Land Beyond Summer

by Brad Linaweaver

  Fay didn’t have to hear the rest to know what was coming. Only worlds with Winter and Spring and Summer and Autumn were linked to this place, as sort of reflections. All this reminded her of a book she had read right before summer vacation. Clive teased her about studying advanced subject matter when she wasn’t required. She could never convince him that she just liked to read. Half the time Clive was given books as presents that he would never open; and these inevtiably found their way into her hands. Characteristically, Aunt Miner had never given a book to Fay, not directly, but Fay was often the beneficiary of her odd selections for Clive.

  This particular book had been about ancient Greek thinkers, people who were called philosophers. The father of philosophy was a man named Plato and one of his central ideas was the dumbest thesis Fay had ever encountered — at least it had seemed dumb until today.

  Plato told a story about shadows and a cave. Men sat inside the cave, facing a wall on which were cast shadows. They were tied up so that they couldn’t look anywhere else. All they ever saw were these shadows. Behind them men carried a variety of objects past giant burning torches, and it was by this means that the shadows were cast. Not unnaturally, the men who only saw the shadows concluded the shadows must be the reality.

  Fay hadn’t given this stuff much thought at the time but now the strange picture came back into her head, and it was starting to make some kind of sense. The world she lived in was a shadow if it could be so profoundly affected by what transpired somewhere else. Since coming here, she had only been in this one country of Spring, but it had more of a quality of springness about it than anything she had ever experienced on Spring break.

  She didn’t have to go to Mr. Wynot’s Land of Summer to guess how much more summery it was than the one she’d left on earth. Likewise, the same had to be true of the other two seasons. She hated to think just how cold Winter was here, the frigid home of Malak … of Grandfather.

  The snapping of fingers brought her out of her reverie. It was Mr. Wynot. He was laughing. “Well, my esteemed fellow mayor, it appears I’m not the only bore in all of space and time. You lost this darling’s attention.”

  “Not at all,” said Jennifer, wrapping her arms around Fay’s thin shoulders. “She was comprehending truth at a higher level, weren’t you dear?”

  “What happens here affects my home,” she said. Nodding heads made her think of so many Halloween apples in a barrel of water. “Mrs. Norse told Clive and me so in her letter … before it was ruined. But I don’t understand what my parents have to do with it.”

  “It always begins with personal problems. That’s how Malak works,” said Mr. Wynot.

  “The help they need is in themselves,” said the Tabrik.

  “And in the Tabriks’ most popular export,” said Mr. Wynot. “The eggs of the Klave make all the difference. They’ll fix up the most damaged relationships. Out with the old and in with the new.”

  “Stop it!” Fay screamed, pulling lose from Jennifer. “Stop it, stop it, stop it!!! You’re talking about my parents! Not some toys … or children!” She was so upset that the others pulled back from her, genuinely surprised by her sudden wrath.

  Fay wanted to stop herself but something in her made her go on, getting more upset all the time. “People are divorced all the time,” she cried. “It’s not the end of the world, if they’re not taken away! Half my friends’ parents are divorced. More than half, and they’re happy. I mean, they’re as happy as anybody is.” Her shouting was heard by some of the Tabriks working nearest to them. One paused for a moment, two of the turtle-like creatures hanging uncertainly from the end of his pole, and starting to bump into each other as they slowly swung back and forth.

  Fay was crying. Emotion came off her in a great wave, drenching her newfound friends in a kind of pain that was alien to them. Yet how could they be expected to empathize with someone whose life is so uncertain and happiness so fleeting as a human being? They wore the human form but what did that really mean? Did they get sick? Did they have to struggle for daily existence? It was obvious they had conflict, if not with each other, then with their true enemy. But did their little arguments ever amount to serious bickering, much less an actual break in friendship?

