Tex and Molly in the Afterlife, page 45
Tex slapped Beale on the shoulder. He glanced about to make sure there was no further sign of the Bishop's presence. Or of his absence, or whatever he had. "Thank Goddess," he said, "the old bastard didn't gobble up Molly for dessert."
"Goddess had nothing to do with it," said the dryad.
And—pfffft!—he vanished into the aether, whence he came.
Meanwhile, back at the former Goddin Air Force Base:
The Great Bear stood for a moment in the burning field. Then it lowered itself upon the ground—and the fires were gone.
The Bear breathed long, gently—and the air was free of smoke, clean and fresh and cool, with the newly made smell of young mountains.
Then the Bear nestled deeper, into the body of the Earth, rolling softly westward, where the sun had gone. And the fields were once again empty.
"Unbelievable," said Tex.
"No kidding," said Molly. She stood beside him, unobtrusively, just as though she had been hanging there all along.
"Hey, Raven," said Tex. He turned to kiss her on the forehead.
"Hey, Bear," she said, smiling peaceably. "Well," he said, "I guess I've finally reached it."
"Reached what?" she asked him—suspicious, anticipating a punch line.
"The point where nothing can possibly surprise me anymore." He was quiet for a few moments, while they both digested this. "Do you think it represents some level of attainment? Like, have I graduated or something?"
"Transcended, maybe," Molly supposed. "I don't know. I'm hungry."
"That's impossible."
"Well ... thirsty, then. Or maybe just tired."
"Maybe you're getting old."
Molly laughed. "I think it's a little late for that."
Tex kissed her again. This time like he meant it.
ASIDE TO YOUNG REDUCTIONISTS
Or I don't know. Maybe none of this really happened; maybe Tex and Molly tumbled down the Well and that was the end of it. Maybe all the rest was a series of coincidences, mass delusions, hoaxes, shaky conclusions founded upon inconclusive data. Maybe I'm just projecting something that I want to believe. There might have been a purely causal and reasonable explanation for everything. For example, it could have been caused by swamp gas.
The Universe itself, after all, still awaits a satisfactory accounting. The most logically compelling argument thus far advanced is that it was all a rather cosmically improbable statistical blurp.
Tex stood up and his leg was better. Not completely better. It still hurt a bit, when he put his weight on it. But you wouldn't want to lose all your scars, would you? That would be like losing your stories. That would be worse than being dead. Which really, when you get right down to it, has its advantages, though these no doubt would be wasted on the young.
Out of hangars and parked automobiles and collapsed Quonset huts and other hidey-holes around the base, a crowd of Players began to emerge. They drifted by ones and twos and finally in a great clump out onto the scorched field where some of them thought they might have glimpsed Something, for just a moment, though then again probably they had not. They would have to think about this. Among the last to emerge was Gene Deere, who carried Ludi Skeistan in his arms like a beloved child. She did not look entirely happy. Though she did not look entirely unhappy, either.
"Is this as smoothly as you can walk?" she asked him.
"You gave me to understand," he said, breathing harder than seemed strictly necessary, "that you were not so heavy."
"You gave me to understand," she said, "that you weren't such a 90-pound weakling."
"I feel faint," he said, pretending to swoon and stagger. "I'm afraid I'm going to drop you."
"Great," she said. "Maybe Guillermo will pick me up."
Gene scowled. He scanned the tarmac quickly until he saw Guillermo in heavy schmooze mode with the Channel 5 reporter that reminded Gene pretty strongly of a character once played by Sally Field. But that hardly made her exceptional, because everywhere he looked he saw faces that seemed vaguely familiar—recognizable in the way you recognize a fragment of conversation, for instance, because once before, somewhere, you might have heard those very same words, maybe in some movie. He saw wild-looking teenagers and a pale, otherworldly-looking woman and a dark-skinned elfin boy. He saw a guy he had once bought a pizza from. He saw a deputy sheriff wearing a dress. He saw a waiter, a businesswoman, a man of the cloth. He saw somebody's dog. Or was it a dog? Could it actually have been a wolf? Could that have been blood, fresh blood, on its muzzle? Gene saw slackers and tourists and professionals and boat trash and he thought he saw Wild Jag Eckhart, who was making a weird sort of howling noise, as though he were trying to summon a lost pet.
