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The Land Beyond Summer
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 FOURTEEN
QUESTING AROUND
"I won't fall back in love with you!" Mother's voice
addressed his father from months ago, captured and released again
to renew Clive's pain. He'd eavesdropped on that particular
argument; he knew Mom was talking to Dad. But hearing it again,
ripped from its original context, he felt that she was talking to
him.
"Mother?" he asked of the sky. Or had the sounds come from
the great green expanse that was Mrs. Norse's backyard? It was
as green and flat as a pool table, stretching out farther than
the eye could see with a perfectly kept row of hedges on the
right, and a white stone wall on the left, both stretching to the
horizon.
"Bad memories are like germs, waiting to reinfect the
unwary" said Mrs. Norse. "Clive, you don't have to mow the lawn
if you don't want to. But I think you'll find it's just what you
need, and the grass could use it."
His mother's words had shaken him badly. The only benefit
he could derive was a redoubling of his desire to rescue his
parents, to save them from dangers ... and perhaps from
themselves.
But as she had done before, Mrs. Norse seemed to read his
mind. "You're in a good position to achieve reunion with your
family, Clive, but not if you try too hard! There is a rule of
indirection you should observe. If you try to achieve your
heart's desire by a direct approach, you will fail."
"One of your rules, I'll bet!" he snapped.
She was annoyingly calm as always: "Real rules set
themselves. False rules aren't rules but lies."
Wolf came over and licked his hand. Clive could be back
home as far as that went because the dog hadn't said a word since
he'd come out into the back yard. Mine is not to reason why,
mine is to cut the grass, he thought. If she wanted him to do
this, there must be a reason. But the lawn was already so neatly
trimmed that the idea seemed preposterous. Oh well, mine's not
to reason why....
He gave the lawnmower a thorough going-over. It wasn't the
old fashioned model he would have expected, the kind with blades
in a spiral that turn only with an unseemly exertion of muscle
power. It was a power motor, but with a cord instead of a
switch. The only item missing was the gas tank.
He could feel the smile in Mrs. Norse's words: "It doesn't
require fuel."
Looking at the seemingly infinite vista of lawn, he could
only shrug. There would never be enough fuel for all that
anyway. How long he would hold out was anyone's guess, but he'd
be good for twice as long with grass that didn't need cutting!
He was only sure of one fact: the sooner he started, the sooner
he could stop thinking about it.
Yanking the cord, he found it only took one try for the
lawnmower to sputter to life. Real life, that is. The motor
purred as though a hundred cats were inside, all in unison the
way the cats had done earlier. He could feel the handlebars
throb under his grasp as if blood coursed through them. Wolf
made a slight whining at what could not be a pleasant experience
for him.
"It won't talk, will it?" Clive asked.
Mrs. Norse laughed. The largest Persian there commented,
"That would be ridiculous."
Wolf chose this moment to express an opinion: "Hey, the kid
doesn't know. He's still getting over listening to me yap. I
wouldn't be surprised to hear anything talk around here."
"Thanks, Wolf," said Clive, feeling better as he took the
mower out of neutral and started his chore, his task, his
impossible labor.... The mower moved quite easily as was to be
expected with no thickness of grass underneath. The object was
to see how long it would take to reach the end of the lawn so he
could turn around and come back. Drifting over to the hedges,
he had the notion that he might as well do the job in straight
lines, starting on the right side and going up and down until he
was up against the wall opposite.
The mower wasn't the kind that pulled you along. He had to
push, but that was no problem. Except that as he proceeded, the
grass was becoming imperceptibly thicker. A very little spray of
green was coming out of the mower at last. He was glad that she
didn't use a bag to catch each blade.
He hadn't mowed any grass recently except when Dad asked him
to do the family yard. That was a lot harder than this. First
of all, there were all the trees and bushes to go around. Dad
didn't do the best job of keeping all the branches trimmed, but
he didn't trust Clive or Fay to manicure his beloved greenery.
Inevitably, Clive would come in from the yard covered in
scratches.
Then Mom would fuss over him and get out the bandaids and
ointments. He hardly noticed the scratches but what he hated
about working in the yard was that he'd pick up insect bites. He
never noticed getting them at the time but suddenly they'd be all
over his arms and legs -- big, ugly welts itching like crazy.
Now as he pushed the red lawnmower up the incredible length
of Mrs. Norse's backyard, he concluded that what he liked best
about this world was the apparent lack of insects. At least he
hadn't seen any yet. Whether or not he would count something
like the monster that had attacked Fay was an open question.
