The Revisionaries

by A. R. Moxon

  * * *

  —

  Five minutes later, Tennessee arrives, huffing and puffing. He crosses to the row of sandals and spends a silent moment contemplating them. Selecting a pair, he solemnly unbuckles them, puts his feet within, slowly buckles them, as something like awareness dawns on his face. He mourns then, weeping silently for his missing boy gone forever and now gone yet again, then rises with a new resolve. Moving assuredly—as if carrying out instructions only he can hear—he recovers from the floor Father Julius’s battered satchel, and empties it of the envelopes, placing one on the bed of each brother and sister of the Neon Order. He ends in the cell of Father Julius, from which he collects the diary. He next moves to Father Ex, expertly removes a panel from the back, fiddles in the guts, and extracts a memory card. He notices with some surprise the tray that has appeared at the back—or had it always been there?—the printer’s tray holding a thick sheaf of paper, upon which are written unusual things. He studies these briefly with growing consternation, then shoves them into his satchel. Then he departs, and for a time the Neon Chapel is empty and still once more. Soon after, one by one, they return in silence and depart in silence, the brothers and sisters of the Neon Order. Each of them collects from the battered leather case an envelope bearing their name, and, before moving on to some new hopelessness (except for Sister Nettles, who comes last of all, who sits again in her old place and does not leave), exchanges their old shoes for the sandals meant for them, their last keepsake from the priest around whom they had gathered, and from whom they now spread out and away, that priest who was rough and coarse and turbulent and doubting, who had gone away, leaving little behind but rumor, who some still argue had been no priest at all.*6

  *1 blank

  You’ve read it. You sit and smoke, trying to stay philosophical through a scrim of rage. So there it is. The donut stack’s revealed. The rattlesnake’s bitten. You’ve read it, and what were you expecting, really?

  Well, ‘Landrude,’ since you asked…

  *2…there had been the chance that Gordy’d destroy himself. Just take himself and the ticket off the board forever. That would have been perfect…

  *3…or, there’d been the chance Gordy’d have just given it to Donk. Donk would have done things to Morris that would have ended everything. You know that much now. And that’s something gained. You learned something you hadn’t yet known.

  *4…or there’d been the chance Julius would get it and use it for something worthwhile. Do what Gordy didn’t have the will or the balls to do and destroy Morris. Or maybe the priest would go further; wind time’s thread back up, restore the whole story to the way it had been. Or challenge that Voice that empowered it in the first place, that entity, that whatever the hell it is that is messing with your story. But you didn’t know about the Voice when you started; you just learned about that, from Gordy’s confession. Another gain from your gambit.

  *5 At least you got to hear what happened to Gordy when he got behind your door, right from the horse’s mouth. A tight fit for you, holding perfectly still cramped up in Father Ex’s innerworkings, listening carefully. So. That’s what the thing behind Morris’s shoulder is: a destroying wave. It’s tied to him. He can call it any time he wants, destroy everything, everything. And, if someone—Donk, say—were to kill him, it would come all by itself. Gordy may not know that, but you know it instinctively. That would be the answer—total destruction—really it’s the only answer. You’ve tried everything else.

  *6 Yes, total destruction. When you’re the author you can play any game you want. You’ve played the game of the mountain, of the pit, of the master. You’ve tried everything. You’ve tried emissaries, and they’ve all failed you, scorned you, cast you off. Reading this latest revision had been torture. You’d lifted the bulk, glanced at the bottommost page—oh God, it even begins wrong—then flipped a hundred pages up, where it was even worse, and carried implications both baffling and terrifying. Hands trembling, you continued to flip upward, investigating the modifications both subtle and substantive, until you reached the accursed sandals. You stared at them for a while, and then, at last, with an air of resignation, studied the new top page. Different location, same ending. Even with the ticket gone, somehow Gordy still gives it away. Well, that’s it, you’d thought, when you’d been able again to think. Gordy fails, Boyd fails. Now Julius fails. Only one left to try—the one who would gladly destroy it all in exchange for vengeance. You decide—You’re being punished for something undeniable. Everything you try fails through some inexplicable chance. Each time you reach, it’s taken away. Every ball you hit strikes a seagull and falls foul. Every pair of dice you throw gets eaten by a baby. Revisions. And from who?