  These questions raced through Fay’s mind as tears trickled down her face. These incredible beings couldn’t know what Mom and Dad had been through, or the night terrors of a little girl praying to God that Mommy would stop crying, and Daddy stop shouting; a little girl hoping that she wouldn’t hear worse things. Nightmare sounds. End of sanity sounds. The sounds that finally came when Dad went for Clive.

  Jennifer reached out and tentatively touched Fay on the shoulder. Fay didn’t pull away. Jennifer touched her fingers to adolescent tears. She placed those fingers to her lips and tasted the salt; and tasted something more.

  “We’re moving too fast,” she said to all of them. “Mrs. Norse had no choice but to bring these children here because of the new Malak, and what he did to their parents. That doesn’t excuse our being impatient or rude.”

  “Or too damned mysterious,” added the cat, whom Mr. Wynot, for one, had forgotten was there.

  Jennifer’s mentioning of children in the plural brought Fay back to earth, in a manner of speaking. “Clive!” she blurted out. “Where is he? What’s happened to him.”

  “He’s probably with Mrs. Norse by now and safer than we are,” said Kitnip.

  “Probably isn’t good enough,” she said through trembling lips, but at least she’d stopped crying. “Is there a way to be sure?”

  “Sure,” said Mr. Wynot. “You can see Clive anytime you want.”

  “I can?”

  “But first you’ll have to go swimming,” said Jennifer. Kitnip was not at all pleased. ***

  Kitnip was not at all pleased.

  Clive stopped reading at that point, transfixed by the illustration of the cat’s face in extreme closeup. Kitnip might be talking now, the same as Wolf, but in one respect the cat was still perfectly normal: she hated water.

  “You’ve stopped reading,” said Mrs. Norse.

  “Fay wants to contact me! What do I do?” Somehow the book seemed inadequate all of a sudden. And as he held it tightly in his hands, and realized it was just a book, after all, he started to get mad.

  He quickly learned that the single most annoying aspect about Mrs. Norse was that she knew what you were thinking before you did. Or else she was a very good guesser.

  To prove the point, she said, “You think this is a trick, don’t you?”

  He knew better than that. It was like spending days inside a magic shop and then complaining when someone pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

  “Clive, you will be with your sister before long; and you will see your mother and father as well. Before you can be of any real use to them, however, you must be tranquil in your own heart.”

  “How?” he asked. He looked at the book but the pages had become mysterious again, in language he couldn’t decipher.

  “Are you hungry?”

  He’d thought he’d been a short time before. A little bit of food went a long way around here. The cookie he’d eaten was like a full meal. He wasn’t thirsty after the one drink either.

  “No,” he told her, “I’m fine.”

  “Me, too!” Wolf contributed. The dog would eat almost anything put before him and then yelp for more. Giving him speech was less of a miracle than satisfying his appetite.

  “Are you tired?” asked Mrs. Norse of Clive, in the same even tone of voice.

  Now that was a different matter. No sooner had she said the words than his eyes felt heavy and his head began to nod forward. She must be some kind of hypnotist at least, all questions of witchcraft aside.

  “I hadn’t felt tired until you said it … I was a little tired after I ate that stuff … and saw Mom and Dad.” He hated the way his tongue was becoming heavy and he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He was sure he’d been fine until Mrs. Norse took him in charge, but now he
was becoming too drowsy to stay awake.

  “There is no night here, and you need to take a nap,” she told him as from a distance, “and then you’ll be ready to perform a necessary task.”

  All he could think of was sleep. “I don’t want to dream,” he said, slurring his words.

  “You are living the dream.”

  The sound of the purring cats grew louder. In fact, they started purring in unison. In and out, in and out, it was like listening to a motor revving up. As he listened, his eyes grew heavier and he slumped in his chair.

  “You just take your nap, and then you can do a little chore around the house,” said Mrs. Norse. As if in a dream, she lifted him as if he weighed no more than a few ounces. She carried him into another room where she put him to bed and told him, “No pictures for you now, nothing to interpret or worry over. Your soul is tired.”

