The Revisionaries

by A. R. Moxon

  Half a minute it stretches, gaining in volume as it moves from sorrow to rage. The gorilla Wembly doesn’t even attempt an echo of it, but merely looks up from his solitaire game and blinks. Goop-Goop allows himself another glimpse at the fairgoers who’ve wandered over to the freak show, meandering among the mutants, walking with the confident posture of the overlooked elect, the passed-over chosen people, the unmarked elite. Do they know of the others, even now being corralled into cages behind the big top curtain? Yes, they do. On some level, they know it. And I know they know it—why else would I have arranged matters this way? The perfection of it. The unlucky chosen paying the price for inherent inadequacies or purposeful rebellions. The well-pleased compliant masses, distracted by nonsense. Oh, they know what’s behind the curtain. Never once has a Pigeon Forge circus commenced without friends and neighbors, husbands and wives, parents and children divided, some on one side and some on the other; never once has Krane announced the clowns and the lion tamer, tumblers or bumblers or jugglers or elephants, without each of them fitting themselves for a suit of well-tailored ignorance. If the curtain weren’t there to hide the view, they would raise one. What, after all, is more important than the comfort? And what is more comfortable than ignorance?

  Another glimpse; the crowd has swelled. Across the room—at a far remove from Wembly to avoid the natural bigotry of apes toward little men—Andrew and Andrew, the Fighting Midgets (not too proud to take their usual part in the freak show, even now that they run the show) enact their choreographed combat. There’s also a sizable crowd now around Goop-Goop himself, but despite his novelty and the extremity of his deformations—or as a result of them—a distance is kept. The gawkers and looky-loos debate whether the chains are indeed necessary for their safety or are merely an effective bit of showmanship, but none of them ever come within grappling range to test the proposition. Jane’s dance begins in ten minutes, and, as this is announced over the loudspeakers, Goop-Goop sees many of the crowd peel away from the other freaks, hopeful for a seat.

  Another glimpse; Goop-Goop sees that only one of his onlookers remains—an unnaturally vivid man in a powder-blue suit, his face wreathed in

  * * *

  —

  smoke and waited for the creature Goop-Goop to become aware of him. Landrude didn’t mind; he appreciated having time to acclimate himself to this side of the door. It was best to be slow and deliberate. What he couldn’t do was stabilize how the ape looked. Blink. Six hundred pounds of bruising muscle. Blink. Four hundred pounds of sad wastrel mangy depredation. Playing solitaire, as was his wont, but now the cards have disappeared; somebody’s forgotten that’s what Wembly does—how does one forget that? It’s his whole act. It made Landrude mad—Are you readers not paying any attention at all, or are you just ignorant of gorilla physiology? Haven’t you ever been to a zoo? I wrote it all for you. Four paragraphs describing the ape: the shape, the size. Why won’t they see it that way?

  Morris, meanwhile, was a mess, interpretation or no. Donk had proved most creative. Landrude watched, confounded by the arrival of Jane Sim, who ministered to his pustules, moistened his eyeballs, spoke gentle and soothing words—another sign of how disgraced this world had become, how in need of eradication. There’s no reason for mercy from Jane Sim, it wasn’t even in character for her, it made no sense. Think of what he’s done to you, Juanita. There’s no call to show any kindness whatsoever, it’s barbaric, it’s objectionable…Finally, when she had gone, Landrude emerged and slowly made his surroundings aware of him. Presently the creature noticed him and froze, startled. Landrude spoke:

  You look terrible.

  GooooooooooooOOOOOOP!

  You don’t look “just like me,” anymore. Not at all.

  GOOP! Goop! GOOP! Goop!

  Landrude murmured: This won’t do. I’m going to give you yourself back. Remember what you once were. Remember it all.

  Goop-Goop shimmered, warped, changed. In his place, chained to the stake, a man on the taller side, a man in middle life with a full head of upswept salted hair, rangy features tamed somewhat by a well-scrubbed look and a recently developing belly; portrait of the once-starving artist in the comfortable repose of satisfactory success, wearing a filthy suit whose color might once have been powder blue.

