by A. R. Moxon
Now none of them did any of that—but still, the expectation would remain, just as she had. She thought about leaving. She wondered why she hadn’t yet. She decided to leave.
She stayed. She tended her garden.
Weeks passed. On Sunday mornings, meat arrived for the weekly barbecue. The Slantworthy Trust in perpetuity. She tried to send it back, but it was already sold, so she had it stuffed in the rapidly filling freezer.
“How on earth, Jules,” she asked the emptiness, “could you leave all this to me alone?”
No answer, of course. Julius had left, just as he said he would.
She tried not to think of the sandals.
There had been two pairs left when she’d arrived the night Father Julius had gone. One had her name embossed in the leather of upper sole, and the address of the Neon Chapel. The other had Gordy’s name embossed, that and a Knoxville address. Yesterday she looked it up; it’s a motel. What on earth. She didn’t want Gordy’s pair, so she mailed them to the motel.
She didn’t want the other pair, either, even if they did carry her name. Determined not to wear them, ever. They bothered her. Something about them; a feeling she had about them. An instinct she’d had, a foolish one, that she’d had the moment she saw them there on the floor. Who are those sandals? she’d wondered. Not “what” but “who.”
A foolish notion. She wouldn’t entertain it. They could sit there in the middle of the floor forever, as far as she was concerned.
Nettles brought them with her to the garden, too piqued to putter. Left the sandals on the grass at the garden’s edge. She attacked the earth with the trowel, pulled the early shoots of weeds out of the turned soil with the meticulous care that her shortened digits required of her.
The sandals warmed in the sun. Beautiful construction. Handmade craftsmanship, by the look.
She moved down the rows, gathering cucumbers, eggplant, tomatoes. And who’s going to deliver these, she thought angrily.
In the sun, the sandals positively glowed.
There was no reason to put them on.
No reason in the world.
Sandals are inappropriate footwear for gardening.
She put them on. There was some difficulty with the buckles but she managed it with the dexterity she’d learned knifing at the sardine sluice, knitting at the Neon.
That was a foolish thing to do, she thought. Why’d you do such a foolish thing?
Not alone, said a voice. She heard it in her head.
Nettles stood and walked away, as fast as her feet could carry her, back toward the Neon. I’m not answering that, she told herself. I’m not. I’m not.
No no no.
Not alone, the sandals said, again. They’re all wearing me, too. They’re
—Boyd Ligneclaire, Subject to Infinite Change
* * *
—
easy to find. The cardinals come to collect Donk in the morning, at Ralph’s, during office hours. He doesn’t argue, just deflates a bit, tries to look defeated and frightened as he trots meekly in their company, guarded behind and before, tries not to smile or show his anticipation. He can feel the amulet under his shirt. As expected, they bring him down into the tunnel, to the all-white antechamber. Still disconcerting to be in that long white sameness, even now that he knows the secret of the tunnels’ carving; it was good ol’ Gordy with his godlike power. The now-familiar round steel door rises up; not a safe after all but the entrance to the strange Tunnel CAT, the bullet-shaped tank Morris uses to traverse the tunnels. Soon, Donk knows, Morris plans to ride the Pigeon Force–facing one, head back to the home office for his little bird-and-spade ceremony. And yes, Morris is waiting in the antechamber, crutch in armpit. Soon his leg will be as healed as it can be, and he’ll discard the crutch, but he’ll always limp. He knows it enrages Morris; to be forced to carry a permanent defect, this diminishment, this constant reminder of his failure to control his reality. It’s delicious to anticipate how much worse it’s going to get for him, how many more intolerable indignities he’ll be forced to endure.
