A CHILD IN ARMS Short story by Rodger Malcolm Mitchell phyllisrgarber@yahoo.com This version reproduced November 12, 2007 Copyright 1996, 1998, 2001, 2007 Rodger Malcolm Mitchell. All rights reserved. No part of this collection of stories may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written consent of Rodger Malcolm Mitchell:.      This first spring day, Shannon danced along the cliff path, gripping her older brother's hand, as he kept her safely from the sheer edge. She was five, and Sean ten, and she loved him dear.       He oft lent her his toys and his guidance. He instructed her in the ways of children and gave her the knowledge he had gathered. She was young. All she had to give him was her love. It was enough.      The sunshine allowed Shannon to forget the evil clouds hanging above the far Northern hills. And the thunder from the North, she could forget that too, though she knew it was not thunder. It was distant cannon. And not always distant, too.      None on our green isle remembered when the eternal war began or why. Shannon heard it concerned religion, whatever that was, or with secret, awful things that had been done by "them of the North." Whoever they were. She had not yet learned The Anger.      Generations had suffered the fighting. Every family had produced victims. Every victim demanded revenge. Every revenge demanded revenge. The war excused everything and satisfied nothing.      Neither North nor South owned the vigor to win or the frailty to lose -- two weary brawlers clawing and gouging, with even the hope of victory and the fear of defeat disappeared.      Some Southerns planted bombs. These men and women were called "heroes." Their lives were difficult. The most charmed were shot on their first night sowing. The less fortunate, were caught and tortured. The least-favored escaped and were obligated to repeat. Endlessly.      A car erupted in enemy North. Two dead, ten maimed. The Southerns laughed and toasted. Two dead, ten maimed.      It was not enough. Two Northern dead did not restore a raped Southern wife. Ten maimed did not return a torn child. The enemy remained. The laughter spoiled and rotted.      The North boasted its own heroes. A tavern exploded in our South. Six dead, twelve maimed. The North laughed and toasted. We remained. Nothing changed.      Bombers risked death knowing their work was pointless, knowing that everything, even laughter, would die. They forgot or could not bear to ask, "What is the meaning of my life when my work, and even my death, has no meaning?"      Here the cliff bent back to form a small bay, and the path followed around the horseshoe bend, so Shannon could see across the bay. There on the far side something moved, three tiny figures -- men, it seemed -- dressed in black and carrying a wooden box.      "We shall go home now," Sean said, for he had seen them, too.      One of the men looked up, saw Sean and pointed at him, then began to run around the bend toward him. Sean turned and ran, holding tight to Shannon's hand. He himself was fast as a bird, and might have escaped, but Shannon was young.      The men gained ground in pounding, angry strides. Sean would not release Shannon's hand, even to save himself.      The men closed on the children.       Sean said, "Oh darling, we are done." He turned toward the men, shielding her.      Shannon saw their evil faces, their murderous eyes, eyes she did not understand. She saw their hands, curled like hawk's talons, clinging to their wooden box.      She closed her eyes and squeezed her brother's hand. He said, "Pray to God, darling."      A sudden force took Shannon unconscious.            After some time the haze lifted from her mind and the sound of the ocean breakers returned and there was a burning on her skin.      The men had disappeared with their wooden box. The cliff where they had been running had disappeared too, replaced by a smoking hole to the sea.      Shannon still held her brother's hand. He did not return the squeeze she gave it. She looked to him, but his sweet face was gone as was most of him.      A scream forced into her throat and lodged there, finally emerging as a silent puff of breath. Shannon rose and ran toward home, screaming silently and dragging the last part of her brother behind her.            The day of Sean's funeral was filled with a chill drizzle, as such days often are. People huddled into the dubious shelter of tall grave stones.      The preacher's words and mood came shrill. He spoke of Jesus and of love. He spoke of evil and of revenge in Jesus's name. He spoke of the North. He spoke of death. He called forth The Anger.      A wooden box was lowered into the ground and the people took turns, each throwing a shovelful of earth on it. When her turn came, Shannon shoveled earth, too. It meant nothing, a wooden box in a hole. Shoveling earth was a game. But when her turn ended, vague realization began, and she would not release the shovel, and kept digging furiously.      The people watched and murmured as Shannon dug and threw and dug and threw, her movements growing manic. Her father tried to take the shovel from her, but she would have none of that. She would not stop until the box was hid and the hole filled and mounded with earth and her trust.      Exhausted, and coated in mud and drizzle and sweat and hate, Shannon lay down the shovel, and turned and walked through the parting crowd. She had destroyed that awful hole and covered that awful box, and now she would go to play with her dear brother.      When she arrived home, and Sean did not answer her call, Shannon knelt at her bed and wept. "I am sorry you are dead. What is it like? I hope it does not hurt. Do you want any of my toys? I brought the things you like best. I miss you so. Daddy says someone must punish the bad people. When I grow up I will do it. I will. When I say it, mommy cries. But I will."            When Shannon reached ten, times had gone worse. She now was told to hurry past parked cars lest they explode while she idled nearby. She could not attend church, not since the horror last month that took her cousins, the preacher and twenty worshipers.      