Maybe he shouldn't have lost his temper ... but it had felt so ... satisfying. Jeremy had known Tolly for half a lifetime - at least, half of their lifetimes, ever since they were both about seven. Jeremy had also loathed Tolly for half a lifetime.
The reason was simple. Tolly - always with at least a couple of henchmen - was a bully. Or had been ... until earlier that afternoon.
The transformation had been both sudden and simple.
School had been canceled for the day - canceled because of the continuing rains and the threat of flooding. When school had started that morning, it had already been raining for the better part of three days. By ten o'clock, the thickening clouds had become so heavy that day looked more like dusk ... and the rain had become a torrent.
The Russian River was the single drain for a large part of northern California, including the Napa and Sonoma valleys, heart of the wine country. For most of its length, the usually placid river ran through pastoral valleys, past rolling hills and vast acres of grapevines and, in due course, out to sea, emptying itself into the broad Pacific.
However, for the final twenty miles of its course, the Russian River had a boundary to contend - the California coastal range. As mountains go, these were not tall peaks - few rose above two thousand feet and most were measured in hundreds. For the river, however, even peaks mounting to a few hundred feet were a barrier and the river's course was restricted to a relatively narrow channel, a twisting and winding valley, wooded with redwoods, oak and cedar and accented by the town of Guerneville - once named Stumptown in the early days when loggers had denuded the landscape - and the smaller towns of Monte Rio and Duncan's Mills.
While the school in Guerneville was not on the river but lay on higher ground, the single highway passing though Guerneville was not so secure. Many of the students already lived on higher ground and, once home, should be in no danger. Others, those who lived along the river particularly, might be unable to return home if the rolling waters rose further. These latter students would be taken to shelters inland where the flood waters were not constrained by the torturous passage through the hills.
The students, of course - waiting on the broad porch outside the school for their busses to return - were treating it all as a holiday ... except for Tolly and two cohorts who considered the occasion one for 'business as usual'.
It wasn't that Tolly was big for his age. It was more a case that Tolly - having been assessed as 'learning disadvantaged' - had taken longer than usual to advance to his current educational level. In actual fact, Tolly's current advancement was less correctly attributed to his having demonstrated any eventual scholastic achievements than to having simply outlasted his mentors' lack collective patience.
The truth was that Tolly wasn't so much dumb as he was stubborn. What Tolly lacked in formal education - which was almost everything except for rudiments of mathematics - he more than balanced with what is often referred to as a crude animal cunning* and, in Tolly's mind, a formal education simply wasn't relevant to his life's goals. Indeed, if it weren't for the alternate opportunities afforded by the school system - which did include girls although they were less important than what Tolly euphemistically thought of as 'clients' - Tolly would have simply avoided as many classroom hours as possible until such time as his attendance would no longer be legally demanded ... an event which, in any case, was eminently approaching - as was the end of the current semester. As for the following semester, Tolly's plans did not include further attendance.
* Crude animal cunning is not only a misnomer but also an insult since animals - as naturalists will attest - are not noted for the type of activities which are commonly indulged in by those possessing this characteristic.
In one sense, Tolly was every schoolboy's ideal. For Tolly, puberty had come early and had come easily. Physically, secure in the first bloom of youth, Tolly was on the verge of being handsome. He would never be tall but, at present at least, he was well formed and, if his bulk would lean toward fat in later years, his present form was more muscular than adipose. Tolly's face was broad with a well-formed chin and, as the baby-fat softening his face had vanished, had assumed a rugged regularity which, had his usual smile been less than a sneer, might have been considered openly attractive.
All in all, Tolly was a very lucky man - or boy, if you prefer. Tolly was a big frog in a small pond. He knew exactly what he wanted to do with life, looked forward to his future with anticipation and thoroughly enjoyed his day's 'work' ... although few - excepting, of course, his 'business' associates - shared any part of Tolly's pleasures in his daily activities. The short and simple of it was that Tolly - at his present stage in life - enjoyed being a bully.
He also found it profitable ... and he had a vision.
In his mind, Tolly saw himself as an entrepreneur, offering a service and accepting payment for his labors. The fact that Tolly's clients were not anxious to subscribe to his services was unimportant* - after all, creating a demand for a service was simply part of the business ethic, right?
* The short and simple of it was that what Tolly presented as 'insurance' was more commonly known as 'extortion with menaces'.
Not that this was the height of Tolly's ambitions. Not even close - Tolly had plans for the future and his plans did not include - no matter how much he enjoyed supplying the personal touch - remaining in the retail service sector.