For a moment, he thought he saw an insect flitting at the
periphery of his vision; but he turned his head quickly to see
that it was a speck of yellow pollen floating on the air. As he
watched, it drifted down and touched the grass a few feet to the
left of where he was mowing. As it made contact, there was a
little pop as of a soap bubble bursting.
Again he heard his mother's voice: "We try to be fair to
both of you but it's not Fay's fault that she's a better student
than you are."
God, he'd almost succeeded in making himself forget that
conversation; but now old memories, sharper than a wasp's sting,
came drifting down out of cool Autumn air. Where was all this
stuff coming from? Maybe he could follow the "pollen" to its
source. Another landed with its load of joy from Dad: "You're
not very good, son." At least his parents had been able to agree
on something.
The grass was finally growing thick enough to require some
effort on his part; and the whole lawn was subtly tilting upward,
making it harder to just push the mower along. Added to this was
the unpleasant prospect of more pollen drifting into view, always
coming from in front of him. Another popped and he heard Dad's
voice again, but discoursing on a different subject: "A man
needs one place in this lousy world where he can be as big a jerk
as he wants and not pay a price." Clive had never heard that one
before, but all he could think was that Dad was a jerk to talk
that way.
The next one popped and it was Mom again: "You don't treat
me like a real person; you're as sensitive as an episode of
Championship Wrestling." He didn't remember Mom ever making
jokes when she and Dad argued, but maybe that was something she
reserved for rare private moments. Clive wondered why if wives
thought it was so important that husbands treat them with respect
that they didn't set a better example in how they regarded their
children. Personhood was apparently a restricted commodity.
Subversive thoughts were interrupted by half a dozen of the
small yellow timebombs coming to rest right in front of the
lawnmower. Mom and Dad's angry voices were intermingled and
chopped up along with the grass. He grabbed the control on the
mower and put it on maximum. Now he was looking for more of the
pollen so he could run it over. Grandfather must be behind this,
seeding the sky with malice.
The ground tilted up again, and he had to start pushing
really hard to keep it going forward. He could feel the pressure
in his wrists and it was harder to get traction. There was
pollen up ahead, but he couldn't get to it in time to stop from
hearing new torments. First, there was Dad saying: "I swear I'll
never lose my temper like that again. You have my word."
Then there was Mom saying, "I know I promised I'd never
leave you, but there comes a time when you have to face that it's
over. You need to get on with your life."
Clive shouted, "Shut up, both of you!" He was louder than
the mower, louder than the hollow words from the past, louder
than all the promises ever made. He turned the mower off and
collapsed on the soft grass, still telling the blue sky with its
flecks of yellow to leave him alone. Other pollen was drifting
all around him.
It didn't seem that he'd been mowing that long, but he was
already out of sight of the house. There was nothing behind him
but a vast sea of green and the gigantic totem pole, so tall that
it seemed to hold up the sky. As the voices started up again, he
decided to get back to work, if only in hope that the purring
noise would drown out yesterday's recriminations. Everything
was Mom and Dad criticizing and accusing, finding fault with
everyone and everything, as if some manic editor had sifted out
every fine thought and sentiment they'd ever had, leaving only
the bile.
Starting up the mower again, he regretted that it wasn't
noisy enough to overwhelm the talk, talk, talk; but there were so
many random sentences flying around that they succeeded in
obliterating each other's meaning. The saving grace of too much
carping was that it changed itself into white noise.
The mowing was becoming harder and this distracted his
attention, as well. The exertion produced thick drops of
perspiration on his brow. Wiping his head with the back of his
hand, he felt dull pain in his ankles as he pushed up an ever
steeper incline. He was just about to call it quits when the
mower slipped out of his hands and started rolling back toward
him. Grabbing for the handle, he only succeeded in knocking the
machine on its side, where it skidded a few feet before coming to
a stop.
He felt sick when he saw what was underneath. The mower had
no blade but rather what appeared to be several rows of teeth and
fangs. He wanted to quit and just walk away from his "chore,"
but he wasn't about to defy Mrs. Norse at this stage. Besides,
he was curious about just how much longer it would take to reach
the end of the lawn. From the top of the stone mountain, he
hadn't been able to see as far into Autumn as his current
location. He was dying to see more.