She busied herself with poems and thoughts. In there, she could look to the horizon and spread her arms to the wind. In there, she could climb down to the surf and let the waves run up the beach over her ankles. In there, she could hold Sean's hand and punish those who had taken him.      One day her father came home out of breath and time, and shouted they must move. There would be no opportunity to pack anything, not even Shannon's poems or drawings. It was "Hurry. Hurry, now," and Shannon heard something in her father's voice she never had heard before. Terror.       They were met at the door by three Northern men in black shirts and black ski masks. One held Shannon's mother, who struggled futilely. The other two held guns.      The men tied her father to a chair. Then they tied Shannon and her mother to chairs facing her father and made them watch.      The men put her father's feet into a metal bucket of water and attached an electric wire to it. They attached another wire to her father. Shannon watched her father drool and shake, and the blood seep between his teeth and stain his beard, as the Northern men slowly shredded him with electricity.       They would stop long enough for her father to whimper and beg and answer their questions, then they would start in again. Shannon heard him speak the names of people she knew. And when he had no more names to give, the men tore him again and again, merely for their amusement.      Later the Northern men took Shannon and her mother outside and burned the house. Shannon listened to her father's terrible, high screams, and she imagined the house itself was crying out.            By her fourteenth year, Shannon and her mother had moved many times. They now lived with a group of Southern heroes.      She had grown tall and beautiful and cold. Her green eyes never smiled. She slept little and spoke little. And The Anger filling the house filled her, too.       Shannon watched what the adults did in the basement, the plans, the bombs, the count of casualties. Here, she learned well.      One evening, Shannon came home from an errand. Before she entered she saw through a window that Northern men were inside. The floor was covered with blood and death. Of the Southern people, only Shannon's mother remained alive and she was tied naked on a bed.      When the Northern men began to finish with her mother, Shannon turned and went away to the streets. Exhausted, crouching in war rubble, she dreamed of Sean. There he told her, "None can hide from themselves." She knew he meant for her to go forth.      During the next months, Shannon honed her hatred and became good at bombs. The stealing, the building, the delivering, the toasting afterward, she became good at everything.      She learned electricity and became good at that to, the keeping of an enemy alive for days. She prolonged the tortures well beyond the need for information. She turned as cruel as the winter sea.            By eighteen, she had become famous. Her methods showed style. She poisoned bomb shrapnel, so any of the North receiving a cut, even when plucking through rubble, would feel horrifying pain before dying. Disguised as a whore, she lured men to deaths.       "Come with me and I shall grant you a night, lad, such as none before. Now young stallion, spread back upon my bed like Leonardo's man and allow me to admire your grace. Ah, the great mass of you, so thick I scarcely can circle you with my fingers. Do you like that? My lips? Patience, and you shall have more than you can imagine. Close your eyes, now. How old? But nineteen? And already so ample?       "How many innocent Southern maids have you required to shriek their innocence? Did their agonies please you? Yes? Well, it is time for regrets.       "Do as this pistol asks. Lock these irons to your wrists and ankles. Tightly now, then to the bedposts. There, done. No, I shan't shoot. The good work is done by this blade. Let me show you its bite. You sweat so in this cool room? Twisting and bucking will not avail you.       "Ah, so much blood from a single rip. Another slice. Another. There, you are half the man. See the prize I hold? Useless now. And these two gems, I shall saw them away as well. You'll not need them.       "Ah, blood and sweat, this lovely stew fills the floor. Your flesh pales. Your screams fade. Wait, think before you drowse. Your life remains. Ask, and I still may preserve it.       “No, offer not your pain or pleas. Submit your regret, that I might save you. Ah, sorry you? Good. I am pleased. Then one last kindness, please. Give me back my beautiful Sean. No? Then I must carve more."       Her addiction was hate. She needed ever more vile missions, each eclipsing the last in monstrous offense to life. She basked in notoriety. She became a symbol of war's horror, though her acts had no strategy for combat, but rather for her own needs. And like the demands of war and revenge, the demands of the self never end.      Her doctrine was scribbled on walls everywhere and spoken everywhere. "N.F." Shannon carved the initials into her arm and into her enemies. "N.F." They meant, "Never Forgive; Never Forget."       And oh, but they came after her, they of the North, for to capture her was every Northerner's dream, greater even than the winning of this unwinnable war. Each day she slept in a different place, and always clothed. Each night she moved to yet another secret place where often a different nameless man comforted her.            At nineteen Shannon again dreamed of Sean. Lying beside her, he said, "You cannot drink the ocean." When she woke she acknowledged what she already knew, that after his death, she had accomplished nothing.       There were too many enemies to terrorize and kill. Her brother, father, and mother remained dead, joined by relatives and friends. She had not prevented even one murder, nor brought victory even one hour closer. She had not written even one poem. Nor had she achieved satisfaction.       