  The next thing he remembered was opening his eyes and lifting his head from the large feather pillow on which it had been resting. He was completely refreshed. He wondered how long he had been asleep but there was no way to tell from the unchanging light outside his window. He wondered if it were always the same time of day around here; and if you could even call it day.

  Suddenly he realized that he needed to go to the bathroom. Did a magical house in a magical land have something so mundane as plumbing? His last request had been to contact his sister and he was put to sleep for his troubles. It was probably asking too much for there to be a telephone. But a bathroom was different! As he jumped off the very comfortable bed, noticing that he still wore his shoes, a dreadful thought struck him. Maybe magical places had never needed to develop much in the way of technology. What if Mrs. Norse had an outhouse instead?

  Or even worse, it could be none of the denizens of this place needed a bathroom at all. That would explain the lack of catbox odors! Saving the Seasons and restoring his family and finding Fay would simply have to wait until he’d settled this more pressing matter.

  At least there hadn’t been any dreams, as she promised. The living room was empty. He could hear voices from the back yard. Before joining them, it wouldn’t hurt to reconnoiter the terrain. Maybe he’d find what he needed by going through the kitchen.

  The kitchen was nothing like the rest of the house but was the first really other-worldly attraction. Several blue globes, of various sizes, hung in space over the floor. Otherwise it was an empty room. He wondered where the food had come from, and the plates and silverware. Quite obviously, she had to extract these things from the globes … or the globes made all the goodies appear somehow.

  Of a dead certainty was that he would not be going to the bathroom in here, even if there was a globe that was meant for it. He’d hate to get them mixed up.

  His bladder was talking to him now. He had to do something quickly. That’s when he noticed the lavender colored door off in a corner. He hadn’t noticed it before. As he stepped through it and found all the modern conveniences, he had a strange feeling of deja` vu. The pink cover slip on the toilet reminded him of one he’d seen the time he visited Aunt Miner, the sort of touch he’d expect in an old lady’s house … but not in Mrs. Norse’s!

  When he finished and was washing his hands under an ornate faucet, he seemed to remember that fixture had once belonged to the grandparents on his father’s side. His sudden suspicion that what he saw before him might be taken from his own mind and made real for his benefit did not cheer him even a little bit. He felt a cold shiver instead.

  Hurrying back through the kitchen without looking back, his elbow bumped one of the spheres. It felt like a water balloon. He didn’t want it to burst.

  What a relief to step outside! The cats were in a semi-circle around Mrs. Norse. Wolf came running over and jumping on him the way he used to do when he was a puppy. A wave of good will flowed over Clive.

  What he couldn’t help noticing was a lawnmower, fire engine red, just beyond the cats. The very green lawn stretched out beyond this mower, stretched and stretched, and tilted upward until it disappeared in the distance. He’d never been in a backyard so large that you couldn’t see the end of it.

  Birds were singing way off somewhere, as if to celebrate the eternal, perfect day, with blue sky and green grass dividing the universe. “Now that you’re rested, I hope you’ll perform a small task,” said Mrs. Norse, sounding more musical than the birds.

  “Ma’am, I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but you said you’d put me in touch with my sister. That’s what your strange book promised.”

  “Yes, Clive, and you want answers to all your questions.”

  “I know it’s not your fault we’re here. Grandad, or what he has become, is to blame.”

  “He does not share the blame alone, dear.”

  “I also know you have your own reasons for what you’re doing.” He had made his comment somewhat testily but she nodded as if there could be no doubt as to the truth of his observation.

  “As do we all, dear.”

  This is what they called a Mexican standoff. In a situation where one side held all the cards, and the other side didn’t even know the rules of the game, there was only one sane course of action — especially in an insane world. Clive surrendered to the inevitable.

  “You have something you wanted me to do,” he said, eyeing the lawn mower.

  “Yes, I’d appreciate your mowing the lawn.”

  She sounded so reasonable. The only trouble was that the grass was already cut.