The grass was very high now and the pollen was still
drifting up ahead. When he lost his footing, he grabbed at the
green tendrils and they supported his weight. At least the mower
wasn't drifting back. Perhaps the teeth were holding on as
desperately as he was. Craning his neck, he could see what might
to be the end of the lawn, a great mound of weed covered earth,
beyond which was the blue of heaven. He dreaded that it might
only be the top of a hill with another vista of grass beyond; but
he was encouraged that it would at least be downhill if he could
reach that point.
He hurried the rest of the way and stopped as he reached the
summit. Catching his breath, he looked over the edge. Only
there was no edge, only an unbroken surface of more grass
descending and gathering itself into a huge ball that hung out in
space beyond where the wall and hedge terminated, as if sliced
off by a giant cleaver. Below the ball was yellow mist, the same
mist he had witnessed in his vision, that Fay had seen in her
dream, that was the distant fog they'd both seen from the stone
mountain. The yellow pollen was drifting up from the mist,
yellow dots separating themselves from yellow space.
While he was contemplating this new marvel, another problem
reared its head... literally. The huge mound that seemed to hang
in space began to move. It lifted itself up and the piece of
earth on which he clung shifted and moved as well. Then the ball
turned and faced him.
He was looking into the blazing red eyes of a dragon. There
was no doubt about it. Just because the monster was covered in
grass instead of scales didn't make it any less of a dragon. As
the leviathan opened its jaws wide, he saw gigantic teeth that
didn't resemble in the least your standard lawn features.
There was a morbid fascination in staring at a dragon, the
same nervous excitement a bird experiences in the presence of a
snake -- a prickly skin feeling that goes along with the idea
you may be someone's next meal. Fortunately, the yawning abyss
of the jaws came no closer but swung back and forth as the
creature spoke.
"Why have you stopped the treatment?" it asked.
"Hello," Clive responded stupidly.
"It felt so good, the trim you were giving me. Uh oh, you
better stand back, I'm going to sneeze."
Clive wouldn't have known any greater terror at that moment
if he'd been told he was going to be eaten instead. Fortunately,
the dragon turned his head. The sneeze had the force of an
earthquake, and that's what it was. Clive hung on to the weeds,
or whatever they were, for dear life, as the sticky wind escaped
the dragon's nostrils, releasing the odor of damp earth and
roots.
"That's better," said the dragon. Clive saw more yellow
pollen in the air, drifting up from the fog below, and obviously
the cause of the leviathan's sneeze. "The trouble maker's still
making trouble," lamented the dragon.
"You mean my grand... I mean, Malak," Clive corrected
himself.
"He wants to screw up my environment, yank the chain on my
eco systems, and give me a hard time in general."
"He hates dragons?" Clive let himself use the word, but he
felt nervous about it. He'd used the word dwarf around a dwarf
at a state carnival and let himself in for a speech about how
little people didn't like the term. He'd called Fay a girl at
school and received a lecture from one of the teachers, Miss
Mims, about the unadvisability of that term. For all he knew,
dragon might be considered a pejorative in this neighborhood.
The dragon didn't mind being called a dragon. He did,
however, suggest a problem having to do with plurals as opposed
to singulars. "Hey kid, let me clue you: there is only one
dragon. All else are reflections of myself. If I get sick, then
your earth dragon comes down with a bellyache, too, and your
seasons are adversely affected -- but as I say, the earth dragon
is just another extension from the old sod."
This was not what Clive expected to hear from a dragon, but
then he'd never expected to be engaging in a conversation with an
ambulatory lawn. He pictured dragons in caves where they guarded
hordes of treasure and ate princesses when hungry for a snack. He
couldn't imagine this dragon doing anything so uncouth but
wondered over its relationship with Mrs. Norse, besides sharing
her most annoying trait: the mind reading business.
"I only collect real treasure," it said, "what grows and
dies with the changes of Life. But I know what you want to see:
fierce looking swords with jewel encrusted hilts..."
"Well, I..." Clive began.
"Or an Egyptian sarcophagus covered in gold and silver, or a
Roman bowl of exquisite workmanship, or a Viking's sturdy helmet
with maybe a touch of dried blood on the horns..."
"How is that you ..." Clive began again.
"Or a Persian warrior's burnished shield, or Sumerian
goblets and arm rings, or diamonds which are a girl's best
friend, or how about American Express traveler's checks -- don't
leave home without them..."
"I get the idea," said Clive.