Her life, the life she had filled with death, remained empty, but for The Anger. And every day the enemy crept closer.       She rose from her bed, and packing a small bag of clothing and paper and pencils, she went into the hills to think.            In her absence, The Anger remained with the people. The killing in her name proceeded at its steady rhythm, like a sleeping heartbeat, neither slower nor faster. Shannon the symbol, owned its own existence separate from Shannon the person, an existence that enlarged without her.      While in the hills she wrote and thought, and she studied her thoughts and learned about her futility. For the first time in years, she remembered. Her mind walked the cliff path with Sean and looked out over the ocean. She played again with the other town children, so many of whom had died. She nestled in her mother's arms. She stood beside her father at his chores. She allowed the past, its joy and its grief, to flow out of her until she became a fragile husk.       The beginnings of rebirth began. Reason entered her. She saw; she believed; she regretted; she feared; she desired. All was so new. Her walls crumbled. She was ready to receive.      Then did Sean return in a dream, and whisper to her, "My beautiful Shannon, know this. A child in arms cannot walk."      The words told her everything. She stretched her fingers to the sky. At last she understood. She was not all futility. She was allowed to feel. She had a purpose.       And she had a plan.      Shannon returned from the hills, and did what no one else could have. She ended the war. She videotaped herself giving a speech and mailed copies to the television stations and newspapers:      "My dear, fellow Southerners. Today I greet you in love. You remember me. I am the evil side of you. I have drunk the blood of our enemies. I have misused the blood of our friends. I have caused the streets of North and South to burn. I have tortured in anger and in pleasure. I have killed for the killing. I have smeared my awful slogan across our green hills.      "I have given our enemy cause for hatred, and you have suffered their revenge.      "My fury sucks the joy from your lives. I have cast my darkness over our grieving island. Compared to me, the worst of you is God's most beloved.      "Northern widows and orphans weep the same tears as do Southern. North and South are bound by our mutual misery. To direct blame is belated, for blame has found us all. The victimizer has become the victim. We writhe in the grave of our own digging. We remember too much.      "I know now, I have traveled a fool's road. Revenge is an unquenchable thirst. There always will be another to kill. And were I to cause our every enemy a long and painful death, that would not resurrect even one of our loved ones, nor redeem our own lives from the horror we have created.      "One can defeat horror only with hope. And if I, the worst amongst you can learn that, surely you shall see it, too.      "And ah, the world turns. Today, we waken to opportunity singing its sweet serenade. We lift the shroud of night. Our spirit emerges, rises, soars free.      "Upon this blessed moment, let the war be ended. No more bombing, nor shooting, no torture, nor killing for an impostor God or contrived honor, none given and none received. It is ended.      "Yet, a war that has filled us and given our lives purpose, false though it may be, will not submit to a vacuum. We must feed our rage with true purpose and mission, and to please ourselves we first must please God.      "So as our mission, we shall care for our Northern brothers. We shall tend their wounded. We shall shelter their homeless. We shall feed their starving. We shall employ their jobless. We shall school their unlearned. We shall go to them with open arms, and traveling upon the wide road of compassion, thus shall we find our destiny. We shall lift them in our arms for they are children of the same God to whom we pray.      "If some Northerns continue the vain killing, we shall conquer their sin with our goodness, and so defend the unborn and the new-born of both sides. Though the night has continued for centuries, we always shall remember today as the golden moment of our dawn.      "Our children shall live in innocence. Our elderly shall live in serenity. We shall travel together, hand in hand, across our emerald hills, under the sunshine. We shall live again, forever.      "Thus, shall it begin. Tomorrow, I walk our glorious seashore, unarmed and unafraid. I shall bathe in cleansing waters. I shall breathe the pure air. I shall sip the nectar of mercy. With your hand held in mine, I shall reach across the line, to embrace the people of the North. United shall we toast the victory of humankind over evil.      "And now, dear friends, I ask you to join me in this march of triumph, not for South, not for North, but for all humankind."       br>     And so she did march. On a day, clear, calm and green, she began alone at the southernmost point of the cliff path and walked in sunshine, toward the north. She plucked flowers from the wayside and carried them against her breast.       Soon she was met by one other, a broad-shouldered man, who saying not a word, took her hand in his and walked beside her. Then came two more men, then a woman, another man, a couple, and soon she was followed by others, all calm, quiet and determined, walking with heads raised in peace.       A wagon filled with food, clothing and supplies came down a hill path and entered in behind her. Then another wagon and more people. Music began to play. The people began to dance and sing. They sang of love. They sang of freedom. They sang of God. They wept in the realization of what they had lost -- the years and the lives -- and of what they were to receive.       They knelt and bowed as Shannon passed, and they reached out to touch the hem of her dress. She blessed them each and all.      A final bomb sounded in the distance. No one chose to hear. The war echoes died, replaced by the music of euphoria.      