Further, even though Tolly was functionally illiterate, he had pursued studies toward his intended career.
First, Tolly had acquired a carefully cultivated vocabulary which he fondly believed to be both mature in tone and authentic in scope. His choice of tutorials for this self-educational endeavor, of course, had been culled from the debris of Hollywood's reflections of popular culture, leaning heavily on that sub-genre depicting the activities of the descendants of certain Italian emerges.
Second, Tolly had also gleaned from his chosen tutorials a variety of what he considered more practical lessons but, in truth, his imagination had always been his best resource in this respect ... that and what he'd learned - literally - on a first-hand basis from his parents.
Third, if less successfully, Tolly had also enrolled in a more formal course of study at Ling's Academy of Martial Arts where he had stayed less because of any real aptitude - meaning that he applied himself to these studies with only slightly more attention than he had to his school studies - than because he enjoyed the exercise.
Mr. Ling's assessment of Tolly's interests, however, was more realistic than school system's ... or, perhaps, it was merely that Mr. Ling labored under less restrictive constraints. Whichever the case, it was Mr. Ling who terminated Tolly's enrollment, regretting only that Tolly's departure could not have been preceded by what he, Mr. Ling, believed might be the one real lesson Tolly could benefit from.
Of course, the actual facts were that Tolly was less sophisticated than he believed himself and, in the real world, such as a Los Angeles slum, for example, he wouldn't have lasted three days. Not that Tolly had any real inklings of the reality of his situation.
Still, while Tolly had plans - and vision, however unrealistic - he also had the cunning to realize that his future success could only be achieved with the investment of adequate financial capital. Further, since Tolly was happily anticipating both his sixteenth birthday and his departure both from the school system and from the less than metropolitan town of Guerneville, the time remaining for raising capital was growing shorter.
Last, to Tolly's mind, Jeremy was an ideal - if unwilling - investor.
Thus, in this particular instance, Tolly had claimed a corner of the school porch as his impromptu office and, with his two assistants providing a shield, was giving Jeremy a sales pitch ... and threatening to punctuate his arguments with the short length of chain held doubled in his left hand.
Jeremy's potential as an investor - though 'contributor' might be the more accurate term - was only partially founded in Tolly's assumption that he, Jeremy, possessed funds which - with proper persuasion - could become available for Tolly's use. The more immediate factors behind Tolly's selection of Jeremy as an investor were personal.
First and foremost, Jeremy epitomized everything that Tolly hated - or envied.
If Jeremy wasn't handsome, he was popular with the other students - at least, to Tolly's perception, although this assessment would have surprised Jeremy, had he known about it.
Further, even though he was two years younger than Tolly, Jeremy was already showing signs of growing taller and, eventually, would probably become one of those lean and lanky individuals who always seemed to slide through life without care or conflict*.
* The actual absence of care or conflict is more illusion than reality and is a side-effect of height because, if you're tall enough to hide your head in the clouds, you're also tall enough to hide other things. Besides, what do the short, good-looking twerps know about the problems in being a lanky, uncoordinated beanpole whose pants are always too short? Like so many things, it's all a matter of perspective.
Then add in the fact that Jeremy was popular with the teachers ... The fact that Jeremy's popularity was more a matter of having a quick and an inquiring mind than any effort on his part was immaterial. Thus, potentially, Tolly regarded Jeremy as a snitch who should be kept under control against the off chance that he might cause trouble.
Next, Jeremy had access to money. In a small town like Guernville, people have few secrets ... even from those for whom they have neither love nor friendship ... and the fact that Jeremy had ready access - through an ATM card - to his father's bank account was not only common knowledge but, in Tolly's mind, opportunity.
Last, but not least, since Jeremy father was in South America - and Jeremy's mother deceased - Jeremy's investment opportunities could easily be expected to continue through the end of the school term ... or, of course, the exhaustion of his father's account, which ever occurred first.
Therefore, having enunciated his requirements and set a schedule and location for delivery - Tolly was far to canny to accept delivery where there might be inconvenient witnesses - Tolly was about to deliver his closing arguments - carefully measured, of course, so as not to incapicate his investor and delay the receipt of funds - in the form of abdominal punctuation when Jeremy struck preemptively.
Physically, Jeremy had no hopes of joining battle ... and much less of winning. Tolly's compatriots - in addition to forming a shield of privacy - had Jeremy's arms pinned securely. Add in the fact that the trio outweighed Jeremey by a factor of four - or five - and his situation was neither enviable nor appropriate for action.
