Never Someone’s Tonia
All it takes is one visit to the Doctor Zhivago Wikipedia page to know that there is a character in that novel that no one would want to be. The wife. Tonia. Her name is hidden towards the end of the article, as if she were nothing but an after-thought. In truth, she’s the sister-friend who becomes the mother of the hero’s legitimate children only to lose her great love both to another woman and to the unalterable circumstances of history. Her story is sad. Pasternak spares her nothing.
Naturally, I made a vow never to be someone’s Tonia.
The structure of this tale is very slightly reminiscent of the Slavic folktale (in Afanasiev’s collection): The Vampire. You won’t be surprised to discover that Marina Tsvetaeva wrote a poem based on the story called “Molodets” (The Swain) and dedicated it to…Boris Pasternak (author of Doctor Zhivago).
___
When it came to romance, Caroline didn’t think it was so far-fetched to want to hold out for something better. Settling was what weaker people did when they were too scared to go for what they wanted. But waiting a few more months or years until the real deal showed up, well, that was just sensible. It was a display of strength and purpose. Caroline was proud to be picky.
Most people—and these were the ones who read Nicholas Sparks and took the quizzes in Cosmo—were willing to hitch themselves to the immediate object of interest if there was even the slightest sign of long-term potential. Caroline thought that was too risky. She needed boundless love. True love. Not oh-you’ll-do love.
So, when her friends began to go off the market one by one—Amy to a surgeon, Kate to an agronomist, Haley to a gym teacher—Caroline couldn’t have cared less. She got them nice presents, of course, and never let on that she thought they were making monumental mistakes. She even helped them set up their new households. They all thought she was a caring friend, when really she was acting out of pity. Moving a couple of couches around was her way of expressing sympathy for the ultimate demise of the couch-owners’ relationship.
So, when her friends began to get divorced—the surgeon worked too much; what did the agronomist even do anyway; the gym teacher had no ambition—Caroline patted herself on the back. She was sitting pretty as a single lady without regret.
And then she met Allan.
He showed up at her Oscar watching party, a friend of a friend’s ex, aloof and alluring. Caroline didn’t believe at first that she had met anyone special but as the evening progressed, she decided that he was The One. There was no turning back.
The extent of his wealth, as his clothes clearly showed, seemed to Caroline to be divine proof that this was the perfect match she had waited for—heroines made good marriages, side characters were unhappy and poor. Caroline was certainly the heroine of her own life.
They dated—going to restaurants, watching movies, fumbling in the bedroom, introducing one another to friends, meeting the family, buying presents, learning to like new food, new music, new political views. It was all just so.
Obviously, it wasn’t long before Allan said, “Do you want me to marry you?”
Exactly as she should have, Caroline replied, “Do you want me to want you to marry me?”
He answered with a shrug. It was beautiful.
They had an engagement worth bragging about which Caroline did freely.
“Oh, we’re not moving in together before the wedding because we want to keep that mystique. . . he let me pick out the ring so I could have one I would wear forever. . .he wants me to get a different job so we can split all the expenses evenly. . .we started watching golf on Sundays because it’s really fun. . .you know, I never realized that I liked leopard print. . .I sold my car so we’ll just have his, it’s easier. . .”
Her mother expressed some concern.
“How do you really know if it’s going to be a good marriage?” she asked.
Caroline laughed—self-consciously.
“You should snoop around a bit. Make sure you know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“I trust him,” Caroline replied.
They got married precisely as she had dreamed. And then one day, as she was shuffling her things into Allan’s apartment, Caroline found a packet of bound papers.
It was labeled: My Love Story
Caroline turned to the first page.
“It all began when I was twelve—“ she read and then skimmed through until she found her name in the last paragraph.
“Then I married a girl named Caroline. She was pretty and she was loyal and she made me happy and I loved her, truly I did.”
Any other woman, insecure in her relationship, would have gorged herself on the contents of a husband’s romantic memoirs, but Caroline only cared that she was the last name in the list.
After they had had their first child, a darling little boy, and Allan never wanted to be home, Caroline began to think that they would all be happier if her husband had a creative outlet. She remembered the unfinished book and began to look for it.
That was when she found his collection of magazines.
Dozens and dozens of literary magazines. All with pages marked. Poems and poems and poems.
To Her, Always
My Muse
My One Love
His words about some unknown woman were infinite. And inspired.
There were pages of notes lying with the magazines. Notes detailing her movements, her thoughts, her heart through his eyes, the way her fingers felt, the polish on her nails.
The more she read, the more Caroline saw that she was not the muse in question. She was nowhere in the picture.
It struck Caroline dumb. She never breathed a word of her discovery to Allan. Instead, she sat at her computer and started to write her own story.
It began with a girl who never wanted to settle. It ended with a woman who had been settled for. She only had control of her own actions. How was she to know?
Caroline queried a few agents, but never received a positive response. It seemed no one cared to hear about her life and love, quietly tragic as it was. She may have been the heroine, but she was not the author of her saga. Her husband held that title.
Allan’s passion for the other woman became historical fact. Three generations later, children wrote book reports about the pair and the affair which made certain lovely couplets of verse common knowledge. Most of the kids didn’t bother to look up the wife’s name. There weren’t any poems in the anthology about her.
Time Change
My phone had a pleasantly unexpected way of cheering me up right when I needed it. A musical shout-out when I was feeling forgotten, my favorite song blaring in a deathly quiet elevator. I set the ringtone, so it shouldn’t have been such a surprise when I heard it blasting out from my purse, but it always made me jump a little.