Shannon and her army of love arrived at the Northern border. Across the line waited ten thousand. All had suffered at her hand. Mothers, brothers, others who were loved and lamented, all lost at her hand. Their hatred for her was a shimmering wall through which no thing may pass.       Shannon halted. She looked at the furious faces before her. No one and no thing moved. Minutes passed. Shannon raised her palms to the sky and spoke to the silence. "Children of the North. Cast aside the hatred that burdens you. The few years God gives us have dwindled. Let us not squander more. Come to me. I lift you in my arms and carry you safe across the fire, that together we may live in the house of the Lord, forever."       Shannon stepped across the border into the land of the North, and surprised the nearest person, a huge bearded man bearing a sword, by embracing him. "God has given you this opportunity," she whispered in his ear, "to be remembered as the man who ended the war. March with me into everlasting fame and gratitude."       The man hesitated, then amidst cheers from both sides, he thrust his sword into the ground and took in beside her. The crowd roar grew as she strode forth and the people encouraged her every step. The line behind her now trailed beyond the horizon, and music was heard over the land.      Shannon arrived triumphant at the capital city of the North, where a great crowd and hopes awaited her. She entered the central square. She climbed to a balcony, and looked out over the joyful mass. She raised her hand and there was silence.       In a gentle voice she again spoke the words that had brought her here. "Come, children of the North, I lift you in to my breast." She commanded that the hungry be fed, the naked be clothed, the homeless be sheltered. Her Southern followers obeyed. That is why they had come.      After a week of growing hope, the Northern leader, the Reverend Ianson came to her, and though she recognized him as one of them who had tortured her father, she fell to her knees before him and kissed his shoe and begged his forgiveness. He whispered, "Arise, woman. What is this you do?"       She stood and embraced him and kissed his cheek and said to him, "Forgive us father, for we have sinned. No punishment of us is cruel enough to quicken the dead nor to soothe yesterday's suffering. God has told us we may enter His house only through the door of deeds. The door has opened. Let us walk through, arm in arm."       "And how shall we do that, with so many hearts locked?"       "God has the key," she said, and she told him her plan. The South was wealthier than the North, or so she said, and as a signal to God, the South would give money to Northern men who had no jobs, and to Northern mothers who had no husbands, according to how many children the unfortunate women supported. For its penance, the South would provide free food and free lodging and free medicine to all who needed it. "Though we cannot undo, we shall redo. It is the best of which we are capable."       "And what do you expect in return?" he asked.       "The North need but receive this humble offering, for the giver can be blessed only when the receiver is twice blessed. If we shall live as brothers and sisters in peace, what greater gift can we ask?"       "And do you expect us to forgive your deeds and forget our dead? The cuts run too deep for cleansing by mere gifts."       "I do not ask you to forgive, neither to forget. I ask you to lead. If I can enlist my people to give, surely you have the courage to persuade yours to accept. This is the moment you were born for, dear Reverend. History will remember you for what you do this day."       The Reverend Ianson could do not but accept her generosity. And as they embraced again, peace came over our land.      With the economic burden of war lifted, we in the South could afford our charity, though we chafed and wondered at the gifts we sent our former enemy. As Shannon directed ever more Southern money and food to the unemployed men and unmarried women of the North, some in the South came to resent such excessive mercy. They cried, "Do you not remember the killings? You lost your own kin. These people have not changed."      Shannon would reply, "A hundred years of war did not change them. Twenty years of peace will accomplish what the war failed." We disagreed, but we obeyed her will, for at least the killing had ended, and it was she who had returned our lives to us.            Ten years fled. Shannon wept publicly for the unfortunate of the North. She visited their ghettos and hospitals and jails. She bound their sores with her own hands. She blessed their poor. She fed soup in mass kitchens. She built housing for their homeless. She subsidized unwed mothers and their children. She maintained those who could not work.      The Reverend Ianson demanded more assistance, then more and yet more. He reminded Shannon of pain she had caused the North and in response, she ordered us to increase our efforts. Often, we grew restless with the giving. We did not understand. "What of us," we demanded. "What of the South? We have needs, too. Let the North care for itself. Do not continue yielding to the Reverend's endless calls."      But on television, we would meet Shannon's calm, clear eyes and her calm, clear words, "Patience, dear Southern brothers and sisters. We cast our bread upon the waters. In the house of the Lord, the giver is exalted. We give for our children and for our children's children."      And we listened. What else could we do? Shannon's armistice had brought us prosperity, though as our charity grew so did the Reverend Ianson's demands. Our prosperity and his demands, each followed the other and they flourished together, like twin shoats feasting from the same trough.      As the truce endured and our wealth extended, North and South acclaimed Shannon a national hero. We blessed her with many prizes named "Peace." She was assured sainthood.            Twenty years. A generation of Northern children have matured without suffering the pain and indignity of labor or duty. Neither have they been burdened with blame nor obligation. None has asked them to accept responsibility. We of the South have paid them not to work or to wed. A generation of the North has become dependant upon Southern benevolence.       