Jeremy's preemptive strike, however, was not - at least not in the usual sense - physical. Instead, drawing both from the knotted fear which was threatening to tie his stomach in knots and from a deep burning anger which, like a banked fire, held far more energy than open rage, Jeremy reached out to that still, small place which could not be defined in spatial terms and, carefully but hastily, twisted a multitude of tiny threads into a still tighter knot than their normal scope.
Less than an instant later, Tolly stood naked as a jay bird. On the deck around him clattered a pocket knife, a few coins, a worn billfold, a disposable cigarette lighter ... and, less noisily, a small zip lock containing a quantity of white powder. A soft glow had briefly lit the corner of the porch and, very briefly, a feeling of warmth tempered the air. The only thing that hadn't fallen was the length of chain retained by Tolly's grip.
A brief moment later, the chain also clattered to the pavement as Tolly attempted, futility and inadequately, to cover himself.
And, moments after that - as Tolly's naked form disappeared, off the porch, into the rain and around the corner of the building - the laughter began. Even Tolly's buddies were laughing.
Jeremy, forgotten, slipped aboard the arriving bus.
Home was an old sprawling house overlooking the Russian River from the vantage of a kneed ridge. In front of the house, the ridge dropped away, falling steeply toward the highway and, beyond, to narrow fields of grapes bordering the river. Behind the house, the ridge rose another two hundred feet before the wooded slopes fell to another valley. From the rear, a twisted and unpaved road stretched a good quarter-mile to the main highway below. The road was shared with a single summer cabin, no longer inhabited nor habitable.
Unlike its vacant neighbor, the larger house in good structural repair if still in some need of paint. Built a century before to house a large and prolific family, the house boasted eight bedrooms, a nursery, living room, sitting room, library and dining room as well as kitchen and cook's quarters. The outbuildings, intended for servants and staff, had long since been dismantled, giving way first to gardens and, later, to patches of clover shaded by volunteer oaks and redwoods. A short ways up slope, a root cellar and cool house had been excavated in the hillside but had long ago been concealed by shrubs and briars
Had the road been better ... and parking claimed from the newer growth ... the sprawling mansion might have served quite well as a guest haus for summer tourists. As it was, it was now the ancestral home to one small boy, the final twig of a once respectable family tree.
Jeremy's mother, herself an only child, had died some years before, leaving her child in the care of a conscious but often absent father. The family fortunes had long since vanished - not though mismanagement or frivolity but through the simple attrition of time and expense, not a little of it going to the upkeep of an unneeded but sentimental mansion.
Previously, for many years, the house had been vacant entirely, left empty when Jeremy's grandparents had moved south, seeking a warmer climate for their health and while their sole son, Jeremy's father, had pursued a successful, if peripatetic, career as a petroleum engineer.
Later, Mr. Blume had married. Jeremy's mother had also been an engineer, electrical, not petroleum and, for years, the two Blumes had made their homes on three continents and under a dozen flags - wherever there was a demand for their talents and a congenial circumstance ... and, occasionally, where the latter was lacking.
When the two Blumes decided to increase their number - both were in their late thirties - a more stable situation seemed in order and the ancestral home had been renovated, restored and occupied. And Jeremy had arrived.
There had been talk of a change of occupation - even of opening an inn - but, as Mr. Blume had pointed out, Mrs. Blume was an excellent engineer but had little interest in being a hostelier. And, as Mrs. Blume had also qualified, Mr. Blume was equally unsuited for either rural or resort occupations. Thus, after engaging a housekeeper / nurse, Mrs. Blume had taken employment with a firm in Santa Rosa - a half-hour distant while Mr. Blume, as a consultant, continued to travel but limited his absences as much as possible, preferring the attractions of home and hearth over those of exotic climes.
And so matters continued until Mrs. Blume had died - suddenly of a quite unsuspected cerebral aneurysm - when Jeremy was nine.
While she had lived, Mrs. Blume had been a loving and affectionate parent although she had, from the first, treated her offspring far more as a small but responsible adult than as a helpless child - an attention which her son had repaid with both love and with learning.
Jeremy's father, also an only child, had found nothing strange in having a son who was much more a small but independent friend than a charge requiring the sort of attentions one might hesitantly pay to a retarded idiot.
Thus under the tutelage of two parents who treated him as a potential adult - plus the care of a kindly but absent-minded housekeeper - by the time he was four, Jeremy was both an avid reader and an avid explorer. At six, Jeremy had not only surveyed the surrounding mountain side but had, on one occasion, crossed the ridge and approached a neighbor's house, introducing himself and asking to use the phone to call home. The somewhat astonished neighbor had quickly agreed and had then listened, slack-jawed, as the young adventurer informed Mrs. Gerrity, his housekeeper but scarcely nursemaid - in a very matter-of-fact voice - of his travels before concluding that he would try to be back in time for his afternoon snack but he hoped that she wouldn't worry if he was late since the slopes were steeper than he'd thought.