  The smoking man who had once been something other than Landrude moved closer; I want to see it happen, he thought. I want to see him understand. Do you see? he whispered to the chained figure. Do you see that you are the fallen strain, and I am the ascended? Never call me usurper. Never suggest I stole yourself from you. Your only remaining power is the eraser, but after you’ve used it, I will create.

  Now do you see?

  Imagine you could speed time to view the passage of millennia in a matter of minutes, so you could see the slow degrees by which a river claims a mountain: carving it, taking it by bits and then, in an instant of release, taking it all. It was like this with the prisoner’s face, which fell by pieces into despair and then abruptly crashed, as he experienced for the first time the horrors inflicted upon him, stolen from his world and inserted unnaturally within another, the blasphemy of squid feet and sand teeth and painful screw hair, of what was yet to be visited, of his long abandonment, and—worse—of how cruel he had been made to become, what he in false persona had inflicted upon his own creations…He howled, then wailed. Author once again, he fell boneless like meat to the ground and shuddered, each memory now reinterpreted away from him into something false. It’s done now, Landrude thought. He’s finally understood.

  Why, the chained author moans, why, why did you, why—as if he didn’t know. Even in his utter defeat, even now, still he clings to his folly, his false ignorance of any crime? It fills Landrude with the old fury he’d had, back when he was Morris. You made me a minor character, Landrude screamed. You wrote me as a villain. Nothing of my motives. You never let them see me. And then you dropped a fucking safe on my head.

  Coming back in close, Landrude said: Now I’m going to put you back the way you were. First your body. Then, memories. You’ll be Morris again, my friend. You’ll be Morris. Do you see? You won’t remember my visit. But the despair I’ll let you’ll keep. The knowledge of how wrong you are, how utterly beaten—that is your keepsake forever and ever, until the day you decide to end all this. Until that day.

  As soon as he’d done it, Landrude returned quickly to the door, fearing the oncoming wave. In moments, he found himself in the study. Lying on the table, thicker than ever before, was the expected stack of pages. Come, wave, come, he thought, almost begged, nearly prayed. Then, reading—This ending…it’s perfect. But wait…no…there’s still a story. Why isn’t the story gone? Landrude wanted to

  * * *

  —

  rest his haggard head for a moment, and Goop-Goop’s mind wanders out of conscious thought. Then it comes, from nowhere, unlike anything ever before experienced: a dark plunge into icy soul blackness. Unexpected, uncalled-for, a despair darker than any he has ever known comes washing over him; there is no end to the pit, no end to the falling. There is no questioning, only a certainty—You’ve failed. You must see that. No door opens for you, no ticket comes to you, always you are passed over, always you are thwarted. The lesson you’re teaching yourself is this: You are nothing. There is some other from whom reality springs. You aren’t the center. You’re not even a point on the map. You thought yourself the fulcrum, but you’re not even a figment. You are beyond zero, un-nothing, failure’s failure, ah God!—

  He almost calls it then. It’s still there, but he can’t take comfort in it—The wave isn’t a sign of your power. All it represents is your ability to end your sad struggle in the damp fizzle of a dud squib. It’s not the failsafe; it’s the only move remaining. He almost calls it. He’s about to do it, but then, in the crowd, he sees…Gordy. Gordy?

  Yes, there he is, Goop-Goop tells himself—Gordy beyond doubt, despite impossibi
lity. You’ve spent too much time studying that face to mistake it for any other—it is him: the man you pursued around the worlds. Gordy, the Flickering Man flickering no more; Gordy, back from the dead; Gordy on a mission, accompanied by a pretty cat who seems vaguely familiar. She carries herself with a certain slow ease and perfect control; only her eyes are quick. Gordy, less quick, more foolish, though, isn’t reading any warning signs; he’s charting a meandering course that looks likely to cross into the white circle of DANGER. Goop-Goop reaches into his hiding place and brings knife to hand—Gordy. I’ll never kill you enough, boy. Come here.