In the center of the room, an oubliette waits. There’s a gang of cardinals in the room with them; the muscle. They’ll be tasked with forcing him into the box. The little ones are there—the Andrews. Morris looks expectantly at the man he still thinks still works for him. Donk pauses to savor the moment—with Ralph it was over too quickly. This time you’ll let it last, perhaps forever. He’s momentarily confused—hang on a minute, you wanted to do this for Bailey’s sake, and Bailey’s healed—but then he pushes it aside. Even if the effects weren’t permanent, he still hurt her. And were you doing this for Bailey alone? Not at all. Think of yourself. Look at that thing, that box. It’s for you. It’s here he’d entomb you. He’d torture you there forever. He means to. Think of those he’s done it to, the hundreds who even now scream in their oubliettes. Think of those he’s shipped off around the world. Think of those in his prisons. He steals months and years, steals memories, converts them into cash and credit. Think of how he’s profited from them all. And Julius, your poor priestly chum. What has he done to Julius? Something unimaginable, no doubt. No, with Morris there can be only plain dealing, and you’ll deal with him plain.
“I gave you all the time you asked for,” Morris says. A glance over his shoulder.
“Yep,” Donk says, and sees his enemy’s eyes narrow, enraged at the effrontery of one who refuses to be cowed. The smoke from his cigar smells like shit. Donk tells the cigar to stop burning, and it winks out.
“And have you succeeded?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“I can’t say you have either,” Morris snaps. He tries to draw on his extinguished cigar, examines it, finds it dormant. “No Gordy.” He produces a lighter. Donk—just toying with him now—tells the lighter to have no fluid, and so it is empty. “No goddamn Gordy…” trying without success to produce flame…still trying without success “…and all this time…” he gives up, curses, throws cigar and lighter against the wall. “All this time goddamn wasted!”
“Quite true. I’ve wasted your time. I wasted it.”
“No use complaining to me that you meant well.”
“I agree. But you see, I didn’t mean well.”
Morris stares at him, dumbly shocked. Donk continues: “Julius is—was—a good friend. I wanted to protect him, and help him, and I did that. I did it by wasting your time.”
Morris opens his mouth and closes it. Donk’s never seen Morris flustered before. He likes it. But enough ruse; time to begin. Donk says: “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I tell you what’s going to happen to you, instead?”
Donk snaps his fingers—an unnecessary fillip, but he wants to make sure the point is unmissable—and the oubliette turns into an equal volume of eggs, dozens and dozens and dozens, cartoned in molded blue foam, stacked by the gross, shrink-wrapped on new pine pallets. The cardinals all cram back up against the wall in shock and religious awe.
He watches the awareness crash onto his enemy’s face; first by bits, then all at once, Yes. Now he finally knows.
“Give it to me. Give it to me right now.” Morris commands.
“There’s no ticket anymore, boss,” Donk says, spitting the last word. “Maybe there never was. There’s only me.” At a sign from Morris, half the assassins step forward; they fall to the ground as a synchronized corporate entity, each of their hearts converted, within their chests, mid-beat, into a single white rose; their suddenly untethered arterial tubework filling their chests with lifeblood as they lie silently twitching on the scarlet carpet. Donk sees the little ones, Andrew and Andrew, ever calmer than their fellows, exchange meaningful glances.
Now. Show this shit of the world who you really are.
“You’re going to give it to me,” Morris says again, quiet and firm, as though the saying will, by confidence, make it so. The effect i
s muddled somewhat by two glances he gives over his shoulder. The Coyote says nothing, but smiles.
“I am Continuity. It is mine. Give it to me.”
The Coyote smiles wider, amazed—The more failure this man absorbs, the larger his certainty in himself grows. A spongiform prophet, filled like a tick, feasting on delusion. Look at his eyes, burning. Look at the zeal. And listen—he’s not done. “You’re denying reality itself. Taking what isn’t yours. Save yourself.”
“I want all of you to hear this,” the Coyote tells the echoing room. “What’s going to happen to this man next is, I’m going to take him. I’m going to replace his eyelids with sandpaper. Then I’m going to bring him back to you. That’s who you follow now.”
Morris says: “You can be a sign to me of cooperation or you can be a sign of rebellion. Give it to me now, or I won’t protect you from the consequences.”