If his early upbringing was unusual, following his mother's death, Jeremy's education became even more exotic.
The one thing the lower Russian River had no demand for was petroleum engineers. And the single biggest commodity was unemployed - seasonally or otherwise - laborers. Therefore, in the months following Mrs. Blume's demise and in the face of economic necessity, Jeremy's father continued to pursue his career in more rewarding regions, leaving Jeremy in Mrs. Gerrity's charge. As before, Mr. Blume returned to home, hearth and heir as often as possible, timing his travels when possible to spend summers and holidays along the Russian River.
When circumstances did not permit Mr. Blume's timely return, Jeremy would find himself whisked away for the summer or holiday vacations to visit various exotic climates. Thus one Christmas vacation had been spent within sight of the pyramids, another on the shores of a tropical sea, a third jaunting by train from Moscow to Istanbul with stops on the way and one glorious summer in the Far East, split for the most part between Malaysia and northern Thailand. On each occasion, Jeremy had acquired a smattering of languages as well as, more important, the customs of a handful of cultures ... none of which had subsequently endeared him to his nemesis, Tully.
But, most of the time, Jeremy was left in Mrs. Gerrity's charge. As a surrogate parent, particularly during the elder Mr. Blume's absence, Mrs. Gerrity served as cook, housekeeper and general factotum ... when she remembered.
The problem with Mrs. Gerrity was part medical, part age. Most of the time, she was good company and Jeremy's best friend but her lapses, increasingly, were becoming harder and harder to conceal. What had once been little things - like topping hot-dogs with ice cream - had become more serious lapses. Twice Mrs. Gerrity had wandered off, returning to her old home down river, quite forgetting her charge for several days at a stretch. More commonly, she would forget to pay bills - a task which Jeremy now handled with a skill which both an accountant and a forger might have approved ... and which had moved Jeremy to write to the bank, in his father's name, requesting a spare ATM card. Other times, Mrs. Gerrity would forget dinner ... or put gumdrops in cookies instead of chocolate chips ... or simply forget what was in the oven entirely.
Today appeared to be one of her wandering days ... or, maybe, she'd gone down river to check on her house ... Jeremy hoped so but didn't worry immediately. In either case, the car was gone ... and, of course, she wouldn't have been expecting him home anyway.
Pursuing first things first, since Jeremy was - whatever appearances and attitudes suggested - still a young man and not inured to the troubles of the world ... nor to his own, Jeremy had gone to his room where, kicking off his shoes, he had curled up on the bed for a good cry, venting all of the frustration and pain which had been brought to a head less than an hour earlier.
Later, his immediate pains assuaged, Jeremy found his appetite was enormous.
Downstairs, rummaging through the 'fridge, Jeremy extracted a package of hamburger and made himself lunch, adding a note to the grocery list to get buns and pickles as soon as possible. Dishes in the sink - they could be done later, Jeremy turned his attentions to considering what to do with a rainy afternoon.
One thing was certain, he had no intention of acceding to Tully's demand nor of keeping the ordered rendezvous. Indeed, given the conclusion of their last meeting, Jeremy felt safe in hoping that Tully would also not be anxious to meet again ... at least, not for some time.
Thus, instead of catching the bus back to town, Jeremy was in the library when the power failed. The library was Jeremy's favorite room in the house - books ranging from old, leather-bound volumes to new and tattered paperbacks filled shelves which stretched from floor to ceiling, their ranks of titles broken by a single door, two tall windows and a fire place. Of course, being devoted to book shelves also meant that the library was the darkest room in the house but, in winter, it could also be the warmest - books were great insulation as well.
As a family, the Blumes had a long literary tradition. Jeremy's parents had been no exception and Jeremy himself had learned to read long before he had started school. As a child, several of the lowest book shelves had been his, crammed with everything from Little Golden Books to a set of tattered McGuffy's Readers. Later, it had been Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew before he'd discovered Piers Anthony's Xanth and Doyle's Sherlock Holmes. And, in more than a decade of literacy, Jeremy had read - or sampled - everything in the library.