  You know what it is. It’s them. On some level, it’s them. Goddam readers all the way down. There’s only one way to beat them, only one perfect form. You know now the game you’ve always been playing is the game of the blank. The only way to defeat interpretation? Give the audience nothing to interpret. You’ve tried the pencil. Now you use the eraser. Morris can do it—destroy everything. Everything. Donk will make him.

  A worse idea comes to him: All that time you spent as Morris, only to discover you were written by another

  Yes, but you took his place. Ascended. You are Landrude Markson.

  Answering yourself—Yes, but…what if someone else, even now, is writing you?

  —Jordan Yunus, Subject to Infinite Change

  PART IV – SUBJECT TO INFINITE CHANGE

  BENJAMIN HERRING COLMERY IV

  Sometime in the afternoon of that day, a newly freed Tennessee entered Ralph’s General & Specific, and, for reasons known not even to himself, purchased a large sack of oranges, which he left propped at the entrance of the Fridge.

  —Boyd Ligneclaire, Subject to Infinite Change

  There are some who believe there is no coincidence, who hold that everything happens for a reason. There are others who hold that all is coincidence. Both notions are correct, to a point. It is correct to say there is a reason for everything that happens—not because everything happens for a reason, but because everything happens. Everything, real and unreal, possible and impossible, likely and unlikely—all of it happens. Hence, there is no coincidence. Even hence-er, everything is coincidence. This is the universe’s greatest secret, and its most terrible offense.

  And the second is like it: No art ever came about but it was an act of collaboration. No creation without observance. No observance without creation.

  —Jordan Yunus, Subject to Infinite Change

  Decapitation is a funny thing. We—collectively, that is—worry about it precisely the right amount, which is to say: not at all. If you take into consideration the totality of all life and all death, decapitation is a rounding error. Statistically, decapitation doesn’t happen. And, unlike many other statistical improbabilities, our species is preoccupied with it very little, to the extent that those of us who do worry about it exist in such small numbers, we actually don’t worry about it, collectively speaking. It’s for the best; we really needn’t bother. It’s worth noting: Unconcern isn’t humanity’s usual posture toward statistically unlikely things.

  However, what does not exist in the collective can exist in the individual. Example: Marie Antoinette. Don’t tell her decapitation doesn’t happen. Or, again: Julius. Julius, as one might expect, thinks about decapitation frequently. But then, Julius is a special case, when it comes to decapitation. Gordy thinks of decapitation, though he doesn’t worry about it; he just thinks about it. Jane has considered it, but not as frequently as Gordy has. Bailey never thinks about it, nor does Donk. Andrew and Andrew, the tiny twin bodyguards, will eventually be decapitated in a way that does not happen, statistically speaking, even when set against the tiny statistically insignificant sample size of human decapitations throughout history. Until that moment, however, the
thought of decapitation hadn’t once crossed the minds of the Andrews.

  Were they surprised? You’d better believe it!

  Their days as Morris’s bodyguards will have already expired by then, so no one will be able to accurately say: “Useless bodyguards. Fat lot of good they turned out to be.”

  —Boyd Ligneclaire, Subject to Infinite Change

  “It’s a book,” Bailey announces from the back seat. “But that’s not the crazy part.”

  “It’s a what, now?”

  “It’s just that the pages were reversed. The title page was on the bottom of the stack.” She holds up the page in question for him to see: Subject to Infinite Change, by Boyd Ligneclaire.

  Tennessee’s at the wheel. Bailey boosted the car for them, but she wouldn’t drive. The novelty of her restored body posed too much distraction; she worried she’d run them into a ditch. Mile by mile, they put road between themselves and Loony Island, and Morris, and Donk. Tennessee in the driver’s seat, reciting again and again his litany of fountain and cavern and flight, of the boy who had been his and was now lost to him a third time, and how some clearly dangerous man has clearly acquired Gordy’s power, because Gordy’s disappeared, and Julius has…well, look at him. Bailey’s stretched out in the back, hearing but not listening, rediscovering the groovable feast of her movable meat, wiggling her toes in wonder, watching the play of her fingers in front of her face. Two refugees, crawling up the blacktop toward anywhere.