"Sorry about that. The Lady didn't send you to me just so
I'd have a captive audience. You were doing a favor for me, and
I'm supposed to do something for you."
"Like what?"
"Didn't you want something a short time ago?"
Clive felt like a ripe idiot. Here Mrs. Norse was trying to
help him in her subtle way but he was too dumb to notice. For
all he knew, he was talking to the most powerful being he would
ever meet. Time for a wish!
"I want to be with my sister again."
"You got it."
"And I want to save my parents."
"That's harder, because they have a say in their own
salvation; but I can help you try. Anything else?"
How many wishes did he have? The traditional three? Or was
it unlimited? Should he ask for riches? A lack of money had
been the root of much evil back home. Should he ask for wisdom?
If he had that, he could solve other problems that would come his
way. And there was good health to consider, but he couldn't
rightly ask for that without including the rest of his family.
He forgot that the dragon could read minds: "Excuse me for
interrupting this exercise in megalomania, kid, but when I asked
if there was anything else, it was a figure of speech, you know.
You're in this world now, and you have to deal with these
problems. If you ask me, your whole family could use a lesson in
the importance of the here and now."
"Leave them out of this," said Clive, feeling stupider than
ever. There must be a limit to how many times you could defy a
dragon before he put you on the menu.
Amazingly, the dragon apologized: "I take it back for one
member of your family, only. Fay has her head screwed on
straight. And I think it is time you were with her again so you
may benefit from her good example."
And with that, the dragon suddenly lowered its head so
suddenly that Clive lost his hold and fell straight into the
yellow fog. He was prepared to scream all the way down ... but
once he was in the fog, he didn't seem to be falling anymore.
Rather, he was experiencing a floating sensation. This lasted
for a long time and he became used to it.
He was not alone in the fog, not exactly. Thanks to free
floating pollen, Mom and Dad's voices continued to bedevil him.
Only now they were not selections from the past but an amalgam of
both giving him a hard time: "So you're having a big adventure,"
the dual voice taunted him, "but how long will it be before you
start to stink? You didn't bring any deoderant along, now did
you? No change of clothes? No toothbrush? First your underarms
will reek and you didn't even bring chewing gum to fight bad
breath. Then the perspiration will dry from all your exertions,
such as mowing the grass, and every square inch of your skin will
have a nasty, musty odor, that will seep into your clothes.
We're just as glad you're not home but floating around. If you
were home, you'd take a shower instead of a bath and you always
let the water run too long, and too hot. You were never frugal
with water or with anything else. Every spot of mildew in the
bathroom was your fault. We should have never had you. Who can
afford children today? Fay wasn't much better, but at least she
didn't drain our hard earned money as quickly you did, you
ungrateful...."
Fortunately, he didn't have to listen to more. He was
rescued by the sound of crashing surf and a salt water smell in
the air. He plunged into the cold, bracing waters of an ocean
like nothing he'd yet seen in the Land of the Seasons.
Floundering around in the rolling waves was just what he needed
to wash away dirt from his body and ... his mind. He felt
refreshed and clean.
An unintended gulp of sea water brought him up, coughing;
and his eyes were smarting from the salt. He was grateful to be
near a rocky coastline and swam for it, wishing he was as good at
this as his sister. Not until he'd pulled himself on shore did
he notice the big surprise.
It was late afternoon, sunlight making a million sparkling
diamonds on the slowly rippling ocean. Sunlight. There was a
gold-red sun, hanging low, streaking the sky with color. And if
he was somewhere where there was a sun, did this mean he was back
on earth?
Nearby there was one sickly tree, bereft of leaves, covered
in leprous, black bark. All the naked branches were reaching to
his right. The sea was to his left. The constant wind blowing
in from the sea had swept across this tree every day until it
grew at this angle. It seemed to be pointing in the direction he
would inevitably take: there was only one path, one sign of
human presence -- what he hoped was a human presence.
An old woman was hobbling up the path. Perhaps she could
help him. Taking a deep breath, Clive felt the brine penetrate
to his sinuses. As she drew near, he noticed the spiderweb
cracks that covered her face as if some old, oil painting had
come to life, and opened a grinning, toothless mouth with which
to speak.
"Hello," said Clive.
"About time," she said in a high pitched voice. Then the
old crone laughed with a hideous cackle.
"Do I know you?" Clive asked, still rubbing ocean from his
eyes.
"I should think you'd recognize your own sister," spat the
crone. "I'm Fay!"