Though the war long ago had ended, some of the North still carried The Anger, always encouraged by the Reverend Ianson and his coalition. Many of the South believed Shannon deceived by the Reverend, who had grown to wealth in his defense of the poor.       But Shannon redoubled her efforts, and redoubled again. For each Northern complaint she provided yet one more endowment. For each Northern malady she provided yet one more balm. No Northern misdeed went unexcused. No Northern pain went unrewarded. No Northern fault went unveiled.      But with the North producing nothing, there never could be enough Southern charity to bring the North beyond poverty. Southern aid diminished Northern desire, which dulled Northern ambition, which deadened Northern hope. Northerns wallowed deeper, deeper in the mire of their indolence.       Their consuming worthlessness could be soothed only by liquor, then by drugs, then not at all. The foundations of their society crumbled. Marriage, education, labor, compassion, life, all gave way to savage despair.       Northern children, seeing no future, formed gangs to kill each other first for drug money, then just for the killing. Their murders escalated and became more vicious as self-hatred became their lone emotion.       Northern leaders, who had gained authority by their ability to demand and extract more from the South while asking less of the North, demanded more and ever more. Yet each Southern gift was both resented and insufficient. So while the body of the North withered, its soul died.      And as the nation watched, Shannon wept. She spoke again and again, "Children of the North, do not despair. I will not forsake you. I bring you salvation. I lift you in my arms."       "Children" she always called them. "Children." For they now were children in all ways.            Many years fade by. Today, the sun glows warm. Shannon stands on the cathedral balcony, high above the Southern throng. She is old and bent, but her eyes are clear and as sharp as the rocks below the cliffs.       She sees over Southern heads to our sunlit hills, rich with crops. She looks beyond to our thriving Southern villages and beyond again to our towering, prosperous cities, gleaming on the horizon, and beyond still to smoke rising from Northern riots.       She turns and looks to the cliff path and to the ocean and to the spray rainbow, sparkling in the sun. She breathes in the green and salt air. She listens to the song of the gulls. And it is good.      Then she speaks.       "My dear fellow Southerns. I greet you in love. You remember me. Together we have marched the many miles. Together we emerged from the acrid clouds of war into the sweet scent of peace. Together we have prospered in our charity.       "We have cast our bread upon the waters and, look around you, see how it has returned to us a thousand-fold. In humility we have found wisdom. In repentance we have found hope. In compassion we have found strength. In virtue we have found God.       "Together we have heard God's voice and He has erased our doubts. Now He speaks to us yet again. He commands that we enlarge our efforts and yet enlarge them once more.       He tells us we are his angels, sent by Him to this good earth, so we may lift the fallen. He has given us wealth on this earth and has promised us eternal life beside him in heaven, if we accept the duty such wages bring."       She urges them to the greater assistance they must provide to the unfortunate people of the North. And she speaks of the rewards the South has received and will receive in these good efforts.      The people of the South cheer and sob and hug one another, and first one group, then another begins to snake dance in joy and exuberance. Then, as though on signal, all face the balcony and begin to chant, "Shan-non, Shan-non, Shan-non.       Shannon looks out over them and a smile of bliss plays across her lips. She lifts her hand above them and they slide to their knees in silent reverence. "Now let us pray thanks to our God from whom all is rendered and to whom all is owed." Humbly, she bows her head. And everywhere is silence in our grateful land.      Shannon closes her eyes and remembers again her brother's words. "A child in arms cannot walk." She feels a shuddering up her thighs. With her head still bowed, she fashions a terrible, secret smile and breathes The Anger between her tightened teeth.      "Yes Sean darling, yes my love. At last, in your name, vengeance is ours."                        -End- . . . INTERVIEW WITH A JAPANESE HERO Short story by Rodger Malcolm Mitchell phyllisrgarber@yahoo.com This version reproduced November 12, 2007 Copyright 1996, 1998, 2001, 2007 Rodger Malcolm Mitchell. All rights reserved. No part of this collection of stories may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written consent of Rodger Malcolm Mitchell.      Two muddy ruts led to the top. Sunlight flickered through the trees and across my windshield, and caused blinding reflections as I circled up.      Even the sweet fragrance of cool mountain air couldn't calm me, for this was the most important day of my life, the day I had prayed for since my first minute in journalism school. I was about to interview a genuine, world-beloved hero, a man who had not allowed an interview in many years -- my giant step toward success.      I had been told to look for a path flanked by two small, stone lanterns. At last, there it hid, the lanterns almost concealed by bushes. To make room for the rare soul who may yet drive past, I pulled off to into the brush, while worrying whether I'd damaged some important plant, worrying whether my car would become stuck in the mud, worrying, worrying.      I breathed deep to calm my nerves, gathered my pencil and paper, and reached for my tape recorder, but feeling a modern, electronic device would be inappropriate to the occasion, I let the recorder lie. Then I put back the pencil and paper. Even these would be presumptuous. Everything must be perfect.      