  These are the things Tennessee brought with him in his satchel:

  –Some snacks;

  –A change of clothes, including a decrepit T-shirt, whose HELLO MY NAME IS sticker remained remarkably well-preserved;

  –Father Julius Slantworthy’s handwritten memoir;

  –A memory card, holding Father Ex-Position’s most recent twenty-four hours of audio;

  –A thick sheaf of pages, which had been filling the OUT tray of Father Ex’s laser printer—and herein lay the surprise: Father Ex hadn’t had a laser printer before, much less an OUT tray. A mystery indeed, though greater mysteries remain.

  For example, there remains the great mystery of Tennessee’s beautiful new sandals, which are, somehow, Julius, and which had, once afoot, informed Tennessee how he might make the extraction from Ex’s guts, and which had not failed to point out to him the mysterious stack in the mysterious OUT tray, and which had, moreover, compelled him to seek out Bailey, a near stranger, from her hospital room. Though they’ve barely met, Bailey’s known to Tennessee. Her injury at Morris’s hands, and the subsequent vengeance he’s therefore earned, has, over the months of Tennessee’s sequestration, been Donk’s nearly constant refrain, and Donk has been Tennessee’s sole companion—but they’d never been formally introduced. Indeed, they still haven’t been; between his fear of Donk and grief over the boy lost yet again, and her dazed wonderment at her strange restoration (and perhaps, though she hasn’t yet admitted it to herself, at her subterranean but well-founded premonitions regarding the Attic), they’ve existed in separate trances. Even now, as morning and noon have gone and the sun crawls toward the western horizon, as Bailey turns her attention away from her fingers and toes, she’s landed it not on her strange companion, but on the sheaf of papers in his satchel. Head propped against one door, feet on the opposite window, reading, reading. Tennessee wonders—Why did Julius want you to find her? He hasn’t said.

  Another mystery: There remains some confusion over the fate of Gordy’s ticket.

  For his part, Tennessee maintains that Donk probably has it, or Morris. “Somebody sure changed Julius into sandals,” he whispers in dazed awe. “Now tell me, how could that be done without magic?” And whether Morris has the ticket’s power or Donk does barely matters, claims Tennessee, because both are dangerous as demons, both are intent on harm and damage and vengeance, and besides, if it’s Donk, he’s going to be particularly livid at Tennessee, who escaped from his secret room and drew him off their scent with a sack of oranges.

  For her part, Bailey has never heard of any ticket.

  The Sandals Julius remain silent on the topic of the ticket, and on all other topics, too. Another mystery, at least for Tennessee, who insists the Sandals Julius speak to him: They gave many helpful and detailed instructions back in the Neon, but haven’t broken their silence since. “It’s not something others hear,” Tennessee says. “At least I don’t think so. It sounds in my head.”

  “Voices in your head?”

  “It’s not like that. And besides, the instructions were accurate.”

  Anyway, there also remains the puzzle of the sheaf of paper, whose nature Bailey appears to have identified, even if the method whereby it came into being remains a total

  disaster. But after the wave, what will be left but the empty page? A beautiful white empty space, full of nothing at all. Nothing to thwart you, nothing to restrain you, nothing (most important) for any goddam readers to interpret.

  The game of the eraser will need some help to get started. You dare hope you might do it all in one last trip. Steeling yourself for the assault of interpretation, you pass through the door, come into the dank gray cavern, always the same place. Always the same time, too—look, there’s the author just where you left him, still unconscious, not yet woken up to take on the role you gave him. Down in the dim, the spooky action of interpretation proves more manageable; there is, at least, an iconic simplicity to a dark cave, granite steps, a door. But this is the wrong time and the wrong place. You move on, years forward, hundreds of miles, find Daniel “Donk” Coyote at the very apex of his rage. “What

  —Jordan Yunus, Subject to Infinite Change

  * * *

  —

  I’d advise you, is avoid trusting overmuch to patterns, the sandals told Sister Nettles. You’ve chosen a brave and a fine course but a difficult one. The longer you remain, the more you’ll discover every pattern either breaks down or repeats. Eventually, every expected form will confound you. In this place there’s a great

  —Boyd Ligneclaire, Subject to Infinite Change

  * * *

  —

  mystery. “Anyway, it’s a book.” Bailey repeated. “A novel. It’s about what happened. And it’s about us.”