The Land Beyond Summer
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 FOURTEEN
QUESTING AROUND
"I won't fall back in love with you!" Mother's voice
addressed his father from months ago, captured and released again
to renew Clive's pain. He'd eavesdropped on that particular
argument; he knew Mom was talking to Dad. But hearing it again,
ripped from its original context, he felt that she was talking to
him.
"Mother?" he asked of the sky. Or had the sounds come from
the great green expanse that was Mrs. Norse's backyard? It was
as green and flat as a pool table, stretching out farther than
the eye could see with a perfectly kept row of hedges on the
right, and a white stone wall on the left, both stretching to the
horizon.
"Bad memories are like germs, waiting to reinfect the
unwary" said Mrs. Norse. "Clive, you don't have to mow the lawn
if you don't want to. But I think you'll find it's just what you
need, and the grass could use it."
His mother's words had shaken him badly. The only benefit
he could derive was a redoubling of his desire to rescue his
parents, to save them from dangers ... and perhaps from
themselves.
But as she had done before, Mrs. Norse seemed to read his
mind. "You're in a good position to achieve reunion with your
family, Clive, but not if you try too hard! There is a rule of
indirection you should observe. If you try to achieve your
heart's desire by a direct approach, you will fail."
"One of your rules, I'll bet!" he snapped.
She was annoyingly calm as always: "Real rules set
themselves. False rules aren't rules but lies."
Wolf came over and licked his hand. Clive could be back
home as far as that went because the dog hadn't said a word since
he'd come out into the back yard. Mine is not to reason why,
mine is to cut the grass, he thought. If she wanted him to do
this, there must be a reason. But the lawn was already so neatly
trimmed that the idea seemed preposterous. Oh well, mine's not
to reason why....
He gave the lawnmower a thorough going-over. It wasn't the
old fashioned model he would have expected, the kind with blades
in a spiral that turn only with an unseemly exertion of muscle
power. It was a power motor, but with a cord instead of a
switch. The only item missing was the gas tank.
He could feel the smile in Mrs. Norse's words: "It doesn't
require fuel."
Looking at the seemingly infinite vista of lawn, he could
only shrug. There would never be enough fuel for all that
anyway. How long he would hold out was anyone's guess, but he'd
be good for twice as long with grass that didn't need cutting!
He was only sure of one fact: the sooner he started, the sooner
he could stop thinking about it.
Yanking the cord, he found it only took one try for the
lawnmower to sputter to life. Real life, that is. The motor
purred as though a hundred cats were inside, all in unison the
way the cats had done earlier. He could feel the handlebars
throb under his grasp as if blood coursed through them. Wolf
made a slight whining at what could not be a pleasant experience
for him.
"It won't talk, will it?" Clive asked.
Mrs. Norse laughed. The largest Persian there commented,
"That would be ridiculous."
Wolf chose this moment to express an opinion: "Hey, the kid
doesn't know. He's still getting over listening to me yap. I
wouldn't be surprised to hear anything talk around here."
"Thanks, Wolf," said Clive, feeling better as he took the
mower out of neutral and started his chore, his task, his
impossible labor.... The mower moved quite easily as was to be
expected with no thickness of grass underneath. The object was
to see how long it would take to reach the end of the lawn so he
could turn around and come back. Drifting over to the hedges,
he had the notion that he might as well do the job in straight
lines, starting on the right side and going up and down until he
was up against the wall opposite.
The mower wasn't the kind that pulled you along. He had to
push, but that was no problem. Except that as he proceeded, the
grass was becoming imperceptibly thicker. A very little spray of
green was coming out of the mower at last. He was glad that she
didn't use a bag to catch each blade.
He hadn't mowed any grass recently except when Dad asked him
to do the family yard. That was a lot harder than this. First
of all, there were all the trees and bushes to go around. Dad
didn't do the best job of keeping all the branches trimmed, but
he didn't trust Clive or Fay to manicure his beloved greenery.
Inevitably, Clive would come in from the yard covered in
scratches.
Then Mom would fuss over him and get out the bandaids and
ointments. He hardly noticed the scratches but what he hated
about working in the yard was that he'd pick up insect bites. He
never noticed getting them at the time but suddenly they'd be all
over his arms and legs -- big, ugly welts itching like crazy.
Now as he pushed the red lawnmower up the incredible length
of Mrs. Norse's backyard, he concluded that what he liked best
about this world was the apparent lack of insects. At least he
hadn't seen any yet. Whether or not he would count something
like the monster that had attacked Fay was an open question.