From here I would have to climb on foot. I followed an indefinite, rocky path, where dew and moss covered the stones and made walking slippery. The air was scented with green leaves and moist earth, and I'd have preferred to take time to admire the living forest and the sporadic view of the valley from between the bushes and trees. I knew Fuji hung dim in the distance, always almost yet not quite, in view.      But anxiety pushed me along. I would have all my years to admire scenery, but one chance for an interview like this. By day's end my life will have changed.      After thirty, tired minutes the tiny house disclosed through the leaves, perched on stilts at the peak of the hill. The sun on its straw roof made it shimmer like woven gold.      As I approached, the withered, old man waited at the door and greeted me, smiling and bowing. "Yes," he whispered, when at last I stood panting before him, "You are man from magazine."      He was small, almost child-like, and his voice rustled quiet as wind on fall leaves. "Please to come in."      I followed him into a small, tatami room with paper walls and as its sole furniture, two cushions rested in the center of the room and a low, wooden cabinet stood against one wall.      A samurai-style sword leaned in a corner. The sword seemed out of place as though put there for an immediate purpose. Later I would discover this purpose.      As the old man lowered himself onto one cushion, I almost expected to hear his ancient joints rasp. He nodded and smiled me toward the other cushion. When I sat, I grunted. My knees would not fold, and my back would hurt tomorrow. His was a courtesy too pure to notice my discomfort.      Someone kneeled beside me. I turned to see his tomato-plump, little, kimono-clad wife who set on the floor a tray holding a tea pot and two cups. After she poured for me, she covered her smile with her hand, bowed and crawled beside her husband to deliver the other cup.      He whispered, "We are honor to have so illustrious journalist visit our humble dwelling."      I heard myself whisper, too. Quiet surroundings do that. "It is I who am honored, the first reporter in so long to be allowed the precious time of the most renowned of all takekogeika, bamboo craft artists -- you who are named a Living National Treasure."      I saluted him with my cup. He did not move. I wondered whether I was to drink from the cup now. Still he did not move so I set the cup down.      I was so anxious to begin, I departed from the etiquette of casual conversation and burst into the interview. "I'm curious. Why now? After all these years, why do you now permit an interview?"      "I see you not have pen and paper. Is good. Not need. You will see."      I didn't feel as confident as he, that I would remember without taking notes, but I was pleased at his comment. He sat for several minutes, then sipped and looked into his cup. I wasn't sure he understood or remembered my question, and I wanted to clarify my meaning, but I was afraid to disturb his silence.      When he lifted his eyes, he said, "Every time must come. Regret is the passing of proper time. The preacher say, 'All thing have season.' The moving finger write. All man's work futile. More tea? It soothes the anxious spirit."      I tried to smile through my embarrassment at having been so aggressive and been seen as an "anxious spirit." What had he meant by his "futile" remark? He nodded toward his wife, who slid beside me and refilled my cup. "Yes, thank you," I said. "I'm surprised at your excellent English."      His voice was gentle. I had to strain to hear. "After war, Americans are so kind to forgive former enemy status and allow this person to assist resurrection of my land. I learn your language well, though I use seldom now and have forgotten much."      Again, he lowered his face and stared down. I wondered what he was thinking and why he had sent for me. I looked around the room. "I'd love to see your baskets and to discuss how you make them. My readers ..."      He lifted his feeble hand to me, so I waited. He looked at his wife and nodded and she bowed to him. Then he looked at me. "Yes, the baskets. Please to understand, they are mere bamboo. Grass, not even living. I have become old. Strength departed, even for baskets. I too, am overdue to die and become as one with dead grass of baskets.      Years past, in gesture to my teachers, I produce for exhibit, samples of every basket type I learn in four decades. More than eighty traditional shapes. A television station learn of this, and broadcast throughout this land and elsewhere. Exhibit become famous, even in other country. I am surprise. I am told your Smithsonian displays four such baskets. It is great embarrassment."      "Yes, I've seen them. They are magnificent."      "Ah, yes. So they have been called, `magnificent grass baskets.' Yet I knew I no longer was doing my best work. I had begun to take shortcut. Perhaps not visible, but I know. Other takekogeika know, too. Even baskets know. They rest in shame for display.      "And bamboo is but bamboo. Even all finest baskets together would not equal in beauty the life of one leper. Life greater than art. Many years for me to learn. All man create futility. Your bible say. I pray it true.      "Exhibit was revere, not for my meager skill, nor even for trivial baskets themselves, but for tradition. We Japanese, cling to tiny archipelago, succeed within tradition. Heritage give strength and sanctuary and direction to soul. My unworthy exhibit somehow define this notion. Even foreign persons understand this, so universal it is.      "The mind simplifies. In mind of all, I became Japanese tradition. So this inferior basket maker pose and smile and bow, as though he had done wonderful thing. Yet I was fraud. I had done nothing. Those few pleasant baskets. Many other kagoshi, basket makers, can do far better. One mother nursing child worth more than all weavers of dead grass.      "I accepted such homage in silence, most disgraceful form of pride, for silence pretend humility. 