“Oh! That’s me,” I muttered, blushing. Digging my hand blindly into my bag stuffed with unread newspapers (I held onto them for their promised nostalgia) and a collection of borrowed pens, I couldn’t seem to grab hold of that mini-stereo making the other people in the elevator eye me impatiently.
“Hello?” I finally whispered, without even checking the screen to see who was calling. Please be a friend, I thought to myself, hoping I could sound cool, casual, and important to the strangers around me who really just wanted to get to their floor.
“Oh hey love!” I chirped, glancing around me subtly. Were they impressed?
“Just heading home for the day. Work was a nightmare,” I drawled. “What time is it there?” I have international friends, I explained with a half smile to the one man left waiting for the basement level with me.
“Well, yeah, I mean I guess you’re calling from the future,” I half-laughed, not letting on that I used to call home when I was in Russia just to say, It’s me and I’m in tomorrow. How’s yesterday?
I fudged around in my bag again looking for my metro card and tried to balance my tiny phone on my bony shoulder.
“Yeah, no, I get it. It’s the future. Ha. Ha,” I rolled my eyes, nodded at the security guard on the corner, and shuffled onto the escalator into the metro station.
“Look, I’m going into the tunnel now. I’ll call you back. I got an international phone card at the grocery store so we can talk for as long as . . .fifteen dollars worth. Okay? Bye Teddy!”
I had this routine I developed once I left school and felt the need to be hyperconnected to everybody. I would come home, kick off my shoes, and plop myself in front of the computer. Even though I had just spent the whole day at work staring at a screen and developing carpal tunnel, I couldn’t help but make it my first stop of the evening.
Two seconds after I signed on, Teddy chimed:
Upsidedownandback: LANEY!!@!@11!!
(He used to be a swimmer. His screenname had something to do with that, I assumed. I made mine when I was twelve. My last name and age—brilliant.)
Duckworth12: hi you
Upsidedownandback: help me plzzzz things are redic i dont nkow wahts goin on
Duckworth12: what’s wrong??
Upsidedownandback: everythning!!
Duckworth12: explain!
Upsidedownandback: i cant jsut plz call me asap
Upsidedownandback: LANEY??/??
There was a pause that he apparently did not like. I was in the middle of typing a conscientious answer.
Duckworth12: ok ok calm down. what is UP with you? i gotta go to dinner. talk later, d’acc?
Teddy Brent had been my friend for as long as I’d been worthwhile to have as a friend (nearly a decade). Before then I was a wretch of an adolescent with poor taste in clothing and a bad haircut. Luckily, Teddy met me when I was gliding into my good years. He was on the up too and we instantly bonded over our mutual ascent into better versions of ourselves. Things had kind of leveled off for me since then, but while I was on a bit of a plateau, Teddy was scaling Everest. I had never known him to be paranoid or afraid of heights so for him to be acting this way was unnerving.
I called him after I finished eating. It had to have been one or two in the morning for him, so I didn’t know why he needed me to call right then. He’d been working in France for three months now and usually checked in for a chat in the early afternoon (my time). It was weird to hear his voice after seven o’clock.
“Laney, oh my god, finally,” he gasped.
“I don’t get it, Ted, what exactly is happening over there?”
“I fell asleep last night and woke up in the future,” he said flatly.
I didn’t answer for a few seconds.
“Well, yes. Every new day is the future.”
“Screw you, Laney, you know I’m not talking about greeting card philosophy. I’m serious. Please—ok, here, I’ll prove it. Who’s the new French president?”
“I don’t know, they haven’t had their election yet, have they?” I responded casually, as if I just happened to know everything about French politics but didn’t think anything of it.
“No. That’s just it. Michaud won—and he’s been in office for almost a year.”
“Hm, that’s a little bizarre. And you’re sure?”
“Positive. I woke up and the world was the same but so so different. Like, I have a new landlady and the crêperie around the corner is closed.”
“Well, do you look any different?” I asked, trying to get at the more practical side of a completely irrational matter.
“Not really. I feel a little slimmer, and maybe my hair’s different . . . I don’t know. Oh—there were some clothes in my closet I didn’t recognize. That was the first clue. And then I caught a bit of the news when I passed by my neighbor’s and they were talking about Michaud. I went to my work like usual, there were a couple of new faces, but I don’t know everyone there yet, so it didn’t seem weird. But I had a brand new, fabulous computer and when I acted all surprised, everyone thought I was being ridiculous. God, Laney, am I going crazy? Is this what it feels like when you go crazy?”
“In my experience with insanity, I’ve never time-traveled,” I said flatly.
“Please, you have to take me seriously,” he pleaded.
“Okaaay. Fine.”
“Good.”
“Well?”
“Laaaaaney.”
“Hey—I think it’s kind of cool. Maybe it has to do with something you ate. Like a magic bean or an enchanted grapefruit or something. What did you have for dinner?”
“Falafel.”
“Typico. You love that falafel stand, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, the toppings bar is delicious.”
“Hm. Ok, so then you went right to bed?”
“Pretty much. I mean, I tooled around online for a bit.”
“No,” I commented like an expert, “That probably wouldn’t have any strange effect. Do you remember dreaming at all?”
“Not really.”
“Well, did you talk to anyone else about what happened today?”
“No. Nobody. What am I supposed to tell people? And what if they’re like, whoa this is so random, I haven’t heard from you in forever, but I think that I just talked to them yesterday.”
“Wait, but I thought you’re the one in the future.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
“But if people don’t recognize you that would mean they’re in the future.”
“No, they’re in the past,” he clarified pointlessly.
“Huh?”
“What if everybody time-traveled into the past and I stayed in the present?” he shared, after a thoughtful pause.