For a moment, he thought he saw an insect flitting at the
periphery of his vision; but he turned his head quickly to see
that it was a speck of yellow pollen floating on the air. As he
watched, it drifted down and touched the grass a few feet to the
left of where he was mowing. As it made contact, there was a
little pop as of a soap bubble bursting.
Again he heard his mother's voice: "We try to be fair to
both of you but it's not Fay's fault that she's a better student
than you are."
God, he'd almost succeeded in making himself forget that
conversation; but now old memories, sharper than a wasp's sting,
came drifting down out of cool Autumn air. Where was all this
stuff coming from? Maybe he could follow the "pollen" to its
source. Another landed with its load of joy from Dad: "You're
not very good, son." At least his parents had been able to agree
on something.
The grass was finally growing thick enough to require some
effort on his part; and the whole lawn was subtly tilting upward,
making it harder to just push the mower along. Added to this was
the unpleasant prospect of more pollen drifting into view, always
coming from in front of him. Another popped and he heard Dad's
voice again, but discoursing on a different subject: "A man
needs one place in this lousy world where he can be as big a jerk
as he wants and not pay a price." Clive had never heard that one
before, but all he could think was that Dad was a jerk to talk
that way.
The next one popped and it was Mom again: "You don't treat
me like a real person; you're as sensitive as an episode of
Championship Wrestling." He didn't remember Mom ever making
jokes when she and Dad argued, but maybe that was something she
reserved for rare private moments. Clive wondered why if wives
thought it was so important that husbands treat them with respect
that they didn't set a better example in how they regarded their
children. Personhood was apparently a restricted commodity.
Subversive thoughts were interrupted by half a dozen of the
small yellow timebombs coming to rest right in front of the
lawnmower. Mom and Dad's angry voices were intermingled and
chopped up along with the grass. He grabbed the control on the
mower and put it on maximum. Now he was looking for more of the
pollen so he could run it over. Grandfather must be behind this,
seeding the sky with malice.
The ground tilted up again, and he had to start pushing
really hard to keep it going forward. He could feel the pressure
in his wrists and it was harder to get traction. There was
pollen up ahead, but he couldn't get to it in time to stop from
hearing new torments. First, there was Dad saying: "I swear I'll
never lose my temper like that again. You have my word."
Then there was Mom saying, "I know I promised I'd never
leave you, but there comes a time when you have to face that it's
over. You need to get on with your life."
Clive shouted, "Shut up, both of you!" He was louder than
the mower, louder than the hollow words from the past, louder
than all the promises ever made. He turned the mower off and
collapsed on the soft grass, still telling the blue sky with its
flecks of yellow to leave him alone. Other pollen was drifting
all around him.
It didn't seem that he'd been mowing that long, but he was
already out of sight of the house. There was nothing behind him
but a vast sea of green and the gigantic totem pole, so tall that
it seemed to hold up the sky. As the voices started up again, he
decided to get back to work, if only in hope that the purring
noise would drown out yesterday's recriminations. Everything
was Mom and Dad criticizing and accusing, finding fault with
everyone and everything, as if some manic editor had sifted out
every fine thought and sentiment they'd ever had, leaving only
the bile.
Starting up the mower again, he regretted that it wasn't
noisy enough to overwhelm the talk, talk, talk; but there were so
many random sentences flying around that they succeeded in
obliterating each other's meaning. The saving grace of too much
carping was that it changed itself into white noise.
The mowing was becoming harder and this distracted his
attention, as well. The exertion produced thick drops of
perspiration on his brow. Wiping his head with the back of his
hand, he felt dull pain in his ankles as he pushed up an ever
steeper incline. He was just about to call it quits when the
mower slipped out of his hands and started rolling back toward
him. Grabbing for the handle, he only succeeded in knocking the
machine on its side, where it skidded a few feet before coming to
a stop.
He felt sick when he saw what was underneath. The mower had
no blade but rather what appeared to be several rows of teeth and
fangs. He wanted to quit and just walk away from his "chore,"
but he wasn't about to defy Mrs. Norse at this stage. Besides,
he was curious about just how much longer it would take to reach
the end of the lawn. From the top of the stone mountain, he
hadn't been able to see as far into Autumn as his current
location. He was dying to see more.