  Go to Next Chapter.

  Return to Table of Contents.

  The Land Beyond Summer is posted for entertainment purposes only and no part of it may be crossposted to any other datafile base, conference, news group, email list, or website without written permission of Pulpless.Comtm.

  Copyright © 1996 by Brad Linaweaver. All rights reserved.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WHO SETS THE RULES

  zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzplop! Fay heard a man fishing with an expensive rod and reel. Emerging from behind one of the structures in which the Klave turtles exlored relationships on the half shell, she saw a larger body of water than had been visible before. It was a perfect circle, the same as the ponds in which the the turtles swam, but the water was a richer shade of blue.

  At first she couldn’t see the fisherman; only part of his line and a yellow plastic floater came into view as she walked the circle. Odd clumps of the grey material (she still remembered how much she disliked the taste) were all over the place, some of the mounds as high as six feet. The fisherman stood behind one.

  Everyone in Fay’s party was walking casually in the same direction. She assumed that it was all right that she was sort of out in front. She saw the man first. He was pale and thin, with a sunken chest and a posture that did nothing to flatter what was good in his features. Dark circles under his eyes completed the effect. He looked more skeletal in his own way than did the Tabriks.

  “Hello!” boomed the hearty voice of Mr. Wynot. “Why if it isn’t good old Mr. Brine, Assistant Treasurer to Mrs. Norse.” Fay wondered if there were anyone in this peculiar world besides important personages. There seemed to be an actual population of Tabriks, but when it came to normal looking humans — and normal animal life, for that matter — it was a very underpopulated environment. She’d started missing the variety of rich odors that she had taken for granted back home.

  “Look what he’s wearing!” shrieked Jennifer, pointing a trembling finger at a white button on the lapel of the double-breasted jacket that hung about his narrow frame. Mr. Wynot and the others seemed just as upset.

  “Oh dear,” commented the man, putting down his fishing equipment. His hand went to the button on which could be seen one lonely mark in jagged black lines: the letter M.

  “The symbol of the evil one,” moaned the Tabrik leader.

  Mr. Brine had removed the button and replaced it, only now it was quite different. He’d turned it around so that it showed the letter: W. In a flustered voice,
Mr. Brine stuttered, “I - I’m sti-still wearing one of your campaign but-buttons, Mr. Wynot.” Then he got hold of himself. “Please forgive my carelessness.”

  Everyone immediately relaxed, except Fay. The more she was around these people, the more they started seeming like adults from the old homeworld. Little kids gave her a pain, but nothing frustrated her more than the way grownups (or however they styled themselves) could go completely crazy over absolutely nothing.

  Feeling a rubbing against her leg, she looked down at Kitnip who winked at her! She hadn’t known that cats could wink.

  “I know how you feel,” said the cat. “I always know when you’re tense like this. Except that how you feel right now is how I feel about all humans … most of the time.”

  Jennifer, smiling prettily, entered the fray. “Oh, I’m so embarrassed,” she said. “What must you think of us.”

  “What’s this all about?” asked Wynot.

  “It’s my fault,” said Brine. “I’m always making stupid mistakes. My wife says I’m the greatest fool who ever lived; and that I never behave properly and that I apologize too much. I know it’s stupid when I start apologizing for my apologies, but somehow I can’t help myself. And then….” He sighed at this point, paying no attention to the surprised expressions surrounding him. “There’s nothing left to do but go fishing.”

  Mr. Wynot removed his helmet and wiped his brow. Fay was sure that if there’d been a sun in the sky he would have taken this opportunity to squint at it. “Now, now,” he began, “I’m always interested in hearing about other people’s domestic difficulties. Gives me a better perspective on how fortunate I am with dear old Mrs. Wynot. We get on splendidly. Of course, we only see each other every full rotation of the cosmos, but absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. Still and all, before I lose everyone’s attention, I should like to ask you, dear sir, just what is it you characterize as your fault?”