“But I don’t notice anything different and you do. So . . . I’m pretty sure it’s you that’s having a temporal problem here.”
I heard him sigh on the other end, but he didn’t say anything.
“Hey—didn’t France just have daylight savings? Maybe things are a little screwy with the clocks changing over. I always get thrown off that weekend,” I offered.
“Really, Lane, do you really think that this is because we lost an hour on Sunday?” he snapped tensely.
“Well, I don’t know. I’m just trying to be helpful. I mean, what can I do? You’re usually six hours ahead of me and now you’re a year ahead? So? You’ve been charging on ahead of me for awhile now, you were bound to get that far.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? This isn’t some kind of metaphor come to life, you know?” He tried to laugh.
I was getting annoyed.
“Look, Ted, I have to go,” I lied. “Can we talk more when I’ve let this settle in, and you’ve figured more out?”
“Wait—why do you have to go?”
“I just have stuff to do. And I need to get some sleep. I’ve been dying at work lately. I’ll call tomorrow, ok?”
“Fine. Bye Lane.”
Work, like most things in my life at this point, had flattened out into this thing that I just did. So much so that my phone ringing or having exact change at the deli were noteworthy events. I wondered when I had become such a vanilla version of myself. I had blanded out somewhere along the way. But there I was—unremarkably off-white and pretty much apathetic.
I was filing some paperwork when the desk phone buzzed.
“This is Lane Duckworth,” I chirped.
“An international collect call is coming in for you, do you want to take it?” our secretary Cara asked, clearly puzzled.
“Oh, yes, of course,” I replied. Of course I receive international collect calls at work, didn’t you know that? “Send it through please. Just tell them I’ll accept the charges.”
“But—it’ll be charged to the office,” Cara said slowly.
“Yes, I know, go ahead,” I said, frustrated at the hint in her voice that suggested I had no clue what was going on.
“All right. Just a moment.” The phone clicked and I heard French arguing on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Oui, je sais – Laney! – un moment, attendez—Laney, hold on, I’m trying to settle this stupid cab fare.”
I fixed my hair in the mirror on my bookshelf while I waited for him to finish his other conversation.
“Laney?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Oh, good. Sorry. I’m on this payphone on the street and the cab driver came up to me and was like, you only gave me nine euro, which was how much it always is to go from my apartment to this part of the city, but apparently the rates have gone up in a year. Whatever, I took care of it.”
“Oh. So, then you’re still in the future?” I asked, purposely loud enough for Matt in the next cubicle to catch. Yeah, I have friends in the future, too.
“Yeah. Oh yeah, I figured out I’m precisely a year ahead. Or a year and six hours.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s so outrageous. It’s like the most invigorating, mind-blowing thing ever. I kind of love it.”
I laughed. Whenever Teddy originally thought something was weird, the next day it was his new favorite thing, person, place, or food.
“Oh—but the reason I’m calling—so things get even freakier.”
“How?”
“I got a letter from you today.”
“Wait, but I didn’t mail you anything recently,” I said, sitting up straight in my chair and wrinkling my eyebrow, self-consciously eyeing myself in the mirror.
“Yeah, that’s just it. You dated it two weeks ago a year from now.”
“What?”
“This is from the future you!”
“Oh my god that’s so cool! What do I say?”
“Get ready, because it’s better than you think. So it goes, blah blah, dear Teddybear, how are things? Et cetera et cetera I’m so glad I quit my job and—“
“Woah woah, what?”
“Yeah, just listen. I’m so glad I quit my job and now I get to travel. I’m not sure how I’m going to afford the year long tour du monde but it is going to be grand, n’est-ce pas? Promise you won’t forget to pick me up at the airport—31st—don’t be late.”
“Hold on. So—in a year I drop everything and go to France, and presumably elsewhere? This is absurd.”
“But it makes sense. I mean, don’t you think that’s what the future you would do?” Teddy asked plainly.
“Well, yeah, I guess,” I answered candidly. “But—“
“Yeah, but, Laney, you’re missing the coolest part.”
“What?” I was starting to get goosebumps.
“The thirty-first is tomorrow.”
“Shut up, no it isn’t.”
“Um, yes it is.”
My heart jumped when I saw the block clearly marked out on my wall calendar.
“What does that mean?” I panicked.
“I don’t know—but it’s going to be cosmic.”
At this point Matt had poked his head around and gestured the international sign for “Is everything okay?” I gave him a lame thumbs up and swiveled my chair as far away as possible.
“Teddy, I’m all of a sudden really scared. I mean, I know we used to joke about finding a wormhole and being able to go anywhere in the blink of an eye, but this is too bizarre for me to get. And yet—this is so awesome! It’ll be like free transatlantic airfare and I’ll be spared the awkwardness of actually having to quit my job.”
“I know. Just be sure you’re wearing something attractive when you go to bed tonight. It might be the only thing you have when you get here.”
He laughed riotously.
“Right. Yeah . . . no, that’s actually not a bad idea,” I measured.
After a pause, I blurted, “What if it happens when I’m in the shower?”
“Oh god. Who knows? Ok, I don’t want to make you pay a fortune for this call, so I’d better go. Plus I’m just standing randomly on the street.”
“No, no. Go ahead. I guess . . . I guess . . . later,” I muttered distractedly, wrapping my mind around the logistics of it all.
“See you soon!”
At home, I bypassed the computer and went straight to my bedroom to look over my belongings. I didn’t know if they would be there when I woke up the next day. I paced around, taking everything in robotically. My mind was a whir. I couldn’t shake the idea that jumping at lightspeed into some other time and place would be like rocketing to the moon without a spacesuit on—my eyes were going to get sucked back into my head and I would die of asphyxiation. I was so excited.