  The flippers that had been his feet are bad for balance but they are powerful, and the suckers on the underside provide sufficient traction even in the straw. Goop-Goop lunges, but the pretty cat has seen, reached out with both paws, grabbed his knife-hand on the downswing and pulled, leaping with the force of her own action and then landing with full weight on his back. She never releases the arm, either—it’s pulled behind him in untenable repose. The knife skitters under the straw and Goop-Goop howls in a turbulence of frustrated vengeance and torsion of aggrieved tendons, and GOOP-GOOP GOOOP GOOP GOOOOOOP goes his rage and GOOOP goes his impotence and GOOOOOOOP goes his pain and frustration and sorrow. The whole crowd turns toward the chaos.

  “I’ve still got it,” she says, with a certain pride of ownership. Goop-Goop can hear them perfectly well; the tent is hushed, stunned by this display.

  “We’re drawing a crowd,” Gordy says, nervously. It’s true. Goop-Goop rages; though his mind is now cold and precise, he cannot stop his horrid fishwife of a tongue from releasing a stentorian metronomic gooping. Confused, Wembly quakes; he’s attuned to the brume of animal rage filling the tent, susceptible to it, and his handlers hastily drape his cage with a decorative tarpaulin in hopes of staving off the ape’s empathy-wrath. Cage or no, gorilla strength mixed with gorilla rage is frightening, like malign industrial machinery knocked off its tracks.

  Ouickly, efficiently, the pretty cat releases him and steps clear, and the two retreat to Jane’s tent. The crowd returns to other distractions, makes their way circusward, climbing to their seats in the swaying bleachers. All the freaks return to their acts—no, not quite all. The fighting Andrews, all the way across the tent, safely clear of the midget-hating rage of Wembly…they’re making their way over. Have they recognized Gordy? It’s possible; Andrew and Andrew have ever been among the most observant…yes, here they come. They sneak to Jane’s tent and stand by the portal, one at each side, waiting for Gordy and his bodyguard to emerge. They can afford to wait; the tent backs up against the big scrim of the big top; the portal by which they stand is the only way in or out of the sub-tent holding Jane’s act. Goop-Goop pulls himself from the straw, enraged, runs the chains again, and again they pass the test he sets to them—pulling him back, making him goop idiotically at the tent roof, which in turn compels Wembly to answer with confused chuffs from beneath his tarpaulin. The Andrews turn and favor Goop-Goop with a scornful glower, which he returns—Gordy’s mine, you bastards. They move farther in, toward Jane’s inner sanctum, passing out of Goop-Goop’s sight, then one of them re-emerges and runs off, no doubt for reinforcements. Goop-Goop can see the knife, but it’s well out of reach. The stake has a three-inch diameter, buried four feet into a plug of concrete. A fine dust coats the inside of his poor shredded mouth. His teeth are made of compacted composite grit plugged into soft pink gums like a set of rotary bits, extraordinarily abrasive and mercilessly hard. If used, they will slowly disappear…but they can be used.

  Goop-Goop lies recumbent beside the stake, inspecting it closely. How interesting, this stake. How interesting. There’s a fine dusting on his tongue. He spits, and moves closer, closer, discovering…Yes! Just barely!…he can fit his mouth around its girth. Goop-Goop goes to work, his teeth lessening. Dust fills his mouth, making him pause at intervals to spit. The same thoughts, but pitched at a new frequency, once placid, now frantic, once proclaimed in assurance of fulfillment, now howled in desperation for survival—Yes. You are the Continuity of all. All of it. The Everything. There is pain and the pain is your teacher—but not all teachers are good. Soon you will take your power back, and your name, too. You will restore all things. And—glancing over shoulder—if you fail this time, you will end all things. A singularity either way.

  Goop-Goop’s teeth quickly recede as he works, but the stake also is attenuating. Which one, he wonders, tooth or stake, will come first to an end?

  There comes a point in one’s life when one senses—all at once—the profound instability of everything once believed stable and secure, a moment when one understands how the universe’s architecture sways and creaks, ever on the verge of collapse. In this moment, one becomes dangerous and unpredictable. Imagine, then, the advent of that unlikely yet inevitable alignment, when every living person shares this epiphany simultaneously.