You have to hand it to the man for pluck, the Coyote thinks—he truly believes he is all there is. That you are not, and neither are the trees, nor the mountains, nor the sun, nor anything else, either. The Coyote steps closer to his prey, who doesn’t fall back. You’ll regret not running, the Coyote thinks. It wouldn’t make any difference if you had, but you’ll still regret not at least trying. Come here, old son. I’ll show you how real I can be.
Later, when he’s carried Morris out of the tunnels, flown him far above the clouds, the Coyote reminds him: You won’t know when I’ll come. Might be in the morning, or a minute before midnight. You’ll never know when. But it will happen every week. And it will never stop. When he returns Morris gently back to his room and streaks up up and away, soaring once again into the clouds, he has taken the first thing. He’s enhanced his own hearing, so he can still for a long time hear the
* * *
—
two smallest of Morris’s bodyguards—longest serving, most trusted—glance meaningfully at one another, then at their unfortunate leader, then instruct their subordinates to fetch the abandoned wheelchair, to wheel him quickly toward a place where something—salve, saline, soothing drops—might be procured for a person in Morris’s entirely unique situation. Morris doesn’t notice—he’s holding his eyes open with exceeding caution, propping them with his fingers against any chance sandpaper blink—but in those glances can be read the slow and ominous blossoming of doubt in soil that has never before produced such a flower. He holds very still and unblinking, but presently he must blink, and when he blinks he
—Jordan Yunus, Subject to Infinite Change
* * *
—
screams.
The Coyote’s hands curled and relaxed. He found himself calmly birthing new revelations to himself. There will be no reason for the innocent to fear you, he told himself, but for the guilty…children disappeared on a bright sunny morning have, over time, accrued a mass greater than can be borne. Given suitable mass, any material collected in one place will collapse into infinite conflagration, self-generating, self-sustaining, a fusion with fuel enough to burn a trillion years. It can be terrible to consider, but think of the applications. The sun can burn, yes, but the sun gives light and warmth, growth and life. The vengeance you brought Ralph, the vengeance you’ll bring to Morris—that was only the start. The weight of children, taking on greater speed and inertia, reaching critical mass as they go, faster, faster. They’ve never stopped gaining momentum. The structures that failed to bring order to their lives, or justice to their deaths—I’ll knock down every last one of them and build them back better. Children still alive today will be able to observe and learn the art of virtue. They’ll learn to fear harming one another, by observing my punishment of those who have broken that great law. Vengeance upon all, on behalf of all. Which of them hasn’t deserved it? Even justice was ever only a tool. The world doesn’t need justice anymore. Now it has me.
—Boyd Ligneclaire, Subject to Infinite Change
It is wise, therefore, to begin with art. Yes, and to end there, too. Don’t trouble yourself with the artist; art is sufficient comprehension of the artist, and the only comprehension available to you, the only one ever intended for you. The substance of the artist, the presence of the artist, the knowledge of the artist, is the art.
—Unknown
caught it.”
But he hadn’t caught the circus, and he still hasn’t; he’d merely found it. Bailey knows the difference between finding a thing and actually catching it, actually having it—pride of ownership, you might call it. It’s been over a month now since she realized the world is just a room in her Attic, but she still feels the loss of the mindspace. More than once she’s thought, despairing: My whole life I’ll be chasing it, and finding it. And then, with joy: I’ll be chasing it forever. But there’s no rush anymore. There is only seeking and finding, and then, someday, the end. Or—who knows?—not the end. Perhaps death is another room. For the last weeks, there’s been Gordy, and the road, and a string of motels, and laying low. It’s what they have. Someday there will need to be more, but for now it’s enough.