Last to come out into the field was Burdock Herne, who was Gene's supreme high commander, the King of the Corp—assuming that, with the Goddin Forest Research Station now essentially destroyed, Gene still had a job. Herne was walking with, or being led by, a girl in a fireproof suit whom Gene gradually recognized as Thistle, the pretty teenager whom he had first seen swimming naked in a spring, like a creature out of a fairy tale. Her face was covered with soot but looked somehow even younger and prettier for that.
"What are you staring at?" said Ludi, in his arms.
"Nothing," he said quickly. "Are you still here?"
"Yes, I'm still here. But to tell you the truth, I'd just as soon be in Philadelphia."
Burdock Herne walked into the middle of the field, the middle of the crowd of dazed and tired and happy people. He held up his arms and he said: "I want to thank you people. I want to thank all of you for coming here and working together to try to save my company's property. I want to thank you for letting me see that. And I want to thank you for being good neighbors. I only wish there was something, some way to even begin to repay you for all that you've done."
Thistle, his runaway daughter, said something to him that he didn't catch.
"Trees," she repeated. "Give them trees."
"Ah!" he cried. "Of course. Listen, everyone. I know this is a small gesture, but I hope you will all accept the gift of some of our little trees here. We have thousands—thousands—and since you've all been responsible for saving them from the terrible fire, why, it seems only fair—less than fair!—for you all to take them. Take them all! And plant them wherever you like. Give them new homes. That will be a start, at least, in expressing our thanks to you. Together we can start to repair all that's been damaged here. Here and elsewhere. We can make a new beginning."
And somewhere above, while music played softly out of a boom box in the dark,
Tex & Molly swirled lightly,
as though dancing
on a cloud.
or
maybe not "above"—
* * *
maybe "below" or "beside"—but at some remove in some dimension, at any rate, Tex and Molly looked on.
They were separated from the Players and the scorched-out field and Dublin Harbor and all the rest of it by a medium more viscous than Space. More cluttered than Time. Some translucent thickness of Akasha; of the AEther; of the Whome.
From this distance, they watched while the drama played itself out, the many threads and many stories and many lives moving further out in the night.
"Look at them," said Tex.
"Who?" said Molly, sounding dreamy. "Gene and Ludi?"
"No, the dryads. Don't they look happy? People are carrying them to their cars. Off to their new homes. Can you dig it? Look—that guy with the NRA cap must have a couple hundred in his pickup bed."
"That's nice," said Molly. She stretched and yawned. "Now listen, Bear—tell me honestly. What was your wish?"
"My what?"
"Your wish. That you made just before we fell in the Well."
He narrowed his eyes at her. "You tell first," he said.
"All right," said Molly. "I wished to be back on the houseboat, and to wake up nice and warm in my own bed."
Tex stared for a moment, cannily. "That's it? That's all of it?"
"What did you expect? You didn't exactly warn me it would be the last wish I'd ever make." She paused long enough for Tex to look sheepish. Then she poked his arm; only kidding, like. "Anyway, it came true, didn't it?"
Tex guessed it did.
"So what was yours?" said Molly. "Did yours come true, too?"
Tex shrugged. He thought so. Maybe. Probably. Glancing around the Air Force base, he said, "Where are Gene and Ludi, anyway?"
"You're changing the subject. Probably they're back at the houseboat by this time."
"Our houseboat? Why? What time is it?"
Molly gave him a worldly, or Otherworldly, lowering of the eyes. "Time for a final kiss, I'd imagine. And it's their houseboat, now."
"Why?" said Tex, imploringly.
"Bear. You're whimpering."