'A time for silence, a time for speaking.' Ah, such wisdom there."      His wife's eyes had filled with tears. Something strange was happening I did not yet understand. His modesty, though poignant, didn't warrant such tears.      He continued, his frail voice growing even weaker. "In many way, because exhibit become symbol of Japan itself, symbol of our proud history, I too become symbol of what we wish to believe about ourselves -- pure, dedicated, modest, honorable and peaceful. Though we are these things no more nor less than other peoples, it is our chosen belief, our chosen vanity. Greatest vanity is claim of greatest modesty. So I become legend. Of such frail reeds are legends woven.      "In some Christianity you choose saints. We do not dare take God's prerogative. Yet, I was chosen saint. All from baskets. Grass. It was lies, of course. I was not saint.      Please forgive unintended insult, but there are no saint, merely person who has been given role to live. Role to live and costume to disguise. "It is role that is sainted -- role and costume -- not person.      We spend lives toil in roles. I allow myself to believe I was my role. I wore costume, even in quiet of bed. I accept lies. So vain. So false. Lies like subtle poison. The futile deceit of man before face of God."      He lowered his eyes and shook his head, as though wondering at his own wicked naivety. His wife covered her face, leaned her head against his shoulder and sobbed. Shivers ran through me. He was telling me something important. But, what. And why? His words and manner resembled a requiem. I felt my heart thump.      I said, "But you deserve the accolades. You did so much more than make baskets. Before that, you were one of the early champions of peace. Many years ago you spoke against the outrage of atomic warfare. You were one of the great rallying points for the peace movement. You sanctified life. The symbol you provided helped the world to see the truth."      "Ah, truth. Man invents truth. Yet all becomes dust. Nothing deceives more than truth. Yes? As you say, I march against atomic weapons. I had met such horror drift out of Hiroshima. Half-living human. Body living but spirit dead. All Japanese innocents, who suffered and died ... yet, some say atomic bomb was necessary. It shorten war and so, saved lives, American and Japanese, also. Some say a million lives saved. Death by bullet no worse. I know all reasons and excuses. Ah yes, perhaps, perhaps ...      "Wise American soldier tell me, `Every seed has season. Every wrong has reason.' I understand. It is revelation. I march against so fiendish device. I would not accept it saved lives, even if true.      "I march at front, strut amid flags and flowers, but not for living-dead. For me. I march for my own needs." He sipped his tea and studied his cup as though reading the leaves. "I also march in army."      The silence that followed held his words, `I also march in army.' I wondered whether this was what bothered this good, gentle soul, his service in the army? All Japanese men had. Surely, he had little choice. They took every able-bodied man and some not so able-bodied. I wanted to mitigate the negative implication. "But as I recall ... you were a doctor in the army?"      "So yes, doctor. Scientist. What make human different from beast? We both born; we both die; world continue. So what is difference? We human dread ignorance. We crave to seek, to find, to share . . . we crave truth. Even wicked truth. Human are compelled to make science and art. Both are search for truth. Even basket art. Much truth in baskets. Dishonestly made basket is wretched as dishonestly made man. Youth finds truth in future, where innovation conceived. Elderly look to past, source of excellence. Both truth for us.      "Yes, I was doctor. I pretend to search for truth. So I find lie."      "What did you do?"      "Experiment."      The word was whispered so low, I almost couldn't hear.      "Experiment?" The room seemed to dim. He said nothing. I said nothing. A chill shuddered through me. I was sorry I had asked. I didn't want to know. The word "experiment" took on grotesque and evil meanings. Yet, I was a journalist, one of the seekers of truth he had alluded to. I did not want to pretend to search and find lies, so after a long silence, I whispered, "What sort of experiment?"      An exhausted voice choked from his fragile body. "To assist war, we did what we could. We were doctor and there were so many disease. Our soldiers were dying from such disease. Terrible to die in war, far from family and tradition."      He closed his eyes and began to rock. "We were young innocent, away in strange land. China. We had left our true culture behind, you see. Instead, as thoughtless youth, we bring false culture name `conceit.' Japanese without his culture does not exist as person. Whoever told us how to act, so we did. We were not forced. We did not resist. We acted because we consider no other direction necessary for thought. We had swagger of the ignorant."      His wife touched his lips with her fingers as though to stop him from speaking further. He put his hand on hers and the two exchanged looks of such sadness, I felt despair pierce my own heart. Then, shaking with silent sobs, she crawled away, glanced at the sword as she passed it, and crept from the room.      "Our leaders want to know about terrible disease infecting us. Plague. What it does. How it does. Chinese were not people. We were told this. Our arrogance accept this."      He kept his face down so that his voice mumbled up from the floor. "We saw how plague kill, but we need to learn more. A time for love; a time for hate. We had neither. Time stop.      "I wait in tent, not know what to expect. Older men were tell jokes I did not understand. A lovely Chinese boy, so pretty a face, I believe he was about 17 years, who been given plague ..."      "Given? Do you mean . . .?"      "Yes, by injection and other procedure. We did this. We need to know. He was brought into tent. He was naked and shaking. Disease and fear. Suffer terrible, but he say nothing. He knew it was finish for him.      