I don’t remember falling asleep that night. When I woke up, things looked exactly the same. I called Teddy. I was compiling explanations as the phone rang. He didn’t answer. I looked at my watch—it was eight here, so four makes noon, plus two—it was two o’clock in the afternoon. I tried again.
I glanced over at the computer clock. He must not hear his phone. Too bad he doesn’t know how to check voicemails.
I started to fire off an e-mail:
Teddykins—no time travel?? What’s up with that, eh? Call me and let’s figure out what the hell is going on here, ok?
Love.
I switched the computer to standby and wandered off to the shower.
I didn’t hear back from Teddy that day. But the next day I got a response to my e-mail.
Very funny. And I would call you if you had a cell phone over here. But whatever, you only showed up last night. You can get a phone later this week. Anyways, I have to set up for a reception after work. Can you sightsee by yourself for a bit? Then we’ll sortir to my favorite nightclub, mmmk?
A Pocket Story
For most average-sized individuals, it is quite impossible to entertain the idea of life in a pocket, but then they do not suffer from atmospheric shrinkage. Despite its innocuous appearance, air is indeed very heavy. The weight of all that empty surrounding space may seem negligible, but it can severely stunt growth; and in rare cases lead to retroactive generation.
This is what the good Doctor Braintree explained to Ellis and Mary Shaw when they brought in their tiny daughter Daisy, who, to their horror, had recently lost a total of one foot in height in three months.
Once aware of her condition, Daisy tried to harden herself to the idea that each day she was the tallest she would ever be. It was difficult at first. One night when she went to the dinner table and discovered that she could no longer hoist herself up onto the towering chair nor wrap her slight fingers around her knife and fork, she cried such piteous little tears that her parents resolved to devote their every effort to accommodating her smaller needs.
They tried tenderly to make changes, but no matter how delicately they treated little Daisy, she was always conscious of the peculiarity of her situation. Every time she measured herself and found that the deficit of inches was accumulating fast, it upset her greatly. To disappear from the big, boisterous world of the tall and mighty, to miss out on all the dangerously exciting pitfalls and terrifying pleasures was very agitating for the young girl.
Daisy regretted her exclusive circumstances to the point of unpleasant bitterness. She hated any allusions to fantastic characters in children’s books who drove toy cars and lived in matchboxes. Even more than she detested the idea of being likened to figments of childish imagination, though, she couldn’t stand the way socially self-conscious adults tried to decorously step around her unnatural stature.
At her sixteenth birthday, when Daisy stood a staggering seven inches, her aunt heedlessly remarked that “the little blossom’s nearly grown up!” Daisy was thrown into such a petite pique that she refused to eat the cake crumbs her mother had lovingly iced and decorated.
Just as it was becoming almost too difficult for Ellis and Mary to take care of their daughter or even to understand her, Daisy experienced a leveling off. She had spent a whole year at half a ruler’s height, which Doctor Braintree said was a very good sign. With the worst of her shrinking over, Daisy could expect to find a level of normalcy she had never known.
The Shaws gleefully embraced this good news. It was a freeing thought that, without the constant anxiety over the uncertainty of Daisy’s condition, they could now ease her gently into a larger life. After much deliberation, they concluded that they should try to give Daisy as many opportunities as possible to live like her peers.
The first big step to take was to find her an understanding institution of higher learning. They picked a nearby college known for being liberal-minded and open to students of all shapes and sizes and, with some serious hesitation, Daisy agreed to enroll. She had spent so long in her dollhouse life, however, that it almost seemed inappropriate to force herself into the real world now. Her parents saw how tentatively she affixed her unreadable signature to the registration forms and conceded that it would be all right if she only took one class at first.
Living in the dorms was out of the question and certain dispensations had to be made so that Daisy could be comfortable in the classroom, but overall there were far fewer hurdles to her life on campus than the Shaw family expected. By the end of the first semester, Daisy was very satisfied with herself, having developed several close friendships, drank her first intoxicating drop of cheap, college beer, and received the highest grade in her seminar. Her parents barely noticed the gradual change in their daughter, but by Christmas it was impossible to ignore the fact that she had grown a few centimeters. This positive, vertical growth was the cause of unparalleled celebration in their household. They all felt so encouraged at the idea that perhaps air in college is lighter than elsewhere that they decided to send Daisy there full-time.
In the spring, Daisy met Jack in her Anthropology class. An order of magnitude larger than Daisy, he was first drawn to her as an exotic example of human diversity, but never admitted out loud that his motives were academic. They had a candid conversation after class concerning the more practical circumstances of her daily life and from then on, Daisy trusted him with her thoughts. She felt they communicated on the same level.
Jack was a goliath of a friend—always cautious to keep Daisy comfortable without making her feel beholden to him. Daisy appreciated his care so much and so enjoyed their conversations that she convinced herself that she loved Jack. There was very little she could do, however, to make her love for him materialize into anything more than an idle fancy. The gap between them was too great. Yet, despite the difficulty in being so fruitlessly attached to Jack, Daisy valued her time with him as the most important thing in her new life. They were inseparable for the rest of the term.
On the night before the last exam, they were studying late in Jack’s room. He offered to let her spend the night so her parents didn’t have to come and get her, as they usually did. Daisy accepted. She normally prickled at any attempt by someone to pick her up, but when Jack slipped his hand under her doll’s shoes and passed her from the bookshelf to the desk, she sighed contentedly. He let her rest on the spacebar key of his laptop until he was done brushing his teeth. Then he gently placed her in the little crevasse between the pillow and the mattress and was very mindful not to crush her.