"I am not." But of course, he was. Adjusting his voice, he tried it again—this time managing a bit of a growl: "I am not.''
"That's better." Molly stroked him. She pointed downward. "Look. There they are. What did I tell you?"
Implausibly, the Linear Bee lay directly below them. As Tex gazed in astonishment, he and Molly floated down to rest lightly upon the flying bridge.
Afterlife Factoid #19
Relax. Enjoy it. You're only as dead as you feel.
"I just thought we might pick up a couple of things," said Molly. She scooted below, disappearing through the hatch.
"A couple of what things?" Tex called after her. "For what? Are you planning a trip or something?"
By the time he caught up with her in the living quarters, Gene and Ludi appeared to be well past the Final Kiss stage. They were freshly damp from the shower and wrapped in bathrobes, which Tex supposed must be theirs, now, also. Gene paraded about, splashing champagne everywhere, while Ludi looked on placidly from the sofa. Her injured leg lay propped on a fat pillow, bracketed by ice packs.
"I guess it's not broken after all," she said, as though this were a cause of some regret.
"I knew you were faking," said Gene. He handed her a champagne flute—had Tex and Molly actually owned such things, or was this part of the new regime in the galley? Ludi accepted the glass with long, tapered fingers. Tex sighed.
"Here," called Molly, from the bedroom. "Grab this blanket, would you?"
The faded Chief Joseph came hurtling through the door. Tex, who was busy staring at Ludi's long pale legs, fumbled it.
"A blanket?" he said. "For what?"
"To stretch out on, of course." Molly emerged from the bedroom and made briskly for the galley. Discreetly, she avoided looking at the young couple now busily occupying most of the sofa. Tex was less concerned with discretion. Do what comes naturally, he thought.
Ludi said, "You know, Molly was always telling us, Break a leg. And it was like I really had gone and done it, you know? I kind of thought—''
"Mm," Gene said, or rather murmured, nuzzling up closer to Ludi, the lucky stiff. "Could we forget Tex and Molly, just for a little while?" Ludi spilled champagne on him. Deliberately, Tex believed. That's my girl! he thought.
Apropos of nothing, Ludi said, "What do you think's going to happen now?"
Gene glanced up in bemusement; and for a tiny instant, he and Tex almost caught one another's eyes. This seemed to puzzle Gene even more.
"What do you mean?" he said.
"I mean, to your job and all. The Goddin place, Gulf Atlantic. The whole operation." Ludi regarded him seriously, as though these questions were suddenly very important.
Gene pulled away, though only a little. He tried to think. "Well, I guess," he said, "things will take a while to settle down. The Big Boss wants to see me tomorrow, at his hotel. He said he wants to make some serious changes. Also something funny about Chas no longer being in the picture."
"Good," said Ludi. She snuggled into his chest, as though this information had put her back in the mood for romance.
Gene closed his eyes and held her tightly for a second or two, smiling at the wonder of it all. Then his eyes popped open again. "Damn," he said. "I forgot to feed Tex."
"Can't he wait till morning?" said Ludi.
Gene labored to disentangle himself. "He's a growing animal. He's had a long day. It'll only take a minute. Just let me toss some food out on deck."
At this, Molly popped out of the galley, carrying snapshots and other mementos taken down from the refrigerator. She clucked her tongue. "I hope he can find something. The cupboard looks pretty bare."
"Hold on a minute," said Tex. "Are you saying there's a bear living on this houseboat?"
Molly stood close to him; she murmured, "There's always been a Bear living on this houseboat. Only now it's a real one."
Tex growled at her.
She pecked his cheek. "Glad you're feeling better. Well, I guess that's everything. Are you ready to go?"
Tex turned for a last glance at Ludi. He soaked up as much of it as he could. It would have to last a while, he guessed.
"Go where?" he said. But Molly had already started climbing up the ladder, and it is doubtful that Tex expected an answer, anyway.