The grass was very high now and the pollen was still
drifting up ahead. When he lost his footing, he grabbed at the
green tendrils and they supported his weight. At least the mower
wasn't drifting back. Perhaps the teeth were holding on as
desperately as he was. Craning his neck, he could see what might
to be the end of the lawn, a great mound of weed covered earth,
beyond which was the blue of heaven. He dreaded that it might
only be the top of a hill with another vista of grass beyond; but
he was encouraged that it would at least be downhill if he could
reach that point.
He hurried the rest of the way and stopped as he reached the
summit. Catching his breath, he looked over the edge. Only
there was no edge, only an unbroken surface of more grass
descending and gathering itself into a huge ball that hung out in
space beyond where the wall and hedge terminated, as if sliced
off by a giant cleaver. Below the ball was yellow mist, the same
mist he had witnessed in his vision, that Fay had seen in her
dream, that was the distant fog they'd both seen from the stone
mountain. The yellow pollen was drifting up from the mist,
yellow dots separating themselves from yellow space.
While he was contemplating this new marvel, another problem
reared its head... literally. The huge mound that seemed to hang
in space began to move. It lifted itself up and the piece of
earth on which he clung shifted and moved as well. Then the ball
turned and faced him.
He was looking into the blazing red eyes of a dragon. There
was no doubt about it. Just because the monster was covered in
grass instead of scales didn't make it any less of a dragon. As
the leviathan opened its jaws wide, he saw gigantic teeth that
didn't resemble in the least your standard lawn features.
There was a morbid fascination in staring at a dragon, the
same nervous excitement a bird experiences in the presence of a
snake -- a prickly skin feeling that goes along with the idea
you may be someone's next meal. Fortunately, the yawning abyss
of the jaws came no closer but swung back and forth as the
creature spoke.
"Why have you stopped the treatment?" it asked.
"Hello," Clive responded stupidly.
"It felt so good, the trim you were giving me. Uh oh, you
better stand back, I'm going to sneeze."
Clive wouldn't have known any greater terror at that moment
if he'd been told he was going to be eaten instead. Fortunately,
the dragon turned his head. The sneeze had the force of an
earthquake, and that's what it was. Clive hung on to the weeds,
or whatever they were, for dear life, as the sticky wind escaped
the dragon's nostrils, releasing the odor of damp earth and
roots.
"That's better," said the dragon. Clive saw more yellow
pollen in the air, drifting up from the fog below, and obviously
the cause of the leviathan's sneeze. "The trouble maker's still
making trouble," lamented the dragon.
"You mean my grand... I mean, Malak," Clive corrected
himself.
"He wants to screw up my environment, yank the chain on my
eco systems, and give me a hard time in general."
"He hates dragons?" Clive let himself use the word, but he
felt nervous about it. He'd used the word dwarf around a dwarf
at a state carnival and let himself in for a speech about how
little people didn't like the term. He'd called Fay a girl at
school and received a lecture from one of the teachers, Miss
Mims, about the unadvisability of that term. For all he knew,
dragon might be considered a pejorative in this neighborhood.
The dragon didn't mind being called a dragon. He did,
however, suggest a problem having to do with plurals as opposed
to singulars. "Hey kid, let me clue you: there is only one
dragon. All else are reflections of myself. If I get sick, then
your earth dragon comes down with a bellyache, too, and your
seasons are adversely affected -- but as I say, the earth dragon
is just another extension from the old sod."
This was not what Clive expected to hear from a dragon, but
then he'd never expected to be engaging in a conversation with an
ambulatory lawn. He pictured dragons in caves where they guarded
hordes of treasure and ate princesses when hungry for a snack. He
couldn't imagine this dragon doing anything so uncouth but
wondered over its relationship with Mrs. Norse, besides sharing
her most annoying trait: the mind reading business.
"I only collect real treasure," it said, "what grows and
dies with the changes of Life. But I know what you want to see:
fierce looking swords with jewel encrusted hilts..."
"Well, I..." Clive began.
"Or an Egyptian sarcophagus covered in gold and silver, or a
Roman bowl of exquisite workmanship, or a Viking's sturdy helmet
with maybe a touch of dried blood on the horns..."
"How is that you ..." Clive began again.
"Or a Persian warrior's burnished shield, or Sumerian
goblets and arm rings, or diamonds which are a girl's best
friend, or how about American Express traveler's checks -- don't
leave home without them..."
"I get the idea," said Clive.