Not everything had been palatable. There were engineering texts which even engineers didn't regard as "readable" but only as reference. Stacks of historical romances left him cold. Others, such as Munster's Cosmology and Velocoski's When Worlds Collide had been first confusing and later amusing. Shakespeare had also been confusing at first but quickly became an old friend while Kipling and Twain had been firm friends since first discovered.
With the power off - and the very successful experiment earlier that day at school - the choice was easy. No lights were needed to find the book - it's position on the shelves was as familiar to Jeremy as the fingers on his hand. Reading, however, did require lights.
Leaving the library, Jeremy tucked the slim, leather volume protectively inside his shirt, donned a heavy jacket, his school knapsack and a rain slicker and slipped out the back door. The trail up hill was slick from the heavy rain. Quickly enough, Jeremy stepped off the path, picking his way to the east side of the bramble thicket where the rock face was exposed.
Behind the brambles, a thick, forked pole lay hidden against the rock slope. Retrieving this implement, Jeremy used the tool to force the brambles up away from the rock, exposing a narrow passage behind the thorny growths. In late summer, the backside of the thicket would be an avenue to reach at least some of the blackberries which were inaccessible from the front. Now, however, the passage led to a more important place - the old root cellar and cool house excavated from the rocky hill side. The old, timbered door to the cellar hadn't been opened in years and would have required removal of most of the thicket before it could budge at all.
One of the timbers, however, as Jeremy had discovered years before, was no longer held by the cross braces. Later, as Jeremy had grown, when the single thick plank no longer offered sufficient opening, he'd removed a second plank, then had joined the two together, hinging them from the inside to make a new door which, pushed from the bottom, swung inwards, providing him access.
Inside, a kerosene lantern hung from the back of the original door. As the lantern ignited, the shallow cave lit by the flickering glow revealed several plastic milk carriers supporting crude benches while others, stacked against the wall, acted as rough cabinets. A couple of old ammo chests protected the most important items while a tattered sleeping bag and a pair of musty blankets completed the furnishings.
Fluffing the blankets into an inadequate cushion, Jeremy composed himself before extracting the small volume from its protective enclosure. The leather covers shown in the lantern light, polished with oils from Jeremy's skin. This wasn't the first time it had been carried thus and frequent contact had done much to help restore the dried leather.
The book bore no title. The pages were heavy vellum, ragged edged but still strong and supple and only slightly yellowed by age. The contents had been written in a careful, copperplate hand using an ink which, despite time, remained legible.
Jeremy had been very young when he found the book. The old fashioned script had meant nothing to him and much of it still remained a challenge despite years of study. Parts, however, had made some sort of sense almost as soon as he'd opened the thin volume. Not all of the book was script, parts were carefully drawn diagrams, some had been tinted with now faded water colors, others remained starkly rusty black. It was the diagrams which had first caught Jeremy's attention, somehow the drawings had spoken to him with hints of a knowledge which he still was unable to put into words.
It had been a long time before Jeremy had tried what the images seemed to hint at ... and longer still before any of his experiments had succeeded. And, happily, when that first experiment succeeded, it had also been raining - almost like the rain had been an omen.
Jeremy's first experiment had resulted in fire ... at least, his first successful experiment had. Today, fire was almost as easy as snapping his fingers. A gesture - which was more of a reminder or mnemonic than anything else - had sufficed to ignite the lantern and a similar practice - when starting a fire in any of the fireplaces was faster and simpler than fooling with paper, kindling and matches.
That first time, however, if it hadn't been for the rain and the damp woods, might easily have been a disaster. First, Jeremy hadn't known what to expect. Second, when it succeeded, he hadn't known what to do about it. And, third, he'd succeeded in a big way - a small flame would have been more than enough but his initial success had ignited an entire log ... right in the middle of a stand of trees.
Since the woods were wet - even though the rain had stopped hours before - the fire didn't spread and was attributed, by the responding fire fighters, to a freak lightning strike. Jeremy had been too scared to even consider telling anyone differently. Not that anyone would have believed that a ten year old boy could start such a blaze - particularly in damp woods - in the first place.
Later, Jeremy had practiced on smaller fires carefully laid in the fireplace or in one of the wood stoves. At first, results were erratic. But, once he felt confident, he'd tried to tell Mrs. Gerrity ... and tried to show her ... and, of course, it hadn't worked. Still, he'd learned a lesson in the process and, after her kindly but deflating lecture about separating fantasy from reality, he hadn't mentioned it again. Not to anyone.
Instead, if anyone was watching, he'd use paper, kindling and matches for show while still insuring that the fire lit correctly in his own fashion.