FURTHER OUT IN TIME
On the flying bridge, they spread the blanket out. Molly smoothed down the edges and they sat close together. The old worn wool felt soft and familiar, awakening memories by the hundreds. Tex laid his head on Molly's shoulder. He breathed her familiar scent.
"I don't know, Raven," he said after some time. Minutes or hours might have passed. It didn't seem to matter. "It's weird—but I kind of feel like I've had enough of all that now."
"Of Gene and Ludi?" Molly asked.
"Kind of. But more like, of everything, really. All that stuff down there."
—And this time, he did mean down there. The blanket hovered at a great height above the harbor, floating in the night sky of Dublin, Maine. A warm breeze fluffed up around them. They drifted before it, moving southward.
Tex went on: "It's kind of like we've done what we set out to do. Or finished the stuff we left undone. We saved the forest. Or a little bit of it. Maybe. I hope. And we passed something on. Our houseboat, at least. But maybe something besides that. Something good."
Molly thought about this. She rubbed Tex's shoulder. Slowly, by degrees, she felt the wiry muscles unwind.
"So what about it, Bear?" she said. "What was your wish? Did it come true, or not?"
This time he smiled at her. "All right," he said. "I wished ... to change the world."
Molly laughed out loud. She couldn't help herself.
"No, really," he said, sounding wounded.
"No, I believe you. Really. It's just—why did I even have to ask?"
"Yeah," said Tex. "And I guess it came true. At least a little bit. What do you think?"
Molly gave him a hug. She thought she still loved him, after all this time. They stayed that way, close together on the blanket, for a while, looking at things moving and changing and happening below. Down in the living world. Friends, dryads, kindred spirits, wild things—it seemed pretty complicated now. Hard to follow.
"I think you're right," said Molly, finally. "I think you did change the world. It's different now, that's for sure."
"But you know what?" said Tex. "Now it's like, we're not part of it anymore."
Molly nodded. "Not Players any longer."
"Right. It's like we're out in the audience just, you know—looking on."
"Or up in the rafters," Molly suggested. "Looking down."
"Or in the sky," said Tex. He looked up. "Hey, dig it. The sky."
Molly dug it. The heavens shone all around them, in every direction. In more directions than you could count. "Wow," she said.
They dug it together
"All the stars," whispered Tex.
"All the stories," said Molly.
She pressed against him, leaning back. He wrapped his arms around her.
The stars were alive, they realized. Teeming, seething with life. They jostled and spun and sang in their cosmic dance.
"Like that time in Arizona," said Tex. "Remember the sky then?"
"Jerome," said Molly. "We had just met. You had retired from being an acid-head."
"Oh, come on," Tex laughed. "You can never really retire from something like that."
Tex and Molly were young again: circa 1972. They were lying out in the night air on a Chief Joseph blanket. Under the same stars, the same heaven. The blanket was rumpled, spread out on top of a hill. The ground underneath was soft with buffalo grass. They stared around them, then at one another, in amazement, in enchantment, in delight.
If you lie on your back and look deeply through the clear night sky, it's easy to imagine that you're falling into it—the whole spinning Universe is pulling you inward, while the heavens swirl around you. Even on a cold night, you can feel the warmth out there. Warmth and awareness and light. Compassion. Joy.
Life. Life without bounds. Without limit. Tex could remember feeling, back then—the Then that had become, mysteriously, Now—that if he wanted to, he could just float up there among those stars. Just let go of the Earth and float, and keep floating. Floating forever, away and away. Only he had never wanted to, really. He had been afraid. And there had always been something to hold him down; some weight, some worldly attachment. Now, he was not so sure. He looked at Molly beside him. She was looking back. The light of the stars shone in her eyes. The moon glimmered in her long brown hair.
"Raven," he said. As though he had never really seen her before. Never recognized or believed all that she was.
"Bear." She took his hand. Her touch was magical. The energy of the cosmos streamed through it. Tex felt himself growing lighter as it entered him: less substantial, as though his flesh were turning to spirit, to the purest star-stuff.
She said, "Let's keep going this time."