In the morning, when he asked her how she slept, she smiled and pretended that she hadn’t been jostled so badly that she had to crawl onto his nightstand to sleep in his box of tissues. He made himself a mug of tea and poured out a drop for Daisy.
Daisy hopped on the keys of his calculator while she waited for him to change. She jumped skillfully from factorial to four and spelled out “hi” for Jack, but he didn’t notice when he pulled it out from under her and tossed it in his backpack. She plopped on the desk, to which he apologized and laughingly offered his index finger for her to stand up. She warned him to be more careful because soon she might be big enough push him over and he promised he would watch out.
They stopped in the library to go over their notes again and got caught up there with only a few minutes to spare before the test. Jack offered to carry Daisy in his hand to cover the distance down the stairs and across the courtyard to the classroom. Embarrassed at the idea of looking like a distressed damsel in the fist of a giant, Daisy half-heartedly refused. Realizing the necessity of it, however, she proposed a compromise: she was fairly certain she was pocket-sized and Jack had a pocket on his shirt.
She slipped between those otherwise useless folds of fabric and smiled shakily. Jack set off at a steady pace, brushing past students and edging around corners. Just a few feet from the double-doors to the lecture hall, Jack eyed his friend Elaine. He rushed over, laughed eagerly, and gave her a hasty hug–more of a collision than an embrace. He raced on and slid into his seat just as the professor turned on the projector and began passing out the exam. Relieved, he dug through his bag for a pencil. After filling in the first multiple choice answer bubble he glanced over at the next desk. It was empty. Daisy! Whispering her name, Jack reached into his pocket, but found her crumpled up in the corner. Pressed against Jack’s heart, she quietly rested, folded and bent.
The next day, the student newspaper failed to pick up the story and most people didn’t notice. However, in a report submitted to a prominent medical journal later that year, Doctor Braintree outlined the prognosis for sufferers of atmospheric shrinkage such as Daisy Shaw. He concluded that there was great potential for all normality of life, but that pockets are not very good places to keep people.
Ingvar the Far-travelled
I would like to write a short story in which the main character is a man who has acquired a pair of spectacles one lens of which reduces images as powerfully as an oxyhydrogen microscope and the other magnifies on the same scale so that he apprehends everything very relatively. Søren Kierkegaard, 1836
It had been a long time since Ingvar had seen anything. The great, brave Viking had woken up one morning to find his eyes gone astray and no one could determine why. Every medicine man was fairly certain, however, that there was no returning from a condition such as that. So Ingvar adjusted. He wore his helmet pulled down low over the top part of his face, keeping his embarrassing eyes a secret and making himself infinitely more fierce. For who would want to run up against a warrior so confident that he does not even need to see? Ingvar required the assistance of several servants to ensure that he did not run into anything, but on the whole he achieved quite an impressive effect.
While pillaging along the Volga, Ingvar lost his helmet in a fray. The light of day nearly blinded him. As he scrabbled for cover, he noticed something strange. He could see every speck of dirt on the ground. Ingvar glanced up at the battle around him, trying to discern one of his servants, and found that he could see clear across the field and into the forest. Shaking his head and blinking furiously, Ingvar called out for help and tried not to look at anything. Back at his tent that evening, he tested his sight, with hesitation.
“Olaf,” Ingvar beckoned.
The servant approached.
Squeezing his left eye closed, Ingvar gazed at him and said, “Tell me, how many threads is your tunic made of?”
Olaf stuttered.
“Why, I hardly know,” he finally replied.
Ingvar mused for a moment before opening his left eye and closing his right.
“Now, pull back that flap, Olaf.”
Olaf walked carefully over to the tent flap and held it up so Ingvar could look outside.
“Can you see the river from here?” he asked.
Olaf squinted.
“I think so,” he answered.
“Can you see the duck sleeping on the water?”
“No. . .”
“Incredible!”
“Yes. . .”
“Olaf! Bring me the swordsmith!”
Ingvar clapped his hands in excitement.
“You sent for me,” the swordsmith said, bowing slightly upon entering the tent.
“Yes. I need you to make me something.”
“A weapon?”
“In a way.”
The swordsmith scratched his head.
Ingvar explained, drawing a picture of what he wanted.
The swordsmith looked to Olaf, as if to say, “Is he being serious?”
Olaf shrugged back, “I’m afraid he is.”
“I will do my best,” the swordsmith promised and left.
The next day he presented Ingvar with the commission.
Two circles of metal, with visors that could be clapped up and down, and wires that wrapped around the head, the contraption, when found centuries later by archaeologists, was the world’s first pair of custom glasses.
Ingvar tried them on at once. Clapping down the visors, first one, then the other, he examined his range of vision. It was exactly as he desired.
As he continued his rampage down the river, Ingvar, helmetless, with the right eye covered, commanded his men from the safety of a neighboring hilltop, using smoke signals. Watching the battle in gory detail carefully from his perch, he noshed on salted fish and laughed delightedly.
Weeks later, after his band had successfully conquered every village for miles, Ingvar learned of a treasure, the very thought of which made his extraordinary eyes gleam.
It was said that the mountains leading into Serkland were laden with gold, which no earthly man could extract, for no earthly man could see close enough to find the outer traces of the lode.
For days, Ingvar scoured the ground methodically with his right eye, pausing at any reflective glimmer, until one afternoon, he jumped and shouted, “By Thor, I found it!”
His men strained their eyes to make out the glittering vein Ingvar insisted he saw. They followed his orders and began digging. By nightfall they had uncovered the beginnings of the largest mine of gold in all the Viking world.
