. Rituals always make me hungry.”
“Shall we walk?” Brendon drew Catriona away from her friends.
“These shoes are really uncomfortable,” she said. “They are sit down shoes, I guess, not stand up shoes.”
“Well, we didn’t drive,” Brendon reminded her.
“Come in our car,” Jerry suggested. “We have lots of room.”
As they made their way toward the parking area, Jerry asked if they could give him a minute to make a stop in the men’s room. Brendon decided to join him, and Catriona slipped into the ladies room. While she was in one of the cubicles, she heard two ladies at the washing basins chatting about their recent encounter with a man and his book of stories. Each one summarized a story, based on what they had read. Their stories are printed below:
Canine Therapy
The only large things about Edith Avram were her blue eyes. Her complexion was as flawless and symmetrical as a porcelain doll. Her mother, Mrs Avram was the opposite. While Edith looked like she was wearing make-up, her mother looked like she needed to. When they arrived at Professor Charlton’s office, he was struck at once by their differences of appearance and demeanour.
“Mrs Avram, I am delighted that you and your daughter have decided to participate in our revolutionary Canine Therapy Sessions. I’m sure you will see immediate results, and the longer you participate, the more sustained your behaviour changes will become.” The Professor checked his files. “I see you have already paid for the first four months of treatment, at the discount rate of twelve-thousand dollars.” He returned their files to the drawer and looked steadily at his two visitors. “What exactly is the problem?”
Edith glanced from the Professor to her mother. She opened her mouth to speak, but her mother replied, “Edith is suffering from acute shyness. We were hoping your Canine Therapy would help her overcome her fear of social interactions.”
Professor Charlton beamed with confidence. “Ah, social phobia is one condition that is particularly amenable to treatment with the Canine Therapy regimen. When did you first notice the onset of this condition, Edith?”