Later, when his dad returned home, Jeremy hadn't told him, either. Or anyone else for that matter. When young, we learn many things very quickly - and not appearing too different is one lesson we acquire very readily.
Jeremy opened the book and read:
How does one speak of such matters? That it seems that everything is made of pieces ... very small ... but these are made of smaller pieces and so ad infinitum? At some point all things are one, many twisted aspects of a single (something illegible). Twist, untwist, stretch ... dear God, why have you not given us the words. Is this not the Tree of Knowledge of which You feared we would taste? Why then should we not eate well? A small taste is but a temptation. I will, Dear God permitting, drink most deeply of the Peirian springs. But how I long for the words to speak of this.
Still, if my words be limited, I shall not speak here of the trivial and mundane as so many of my compatriots do in filling their diaries with the gossip and chitchat which occupy their days. Perhaps, someday, the words will come.
Jeremy flipped through the pages. The contents were so familiar that he might easily have recited the words from memory and reproduced the diagrams with the accuracy of a high-quality photocopier. Near the end, he found the passage he wanted, scanning it hungrily in hopes of extracting something further, of finding some overlooked hint.
M. Pepys' account of the Society's recent meeting was most amusing. A flux prevented my attendance byt my friend is a most accurate accountant though I shall not repeat all here. M. Boile has been using large flasks to entrap his gaseous fractions. I have essayed to endeavor a parallel task. If, indeed, the (unrecognizable) does, as I have surmised, separate the matters to their almost primal particulates, may these not also be gaseous fractions and thereby contained?
Jeremy flipped forward a few pages further, finding:
How grateful I am that Father did not see ones condition a barrier to learning. If M. Avo's rules hold, perhaps this explains the bursting of the flask. I have commissioned the construct of a heavier device following the design of M. Leyden's recent adventures. If the flash hold after I initiate the (dissolution?), will the etheric discharge restore the object? Or will I have created something new entire? I an most excited but can not decide what object. Should I attempt the philosopher's stone?
The diagram following showed an outline of a large glass flask, wide mouthed, with a reddish object suspended inside. The flask was closed with what appeared a thick stopper held by elaborate clasping mechanisms. Two rods protruded through the stopper and lines (wires?) lead to another series of jars sketched, diagramatically, with plates and fluids. These latter were recognizable as early batteries or galvanic piles.
Three further paragraphs of script followed, filling the next two pages.
It seems wrong to subject any living creature to such an adventure but what of once-living. I have obtained a beeve hart and, with no small difficulty, endeavored its insertion into the flask. A larger opening moight better serve but this will suffice for now. The closure is in place and well stoppered and well anchored. I have the loan of a Galvanic pile (in return, the promise of an exclusive first report) and I am ready to reduce the beeve hart to verible nothingness before subjecting it to an etheric discharge..
I contritely made my prayers this morn - a ritual which many of the members of the Society hold mere superstition. Still, do we know? There is so much which we lack even the words to speak of. And the words - though even this is not the correct and accurate term - themselves have the power to change. I prayed this morn not for success but for a greater boon: that I might learn the words even to describe the words for no words suffice. Not in any of the languages of society.
I am ready now to proceed. God willing, I shall write further soon and most illuminatingly.
And this was the last of the diary. The remaining pages were blank, untouched.
The basic experiment - dissolution was not the right word - was the same which Jeremy had practiced so successfully earlier that day. The differences, of course, were obvious. Rather than a beeve hart (beef heart?), it had been Tolly's clothes which came apart so satisfactorily and they had not been contained by any enclosure. The soft breeze, warmth and soft glow? These were aspects Jeremy still lacked explanation for but he had not attempted so large a target before either.
At the back of the root cellar / cum hideout, a small rock had become a smear across the stone. A scrap of paper had simply vanished as had a multitude of twigs and leaves. Tolly had been the first and single real trial of Jeremy's technique.
Now, however, assured of the technique, Jeremy was ready for further experiments. The boy extracted a sheet of graph paper from his school work, folding the sheet vertically to make it stand and propping it against the crude bench. A moment later, a hole appeared in the sheet, near the upper left corner.
By the time Jeremy tired of his exercise, the original sheet had vanished entirely as had two others and a fourth sheet was perforated with tiny holes, many so small that they could only be seen by holding the paper against the light from the lantern. More important, each hole was precise in its position and, most important of all, a full third had been created while Jeremy was a good ten feet distant and looking away from the paper entirely.