Word spread of Ingvar’s amazing feats. Everyone yearned to know the secret of his eyes. Ingvar himself wondered how the trait that once shamed him had become a gift. He cheered at the idea of future conquests and future fortunes. Nothing could ever make him unhappy, so long as he had those incredible eyes!
Among the people who had gathered to his court, was the blind maiden Runa. She was fascinated by the tales of Ingvar the Great-sighted. At her first chance, she left home to find him; certain that there was no other man that she would love as much as he who could see near and far.
Runa begged of the guards to grant her an audience with Ingvar, but they mocked her blindness and turned her away. Alone, outside the settlement, she wept. How could Ingvar come to love her if he never saw her?
At that moment, Ingvar was gazing languidly out at the night sky. He sighed and was about to clamp down the visor over his eye and proceed to bed when he caught a glisten of something. It was a tear on Runa’s cheek. Ingvar settled his gaze on her. She was beautiful, even as she cried. He longed to know her. He watched her until, with a heave, she hunched her shoulders and stumbled away down the road, scraping a stick along the ground to guide her.
“Olaf!” Ingvar exclaimed.
The servant ran in, fearful of the urgency in his master’s voice.
“Saddle the fastest horse and take the east road until you find a girl with a stick. Go!”
Olaf obeyed the command too strictly. He brought back a ragamuffin little girl clutching a twig.
“You fool!” Ingvar looked towards the road and sobbed, “She is getting away now.”
He ordered everyone to search for her, but no one found her. Runa was gone.
Years passed. Ingvar fell into despair. He and his men wandered the land. Wherever he went, Ingvar took no notice. He kept his eye always looking out, always looking for Runa. Soon the stories of his magnificent sight were forgotten. He was Ingvar the Far-travelled, called so for his rambling journey. One day, he had an idea. He would have a banner made, which would herald the weeping maiden. She must see it, he thought, and come to him. He was desperate.
Olaf brought the order to the seamstresses of the settlement. A lovely young woman nodded in acceptance of it.
“It is supposed to look like this,” he said, showing her a sketch according to Ingvar’s demands.
“Forgive me, but I cannot see.”
Olaf stopped for a moment.
“How do you sew, if you can’t see?” he asked.
“The same way I would if I could see,” she replied.
Olaf was puzzled.
“Well, how do you know what it should look like?”
“Describe it to me.”
Olaf told her of Ingvar’s wish.
She nodded again.
Olaf was uncertain if he should leave the request in the care of a blind seamstress. She could sense his hesitation.
“If Lord Ingvar is satisfied with all the tunics and robes I have sewn for him, then he will be satisfied with this banner,” she asserted.
When she was finished with the job and Olaf had come to take it to Ingvar, her curiosity got the better of her and she asked what it was for.
“So he can find the maiden we have been travelling in search of.”
“A maiden?” she repeated softly.
“The only one he could ever love,” Olaf answered.
The girl’s face fell.
“He will never love me now,” she whispered to herself.
That evening she packed up her meager belongings and set out on the road.
As he did every night since the first night he saw Runa, Ingvar was watching the horizon. Suddenly, he trembled.
It was she!
He was sure of it. He called for Olaf, giving him intensely specific instructions this time, and waited eagerly for him to return.
Olaf dragged the girl behind him and grumbled, “This is definitely not her.”
Ingvar was crestfallen.
“How can it not be the maiden?”
“Because she’s the seamstress that made the banner. She has been of in our settlement for years.”
Olaf turned to lead her away. Runa burst out crying to be finally in the presence of the one she long loved, but to know that he sought another.
“Is she weeping?” Ingvar asked.
“Can you not see?” she wondered aloud in disbelief.
“I can see far and near, but not what is right before my eyes.”
“Yet, you are Ingvar the Great-sighted!” she insisted.
“Do they still call me that?” he asked in earnest.
“There is one who still does,” the maiden replied meekly.
“Alas, I would rather I could not see at all, having seen her once and never again.”
“I would gladly give you my blindness,” she said piteously.
Ingvar was touched.
“A gracious offer,” he said, sighing, “but I must keep searching.”
With that, Runa left and Ingvar was alone with his grief.
Forevermore.
The Mysterious and Magical Journey of a Girl Called Wolf
Not everyone, when they come into this world, realizes the infinity of possibility open to them. They’re welcomed into reality and assigned a role. They grow up and turn into adults like enchanted carriages turn into pumpkins. They forget the immense potential for anything and everything they had at the moment they were born and never come to regret what they don’t know is lost. But there are some who are chosen to preserve that possibility. They are keepers of the eternal can-be. Their lives echo with the absurd and unreal. Eccentrics and misfits all, they inspire others with their existence to recall and recapture the magical what-if, i-wish, dream-world we really inhabit.
Of course, nobody can guess who these people are, so when it came time for Wolf to make her entrance, everyone was more preoccupied with the fact that she was adorable, as hoped, and normal, as expected. As such, she was given a name like any other child, going down in the registry of people as Josephine McGraw, though in her heart she only recognized herself as Wolf.
In her early childhood she was certain of two things: she belonged outside and clothes were superfluous. It took rigorous, repeated efforts to rein her in. In the way most children are raised, Wolf was domesticated, tamed, and trained.
When it came time to start kindergarten, she still had a lot of wild to lose.
“Do you like cats?” a silly girl with a kitty-cat shirt asked her on the first day.
“I could kill a cat,” Wolf replied, smiling.
The silly girl cried and Wolf was introduced to a chair in the corner.