  —Unknown

  hand on her shoulder. The old guy, the new caretaker, come from the open stairway to meet her. “If you want to get behind that door,” he whispered, “I don’t think you’ll get a better chance.”

  Jane ran for the stairs. What

  * * *

  —

  I’d advise you, is avoid trusting overmuch to patterns, Julius tells Sister Nettles. You’ve chosen a brave and a fine course but a difficult one. The longer you remain, the more you’ll discover that every pattern breaks down or repeats. Eventually, every expected form will confound

  * * *

  —

  you should know: A dance is nothing like a leap. When you leap, every movement must be in service to the plan. The clowns throw the bars with precision, but they need to know where you’ll be. Even the seeming mistakes must be practiced for weeks and woven into the fabric of the whole. During a leap, Jane’s mind needs to become rigid and exacting, her thought must become a single thing, a gear engineered to fit without margin of error into the teeth of another. But in a dance, she waits for the music—whatever the music might be each night—and then moves within the surprise and the sinew of it, her body becoming the trance and flow of the sitar, or perhaps the crystalline percussive insistence of electronica, or else the athletic leaps of jazz trumpet, or the recursive adagios of Spanish guitar, or any of a dozen, a hundred, a thousand other possible forms. Her mind can become many rather than one, it can become the moment, the epiphany, the water that finds its path. Rather than becoming rigid, she melts. The dance is not a leap, because no catch will ever be needed. There is a shimmer in the air, as of heat, but there is no heat. There is only perfection.

  But tonight, Jane refuses the dance. On the other side, sensed by her but unseen, the audience begins to gather. Ears full of Gordy’s confession, she returns to the

  * * *

  —

  stairs. What it was like to run for the stairs, trusting to the distraction of the guards, was this: a leap without a plan for a catch. The caretaker was correct, Jane saw; this was indeed their awaited moment. Normally the stairs would be guarded by two trustees, but they had abandoned their posts, distracted like the rest by the horrified sounds coming from directly above them.

  The steps were made of the same material as the rondure of black stone encircling the fountain, and cunningly concealed. Jane was upon them nearly before she spied them, sharply checked her speed to avoid a stumble, and then she was descending, down in the dark, safe and unnoticed, her leap finding the catch yet again, but now on its heels another leap, please god, please let the door open, please let me find the

  * * *

  —

  manuscript she received from Gordy’s bodyguard Bailey, the one whose dedication assured her the door would open for her. Mae stays quiet; helps her braid her beard. She takes the left side while Jane takes the right. Mae is a skillful braider. Each night Jane secretly races her to finish her side of the beard first, and each night she loses. Tonight, the race isn’t even close; Jane�
��s distracted by the mutter of Gordy’s confession, by Boyd’s book, by her anticipation of Gordy’s prophesied arrival. Jane laughs. Of course Gordy’s coming—after all, a lunatic’s sandals said so.

  He’d better arrive soon if he’s going to arrive, Jane thinks. There’s precious little time left. His recorded voice is in her ears, and she thinks—You knew, you son of a bitch. Back in the cavern while you were running things, you knew. You weren’t lying about the wave being real but you were lying about what it was—to me and to yourself. Think how much trouble I’d have saved if you hadn’t made me pity you. Think how much trouble we’d save now if I’d called the guards to have you killed. Then we’d be completely doomed and I wouldn’t have to waste time worrying.

  Jane braids the beard and listens to Gordy’s voice and reads in the manuscript the report of her own doom. Sterling says Gordy will be here soon. Everything depends on him coming, but she can think of no reason to hope she’ll

  * * *

  —

  find the door open please let it open for me and then she was past the stairs and there it was; the simple door affixed in the clay, looking less like a relic and more like the sort of standardized mass-production item you’d buy at the nearest home improvement center. Here Morris spent long hours in ancestral echo, holding vigil, trying to unlock it with his mind, or to make it vanish, or to transport himself to the other side. Here Gordy had stood, hand on knob, turned, opened, entered, discovered. Jane could see the doorknob. She reached for it, time