Finally, satisfied with his practice session, Jeremy crumpled the sheet, then tossed it lightly to bounce off the low ceiling after which the wadded paper first burst into flame and then flared brilliantly before vanishing entirely, leaving neither ash nor smoke. Jeremy grinned with satisfaction. "I bet she didn't try that", he commented to himself, then added for, perhaps, the hundredth time, "I wonder what happened with the jar. If it was heavy and exploded ..." He shrugged, then shook his head. Even the flashing paper gave him a momentary chill - both light and heat were obvious byproducts. What would happen with a larger mass contained by a heavy glass jar was hard to determine but the potential results were - literally - explosive. And, maybe, they had been.
At any rate, the author had not returned to her diary - Jeremy was sure the writer had been a woman despite the absence of any direct references or names. The diary had been personal, intended only for the owner and not for the eyes of others.
Still, this and other questions had been wondered about more times than he could remember and there seemed little chance of answers. Jeremy shrugged again, then tucked the small volume into the backpack before turning to rummage through his storage shelves. A minute later, his search produced a well thumbed paperback and Jeremy reclined to join Huckleberry Finn, Jim, the Duke and Dauphin on their journey down the mighty Mississippi. Outside, the rain continued to fall.
The escape following the Royal Nonesuch was interrupted by the sound of a car dimly audible over the rain. "Mrs. Gerrity," Jeremy decided, then admonished himself, "Guess I'd better go down and check on her." Still, there was no great rush and Jeremy remained where he was until Huck was safely back on the river.
Finally, stowing his paperback, Jeremy donned his knapsack and rain slicker, then slid out behind the damp brambles, insuring that the tilting door closed securely behind him. Inside, the lantern was still lit. Jeremy gestured, feeling a brief burst of heat as the flame extinguished itself. That little trick wasn't as easy as starting a flame but it was satisfying.
Jeremy worked his way along the narrow passage, then removed the forked prop, allowing the heavy brambles to fall back into place. Picking his way down slope - carefully, the ground was slippery - Jeremy paused, observing the scene from the partial shelter of an old, burnt stump.
Even through the rain, three things were obvious. First, the car below wasn't Mrs. Gerrity's. Second, there were two people inside. Third, the car's engine was running and it was turned and ready to leave. Still, if they were leaving, why was the rear door standing open?
Then Jeremy saw the flames.
Inside the house - downstairs - the kitchen windows shown with a ruddy glow while upstairs a further half-dozen windows were flickering yellow-orange. Suddenly, an even brighter figure staggered past one of the upstairs windows, arms waving wildly as if one flame were fanning the rest.
For a long instant, nothing made sense ... then realization flooded in. The house was on fire ... and somebody had lit it ... and themselves as well.
Still, understanding was one thing and decision was another - thus Jeremy remained rooted, staring.
Then the windows blew! Released, the flames leapt wildly, roaring, madly.
Below, the two waiting figures were suddenly galvanized into action. The car spun, scattering mud as it swerved down the unpaved track, the rear door, still open, swinging wildly until an encounter with a sapling slammed it closed.
As if the slamming door were punctuation, closing his hesitation with a full stop, Jeremy acted. A gesture - which in itself was nothing but still severed as a shorthand reminder - and Jeremy felt the flames. Unlike the lantern flame, these were immense - a raging flood compared to a drip from the lantern,
For a long instant, Jeremy sensed the shape and extent of the conflagration ... and then collapsed in the bracken, his mind as black as the flames were bright.
Half a thousand miles south from Guernville, Danny was feeling - well, not precisely happy - perhaps satisfied would serve. He'd scored - big time, the jones wasn't on him - not for a while - a greasy hamburger and fries filled his belly ... now all he needed was some place quiet ... and safe. "Home? Maybe," Danny thought, "long as the old man's not back."
The 'old man' had his own 'jones' - 'septing his came in a bottle ... any bottle ... any bottle at all. "Maybe," Danny decided. "Won't hurt to check." Danny rounded the corner cautiously, keeping an eye peeled for blue bandannas - the last thing he needed now was to meet up with the Flash Boys ... any of them.
A world away from both, though geographically quite close to Danny's world, Jeanne was sitting at a table with two friends but feeling restless.
"Totally rapt," Kimia breathed huskily.
"Totally," Jeanne agreed, keeping her own opinions private. Personally, as far as Jeanne was concerned, the only thing more boring than being 16 was being with other sixteen-year-olds. The "rapt" remark referred to her friend's current heart-throb, present in their midst as a voice, a guitar and a heavily synthesized rhythm section.
"Hey," Jeanne excused herself, pushing the tray with remains of the pizza away. "Like gotta meet a friend, y'know." She smiled mysteriously, adding a toss of her green-, blue- and red-tinted cock's comb as she slid out from behind the table.