  “Us?” Tennessee’s finger wiggles in the air between the two of them.

  “Not just you and me—all of us. Me, Daniel, Julius, you, even Gordy. It’s everything that happened. But even that’s not the crazy part. The author has my last name—which is unusual, but not crazy. The crazy part is, I dreamed about him, right before I…got better. Right before you showed up. In the dream, he said he was my brother, and he said…” Bailey pauses. “He said he’d left pages in Father Ex for me. Which he apparently has.” To this, Tennessee finds himself uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Rain starts to spackle the windshield.

  “How far along are you in this book, anyway?”

  Bailey hasn’t heard. “It’s not just about us, either. It’s got these wild digressions; listen to this bit about decapitation.” The clouds release as she starts, haltingly at first, then with gaining confidence and amazement, to read. How does he know this, she wonders; how does he know so much about what happened? Tonight. I’ll look for him tonight, in the Attic, this dream brother. If I find him again, I’ll ask.

  When they reach a city, they stop for supplies. Food, clothes and sneakers to replace the hospital gown, a backpack, some toiletries. Bailey cuts up her cards to the accounts shared with Donk—not Daniel anymore. Donk he’s chosen and Donk he’ll remain—or “the Coyote,” if that’s what he prefers. Despite Tennessee’s dire warnings, Bailey refuses to believe Donk poses a personal threat to her, no matter how far he pursues his obsessions. Even so, she has no inclination to return. The night of the Loony Riot, he made his choice. For years they’ve each been all the other had, an entire universe to each other, their love the only warmth they could co
unt on, but he’s withdrawn himself from that warmth, and he’s done it for nothing more satisfying than chilled vengeance. He’ll say it’s justice, a principled stand against the cruelty of the world, but push aside that cart of bullshit, Bailey. Look at him, willing to steal a hospital full of the mentally ill, wipe their minds, dope them hyper, use them for his own ends. No, it’s nothing of justice anymore, whatever he tells himself. He’ll pursue the vengeance on his own behalf, now you’re healed, and he’ll pursue it to whatever grim ends he chooses. Even if you hadn’t been injured, it would have been over for the two of you. There’s grief in it, but the grief doesn’t change the truth; he’s made himself into something too cold, too hard and sharp, to ever share what you once were. Ignoring the truth of the loss can only lead to a tragedy even greater than the loss. Let him have the money and the revenge; give up your half of the funds in exchange for a clean break and consider it a bargain. Nevertheless, money won’t be an issue in the near term. Ever a manager, Bailey’s been a thrifty spender and a trusty saver. From her plump personal account, she withdraws as much cash as she judges they’ll need, stacks the cash in Tennessee’s satchel. “We’ll hit every bank we pass in the state until we’ve got all the dough,” she says, twangingly sidemouthed, mimic of a classic movie bank-robber. With the cash they purchase a nondescript used economy car and abandon the hot ride in a heavily populated parking lot in a nearby mall. Though Bailey provides him no budget, she notes with approval that Tennessee buys little—just the equipment necessary to extract audio files from a memory card, a device to play it, some cheap earbuds. At the same office-supply box store where these were procured, Bailey gets a hefty binder and has holes drilled into Boyd’s manuscript so it fits. On a whim, she has a copy made—or no, not a whim, she corrects, it’s just that apparently more’s been restored to you than your body. You see the possibilities again, and there’s too many ways this book might be destroyed, the sole copy gone and gone forever. Imagine a fire. Imagine a flood. Imagine the car window rolled down unexpectedly as you sleep, the wind of velocity sweeping pages out and down the highway. Better to have a backup. They choose a motel outside town and pay cash for a room with two queens, and use some of the change to have pizzas delivered. “Everything cash,” Tennessee says, smiling. “Starting to understand why Father Julius wanted me to bring you.”