“Thank you,” Wolf said, kicking off her shoes, climbing up on the chair and crossing her legs under her.
“This is a time-out,” the teacher tried to explain. “And put your feet on the floor.”
“Time-out,” repeated Wolf.
She liked the word already.
When they were learning the alphabet, the teacher held up pictures for each letter.
“I!” the children cheered in a chorus.
“Raise your hand if your name starts with I.”
Ian and Isabel diligently obeyed.
The teacher held up the next letter.
“J!”
The teacher looked expectantly at Wolf.
Wolf blinked her bright eyes silently.
“I think there is someone in this class whose name starts with J,” the teacher said, encouraging the other children to speak up on behalf of their confused classmate.
Wolf looked around at their giggling faces.
“Josephine?” the teacher prodded.
“But my name starts with double-you.”
Eager Mark blurted, “What’s double-woo?”
The teacher coughed.
“It is a letter we have not learned yet and a letter that is not important because Josephine’s name most definitely begins with the letter J.”
Wolf stared at her fiercely.
“Stand up, Josephine.”
She hesitated for just a moment before she stood up, turned her back on the teacher, and automatically went to sit in her chair in the corner.
The teacher blushed in anger and sent the children out for extra recess. From that point forward, she made it her express purpose to wring the nonsense out of Josephine McGraw. She would rather forever impair the girl’s imagination than have her give the other students some kind of twisted idea that they could be something other than what they were. When Wolf explained to the class on show-and-tell day that she had lost a fang the week before, it was the last instance she was to be Wolf for the rest of her childhood. The next day she became Josephine. And that was that.
***
“Jo, please tell me you are not wearing that to the party,” Sarah said, taking in her roommate’s outfit with a confused look.
Jo checked herself in the mirror, shrugged and answered, “Why not?”
Sarah rolled her eyes and wondered how she got stuck with such a weirdo. Tonight she was going to her first frat party ever—there was no way she was going to show up with someone wearing what looked like a Halloween costume gone wrong.
“Please put on something else,” Sarah whined, glancing at her phone. “But do it quickly. Everyone is probably already waiting for us.”
Hands on her hips, Jo faced off to Sarah.
“Why don’t you all go on ahead,” she suggested.
Sarah sighed, “Fine. See you there?”
“I guess,” Jo answered carelessly.
Alone in the room, Jo turned on music at full volume.
“Like the entire floor needs to go to the party together,” she muttered to herself.
She took a breath and scrutinized her outfit again in the mirror.
“Whatever, I look awesome.”
Jo turned off the music, flicked the light switch, closed the door, and let her steel-toed cowboy boots take her out of the dorm and into the night.
The place was overrun with people, mostly freshman, sweating and pretending like they were having fun. Jo pushed past a mob at the entrance. A few heads turned, which she ignored out of habit. She didn’t recognize anyone right away. While she was standing, scanning the crowd, a guy came up to her.
“Sweet bandana,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“You want me to get you a drink. I know a lot of brothers here.”
She looked at him incredulously.
“ Congratulations.”
He seemed confused.
“So, uh, do you want a beer then?”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
The minute he was gone, she moved away from the spot she was standing and lost herself in another group of people. Somehow he found her.
“You’re really recognizable,” he explained.
She gave him a fake smile.
“So, what are you studying?”
Jo pretended like she didn’t hear the question.
“What’s your major?” he tried again.
“Physical bio-engineering-chemistry.”
“Woah. You wanna be a doctor or something?”
“Wedding DJ.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Listen, see that girl over there?” Jo said, pointing at her roommate, whom she had located in the crowd.
“Yeah?”
“You should go talk to her.”
“But I’m talking to you.”
Jo was losing her patience.
“Yeah, but I was just about to leave.”
“Oh, well I’ll walk you back to your room.”
Jo laughed.
“Not a chance.”
“Huh?”
Jo had already started walking towards the door.
“Wait, where are you going?” he called after her, but she was swept up by people.
The guy sighed, gulped down the rest of his beer, and went over to Sarah.
Jo was walking with a scowl on her face until she looked up at the sky and noticed how many stars there were out that night.
She stopped on the spot and threw her head back, stretching out her arms.
“They’re happy to see you too,” a voice said from behind her.
Jo jumped.
She turned around and didn’t see anyone.
Eventually a figure emerged from under the shadow of a tree. He had a hood up and was wearing dark clothes.
“What do you want?” Jo demanded.
“Nothing,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I was just saying that the stars are happy to see you.”
“Um. . .cool.”
She started to back away.
“They’ve missed you,” he continued.
Jo gave the stranger a long look.
Finally she said, “Who are you?”
He pulled off his hood.
“The people around here call me Greg Adams. But my real name is River.”
“Real name?”
“Yeah. You have one too, you know.”
“I’m sure,” she answered sarcastically.
“It’s just a matter of remembering.”
“I don’t really know what you’re talking about, but, um, it was nice to meet you. I guess.”
She headed off in the direction of her dorm.
River crossed his arms and watched her go.
When she was already almost out of sight, he saw her stop.
River smiled.
Jo came hurrying back to where he was standing.
“Real name,” she repeated.
He nodded.
“And what if maybe, hypothetically, I have this weird idea that I have a, what you call, ‘real name’? What does that mean?”
He didn’t answer right away.
She tapped her foot impatiently.
River burst out laughing.
Jo gave him an irritated look.
“Wow,” he said.
“What?” she snapped.
“It’s been a really long time since you’ve been you, hasn’t it?”
“What?” she asked, even more annoyed.
“I said, it’s been—“
“I heard you. I just don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
River gave her a sympathetic look.
“Can I make a conjecture about your life?”