"Sorry about that. The Lady didn't send you to me just so
I'd have a captive audience. You were doing a favor for me, and
I'm supposed to do something for you."
"Like what?"
"Didn't you want something a short time ago?"
Clive felt like a ripe idiot. Here Mrs. Norse was trying to
help him in her subtle way but he was too dumb to notice. For
all he knew, he was talking to the most powerful being he would
ever meet. Time for a wish!
"I want to be with my sister again."
"You got it."
"And I want to save my parents."
"That's harder, because they have a say in their own
salvation; but I can help you try. Anything else?"
How many wishes did he have? The traditional three? Or was
it unlimited? Should he ask for riches? A lack of money had
been the root of much evil back home. Should he ask for wisdom?
If he had that, he could solve other problems that would come his
way. And there was good health to consider, but he couldn't
rightly ask for that without including the rest of his family.
He forgot that the dragon could read minds: "Excuse me for
interrupting this exercise in megalomania, kid, but when I asked
if there was anything else, it was a figure of speech, you know.
You're in this world now, and you have to deal with these
problems. If you ask me, your whole family could use a lesson in
the importance of the here and now."
"Leave them out of this," said Clive, feeling stupider than
ever. There must be a limit to how many times you could defy a
dragon before he put you on the menu.
Amazingly, the dragon apologized: "I take it back for one
member of your family, only. Fay has her head screwed on
straight. And I think it is time you were with her again so you
may benefit from her good example."
And with that, the dragon suddenly lowered its head so
suddenly that Clive lost his hold and fell straight into the
yellow fog. He was prepared to scream all the way down ... but
once he was in the fog, he didn't seem to be falling anymore.
Rather, he was experiencing a floating sensation. This lasted
for a long time and he became used to it.
He was not alone in the fog, not exactly. Thanks to free
floating pollen, Mom and Dad's voices continued to bedevil him.
Only now they were not selections from the past but an amalgam of
both giving him a hard time: "So you're having a big adventure,"
the dual voice taunted him, "but how long will it be before you
start to stink? You didn't bring any deoderant along, now did
you? No change of clothes? No toothbrush? First your underarms
will reek and you didn't even bring chewing gum to fight bad
breath. Then the perspiration will dry from all your exertions,
such as mowing the grass, and every square inch of your skin will
have a nasty, musty odor, that will seep into your clothes.
We're just as glad you're not home but floating around. If you
were home, you'd take a shower instead of a bath and you always
let the water run too long, and too hot. You were never frugal
with water or with anything else. Every spot of mildew in the
bathroom was your fault. We should have never had you. Who can
afford children today? Fay wasn't much better, but at least she
didn't drain our hard earned money as quickly you did, you
ungrateful...."
Fortunately, he didn't have to listen to more. He was
rescued by the sound of crashing surf and a salt water smell in
the air. He plunged into the cold, bracing waters of an ocean
like nothing he'd yet seen in the Land of the Seasons.
Floundering around in the rolling waves was just what he needed
to wash away dirt from his body and ... his mind. He felt
refreshed and clean.
An unintended gulp of sea water brought him up, coughing;
and his eyes were smarting from the salt. He was grateful to be
near a rocky coastline and swam for it, wishing he was as good at
this as his sister. Not until he'd pulled himself on shore did
he notice the big surprise.
It was late afternoon, sunlight making a million sparkling
diamonds on the slowly rippling ocean. Sunlight. There was a
gold-red sun, hanging low, streaking the sky with color. And if
he was somewhere where there was a sun, did this mean he was back
on earth?
Nearby there was one sickly tree, bereft of leaves, covered
in leprous, black bark. All the naked branches were reaching to
his right. The sea was to his left. The constant wind blowing
in from the sea had swept across this tree every day until it
grew at this angle. It seemed to be pointing in the direction he
would inevitably take: there was only one path, one sign of
human presence -- what he hoped was a human presence.
An old woman was hobbling up the path. Perhaps she could
help him. Taking a deep breath, Clive felt the brine penetrate
to his sinuses. As she drew near, he noticed the spiderweb
cracks that covered her face as if some old, oil painting had
come to life, and opened a grinning, toothless mouth with which
to speak.
"Hello," said Clive.
"About time," she said in a high pitched voice. Then the
old crone laughed with a hideous cackle.
"Do I know you?" Clive asked, still rubbing ocean from his
eyes.
"I should think you'd recognize your own sister," spat the
crone. "I'm Fay!"
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