"Oh, like right," Terri agreed. "Hey, think Carrie's at the 'cade?"
Jeanne was silent for a moment before answering: "Carrie isn't .. but Buff is." Jeanne exchanged a wink and a grimace with the Kimia. "Chill, dudettes," she waved, elaborating the last word into a three-note phrase. Why anyone would be interested in her boring brother ... even though he was probably better than the singer ... at least Buf could carry a tune and his voice had settled into a respectable baritone. He might even be handsome if his zits cleared up.
In any case, it didn't need psychic powers to know that Terri would be headed for the arcade. And where Terri went, Kimia would follow. But, what Jeanne hadn't mentioned was that Buff wasn't alone.
For a moment, Jeanne was tempted to follow along. Still while the encounter might be amusing - 'Tammy Meets Terri' suggested itself as a title for a Godzilla-style monster movie - it was probably more fun to imagine than to watch. Besides, even a teen-age divvey is safer if she exercises at least a small measure of discretion.
Jeanne shook her head as she walked out of the mall, turning down the street to Ms. Geller's place, scarcely a block away. Maybe Ms. Geller would have the 'switched-on Bach' tape playing. Lord knew she could use something decent to take the taste away. 'Sides, nobody would ever look for her there - after all, the place was full of books. Her steps quickened at the thought.
How long he laid there, Jeremy had no idea. When consciousness returned, he was soaked and cold ... and he felt like ... the phrase 'death warmed over' seemed appropriate, if somewhat inadequate. Slowly, Jeremy forced himself to sit, supporting himself against the burnt stump.
Jeremy looked up - overhead, the storm-dark sky was almost completely black.
He rested a moment, then used the burnt stump as a lever to force himself erect. For the moment, at least, the rain had stopped.
Jeremy forced himself away from the stump's support, attempting a single, stumbling step before a deeper darkness welcomed him to its embrace.
At first, Jeremy wasn't sure if his eyes were open or not. Then just as he was about to decide it must be night, the clouds parted, allowing the moon to illumine the landscape. "At least the rain's stopped," Jeremy thought. And memory returned ... but he still lacked the strength to stand.
His head felt like it was in pieces and his stomach ... his stomach suddenly revolted, sending him heaving across his knees, unable to move further. Still, despite all the violence of the effort, there seemed to be little result.
When the heaving stopped, Jeremy fell back, gasping. The thick, hollowed stump accepted his weight. Overhead, the clouds alternated between admitting the moon's silvery glow and shrouding the night's orb in darkness. Jeremy's mind seem to waver in and out in the same fashion.
Later - how long he couldn't even guess - Jeremy forced himself erect for the second time, again gripping the edge of the stump for support. For the moment, the clouds had parted, leaving the slope illuminated.
Below, the house was gone. Chimneys and fireplaces still stood, poking out of the rubble. One leaned drunkenly. Little, if anything, else remained.
Even the driveway seemed a shambles. "Fire trucks", Jeremy realized, "they made the ruts." Another wave of dizziness send Jeremy back to his knees before replacing the chill with a sudden wave of fever. "Can't stay ..." Jeremy cautioned himself. "Shelter ... must keep the patient warm ... dry ..." His lips were parched and his voice unintelligible even to himself.
Somewhere ... and everywhere ... for an instant too brief to exist, the universe stretched taut and brittle, smooth and frictionless as ice. For a timeless instant perhaps, all places were one ...
... or perhaps they weren't ...
In a small club near London, unaccountably, the two dice bouncing off the rail resolved themselves into three, showing a five, a six and a four. The croupier regarded the triplet for a brief moment, then passed two of the three back to shooter, advising in a calm if Cockney accent, "Y'r point's fifteen, sar."
The shooter accepted the pair, shaking them and throwing with an elan more attributable to shock and automatic habits than any real presence or style.
Two dice bounced off the rail but only one rolled to a stop. As the second die vanished even more quietly than it had appeared, the shooter silently slumped to the floor. The remaining die came to rest showing a single dot.
Somewhere outside of Moscow, two students watched incredulously as a multitude of instruments and a cascade of particles showed the unmistakable tracks of proton decay - an event which, previously, had happened less than a dozen times since the universe began. Frantically they watched and recorded the first, second and third events ... and then spent years futilely searching for a fourth event.
High in the Andes, a lama driver stirred in his sleep, then cursed fluently in what might have been several languages but wasn't. For weeks afterwards, his lamas were not only free of fleas but, astonishing in itself, very well behaved.