* * *
—
The Circus of Bearded Love had arrived in Raccoon River two days after their chance reunion. By then they’d fallen together, Gordy and Bailey, into their present arrangement. They’d left the sculpture park to find a place to eat and try to piece together what they knew about what had happened back on the Island; Gordy explained his end of things; it seemed around the time Bailey had been lying in a hospital bed wiggling her toes in amazement, Gordy’d been materializing way out in Elk River, Washington, in yet another park, lying flat on his back in the predawn dew of a tulip bed. Clothes on his back and nothing more. And normal for the first time since boyhood—normal. Fully visible with nary a flicker, memory restored…and other things, too, but those he’d only explain later. The Voice was gone, for one, its dreadful command dormant at last. Now he can wait for the wave to come and wash away Gordy’s enemy, his pursuer, his anxiety for himself and the world. What will it be like when it arrives, this wave? The mechanics of the thing confuse her. Will it be precise or indiscriminate? Will it flood the basin of Pigeon Forge to the treeline of the Smokies, washing it all away, both the evil and the innocent, or will it be prehensile in its judgment, selecting only offenders for a watery grave? When will it actually, finally, finally, finally arrive—and how can we be sure it ever will, given the apparent relativistic speeds involved? What if Morris isn’t in town when it hits? How will it reach him if its source is a doorway below ground? She suspects Gordy doesn’t know. The closest he has come to explaining is to say, “It’s bigger than that.” That’s one thing that hasn’t changed, he claims: the wave. It’s still there, a part of his vision, something seen but not yet realized.
He hadn’t been disoriented in the Elk River tulip bed, despite the seeming randomness of his new location. “That part was clear right away,” Gordy had explained, “the circus was still there.” Except it wasn’t there, exactly, only the ghost of it, the remaining pieces not yet packed up from the previous night; the rides half-deconstructed, detritus of the carnival, two laggard tents. Still, what little remained Gordy recognized from its recent but brief appearance in Loony Island, and from boyhood. And he found a prize, balled up beside a nearby overflowing trash bin.
“It’s a modified tour schedule—one without Loony Island listed,” Gordy said, wolfing food—obviously famished, the poor guy had been living rough. He’d nearly wept with joy when he saw Bailey’s stacks on stacks of crispy cash. He produced the schedule, slid it over the table to her, where she noted the tour’s final destination: Pigeon Forge, TN. “Cities and dates. After that, the hard thing was just getting where I needed to be.” Destitute, he’d had to panhandle for the bus ticket to Buckeye, Colorado. “Nobody who heard my shuck and jive really thought they were paying for an actual bus ticket,” Gordy sighed, “I guess they never will.” Gordy, having never learned the trick of approaching stran
gers in ingratiating fashion, proved as bad a bum as he’d been in Brasschaat. “It took me days to raise enough,” he mourned. “The bus I caught wasn’t scheduled to get me there in time to do anything but catch the tail end of the closing night. And that was before the traffic jam.” A jackknifing semi struck another semi, which spun out, jumped the median, and landed upside-down on the oncoming side. All four lanes backed up for hours. For a second time, Gordy arrived to the phantom of a circus, and was forced to shake his ass for spare change yet again. “I was more practiced at it, and I lucked into a tender soul who dropped me a ten-spot. And here I am,” he concluded.
So that was Gordy explained. Bailey, for her part, did what she could do to bring sense to what he’d left behind in Loony Island. Realizing just how strange her story would sound, she made a muddle. “Julius is sandals, I guess? Your dad said so. He thinks either Donk or Morris did it to him, but this book seems to suggest otherwise.” Slowly, haltingly, even ashamedly, she explained Boyd to him. “Anyway, the book came out of Father Ex, according to your dad. And he’s missing again, too—your dad. He stole my car.” But by then Gordy was waving his arms, begging for mercy; the follow-up questions were piling up too fast to remember. Once they’d picked through all the strands, Gordy became more philosophical. “I think the ticket’s gone. If it still were around, I think I’d know.”
“The book I told you about agrees. I skipped ahead; it says Julius got it and then he disappeared and so did the ticket.”
“When I saw you healed, I presumed it was Julius’s doing.”
“I still don’t know how, and I’m not trying to understand. It’s enough that it happened.”
“Maybe it was Julius,” Gordy mused, picking at the final crumbs on his plate.