Jo raised her eyebrows.
“You’re unhappy and people think you’re weird,” River said.
“Excuse me?” she blurted.
“It’s because you’re not being you. Not the real you, I mean,” River added quickly.
Jo made like she was going to walk away again.
“Wait! It’s their fault!”
“Whose fault?”
“Everyone’s.”
Jo sighed.
“They’ve made you forget yourself,” River whispered.
Her face changed at the sound of those words.
“They do it to all of us,” River went on.
“Us?”
River pointed up at the sky.
Jo looked at the stars. They seemed somehow closer.
“Take a breath,” River said.
Before she could ask “what?” there was a bright flash of light. When she could see again, she was in a room with about half a dozen people.
River took hold of her hand and led her towards the others.
“Have a seat,” he offered.
Jo looked around and didn’t see any chairs. Suddenly one appeared in the corner.
She walked towards it slowly, her mind running over misplaced memories.
“Time. . .out. . .”she mumbled.
She sat down facing everyone.
“Wanna introduce yourself?” River prompted her.
“Oh, um, I’m Juh—“
She stopped.
River nodded in encouragement.
A smile started to spread across her face.
“I’m Wolf,” she said emphatically.
***
Jo woke up the next afternoon to the sound of Sarah typing loudly on her computer. Jo groaned and reached for the cup of water next to her bed.
“Oh, geez, you’re finally up,” Sarah said. “I thought you got roofied or something.”
“Huh?”
“Do you not remember last night?”
All this time you’ve been playing a part arbitrarily assigned to you by people who don’t matter. They tried to hide you from yourself. You have to get that back. But it’s going to be hard. Are you willing to try, Wolf? Do you accept the struggle ahead of you?
“Hello? Jo?”
“What?”
“You like totally spaced out.”
Jo rubbed her eyes.
“Whatever,” she mumbled and thirstily drank until she tossed the empty cup on the floor.
“You must be really hung over,” Sarah remarked.
“I didn’t drink,” Jo replied.
“Yeah right.”
“Seriously.”
“Well, I found you passed out last night,” Sarah argued.
“Passed out where?” Jo asked, surprised.
“In your bed.”
Jo glared at her.
“You found me. Passed out. In my own bed.”
“Yeah, you like didn’t respond when I nudged you,” Sarah said. “So,” she added eagerly, “you wanna hear about the guy I met last night?”
Jo rolled over to face the wall and closed her eyes.
Welcome to your journey, Wolf.
***
["The Wolf is not Native to the South of France" is the title of a book on the shelf in my favorite library study carrel. Don't know what the book's about, it's not important anyways. I just like the title.]
The Wolf is not native to the south of France.
But occasionally she leaves the country. A wolf must prowl.
At the start of winter, Jo embarked on a trip that took her far from places she knew well, deep into the wilderness. It was a cold snowy world beyond the limits of civilization where survival was never guaranteed. But the reward was great. She opened the door to a vast lodge, hesitating to push the full weight of the wood, but drawn in by the warmth of the entrance. She was greeted by a dozen loving sled dogs. Their owner padded across the floor in mukluks and held out a weathered hand for Jo to take. He smiled, shaking his long gray hair off his shoulders, and beckoned her to take a seat in the main room where a roaring fire waited.
“You have come a long way,” he said.
“It didn’t seem so long.”
“It will when you set out tomorrow. I am sending you to the edge of human existence.”
Jo wasn’t sure what to answer. She silently turned to watch the fire.
Finally she asked, “Will I be very different when I return?”
“It is impossible to come back unchanged. But you will find your world altered around you as well. It will be lonely.”
Jo wondered if loneliness really would be the worst of it.
The man studied her face carefully.
“You are not ready,” he said.
She looked up quickly.
He shook his head.
“It is dangerous to go too soon. You are almost ready. Wait. Return when you are sure.”
“But—“
Before Jo could finish the sentence, she was back in her bed at home.
“Do you want to miss your flight?!”
She groaned and scrambled into the bathroom. Checking herself in the mirror to determine that she was awake and all right, Jo called back down to her mom, “I’m almost ready!”
Almost ready.
“You don’t even have everything loaded up!”
Jo was surprisingly calm considering she was departing for six months of school in England.
In the blur of traveling, she hardly noticed the number of hours that had passed until it was time to step off the plane, navigate her way to the baggage claim at Heathrow, and find herself a cab into town.
While pulling her backpack out of the overhead compartment, she bumped into a girl about her age.
“Sorry,” Jo mumbled.
“Yeah. Whatever,” the girl replied.
Jo looked up, surprised at her tone.
“Well, things are off to a great start,” Jo thought. “So far everyone sucks here.”
“One person isn’t everyone,” she heard a voice behind her say.
She turned around.
“How did you–”
Jo paused for a moment and scrutinized the face of the man who had just spoken to her.
“Do I know you?”
He smiled.
“Yeah, we’ve met before.”
They continued shuffling off the plane. Jo awkwardly tried to ask him another question.
“Where?” she called over her shoulder.
The man shrugged.
“See you around!” he said, and lost himself in the crowd of people in the terminal.
Jo would have been so irritatingly perplexed by the incident that it would have ruined her day until she figured it out, but a lot weirder things had happened since that first encounter with River back at school.
“I miss River,” she thought to herself.
She had finally found someone that she could relate too in an uncomplicated way. Now she had to start over in a new place.
Jo caught her reflection in the rain-speckled glass of the vast airport windows as she shivered at the cab stand.
“I wonder what I’d look like with short hair…”
. . . to be continued in the next chapter: ‘Brave New Wolf’!