He did not resist. They spread him on wood bed and tie hands and feet to bed posts. I did not know what to do. I never had seen this before.      "Doctor gave me order. There was to be no anesthetic. We had none, and it was unnecessary. Boy was to die, anyway. And he was only Chinese. I hesitated, not in compassion, but in fear. I cared nothing for Chinese. My fear was for me.      "Doctor shout at me. Boy remain silent, but his eyes open wide. He saw me pick up scalpel. I walk to him and he close his eyes.      "I touch his chest with point of scalpel. He scream. I press point into his chest and draw blade all way down, down his stomach and beyond, all way down.      "His screams, long, high, awful sounds in that small room. Listen, you cannot hear them? I can. I hear them now, like wind in trees. Always, I hear.      His body buck and twist. I could not believe or describe hideous sounds terror and pain can force from human lips. I am very frighten.      "I lay scalpel down. I feel I might faint. Doctor gave another order. I did not think to hesitate this time. I reach in with both hands and open boy. Doctor command, `Wider, so I can see.'      "Boy's screams became gurgles as blood erupt from mouth. Blood splash everywhere. Doctor take notes. He command me to pull out certain organs so he could look behind and see others. Boy remain alive as I prowl through him. For sanity, I need to imagine Chinese were beneath human, even beneath life. In this I succeed. I could not do this to a beast, yet I do to Chinese.      "Doctor finish with notes. I untie boy, and with help of others, roll him off bed into large metal barrel. I think he is dead by then. It was not important, then.      "This was first of many, so I remember it best. Much has turned to darkness in my aged mind. I knew some boys lived, even into barrels. Sometimes I heard sounds from barrels.      One time I look into barrel, and face look back and make hiss at me, like serpent. I never look into barrel again. I dream of that hiss sound. Breeze at night make such sound. I never go out into dark forest. Memory live there.      "Experiment taught us much about plague. Knowledge save many Japanese lives. Perhaps Chinese too, ultimately. I do not know.      "Now, do you see? My life tells lie. Lie makes poison to heart. All the years, poison of lie build inside me. I am grown old. It is said, if man take lie to his grave, lie remain atop man for eternity, cover like heavy stone, like smothering blanket. I do not wish such burden. So?"      I didn't know whether he expected an answer. His pleading eyes came up to mine. "Now, you may visit baskets. You always will remember this day, this day when we both uncover truth."      His wife must have listened beyond the door, for she entered and walked, not crawled, to me, lifted my hand and led me out to a storage shed smelling of bamboo and filled with baskets. There she left me to stand alone amidst the dead grass. That is how I saw the baskets now, as arrangements of dead grass, as the truth uncovered from dead lies.      I do not remember what the baskets looked like or how long I remained in the shed, but I know I saw much and learned much, not about baskets but about the world. I had uncovered truth, as the old man had said, but had lost something far greater, my belief in truth. The world needs its lies. That is why I would write no article about the old man or his baskets or his search -- or mine -- and why later I would leave journalism.      When I returned to the house, the sword no longer rested in the corner, and the old man and his wife were gone. I went outside to find them, but the night had become complete. It would have been futile to search for them and I knew they would not return to this empty house.      There was nothing more for me, so I left. I edged my way down. The mountain path was dark. The bamboo groaned and whimpered as the breeze hissed through the leaves. A chill mist had settled in, making the stones much slicker than they had been this morning.      And coming down always is harder.                           -End- . . . THE SWEET TASTE OF CRABAPPLE Short story by Rodger Malcolm Mitchell phyllisrgarber@yahoo.com This version reproduced November 12, 2007 Copyright 1997, 1998, 2001, 2007 Rodger Malcolm Mitchell. All rights reserved. No part of this collection of stories may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written consent of Rodger Malcolm Mitchell.      She has turned thirteen and he is two years older. She has been his girlfriend since last fall, which is a long time. They like to ride his bicycle together, her seated side-saddle on the bar. He keeps the seat so high he scarcely can reach the pedals. It's harder for him to ride that way but it makes his bike look bigger, not like some little kid's.      She knows he thinks it makes him look tall. But he's the better athlete and stronger, so it doesn't matter too much that she is the taller.      The summer sun has crept down behind the houses, and the quiet air, fragrant of grass and fainter of street tar, remains hot enough for him to ride without his shirt. She rests her head against his hairless chest to let him smell her new cologne.      She talks more than he does, but he likes to hear her. He thinks about things and the way they are, but she talks about people and how they are, and he likes that, because he can't do it.      She knows that when he is with the guys, they stand around hardly saying anything, except when a girl walks by they make silly faces and giggle and nudge, still hardly say anything. That's how boys are.      She has started to mature and has the start of breasts and he knows she knows he looks at them. He leans forward over her shoulder to see them under her neckline. But the bicycle shakes and she says, "What are you doing?" Then she laughs and he laughs too, because they know.      They've ridden together many times all summer, but this hot, late-August evening seems different. The peaceful quiet makes her feel tense and she can't explain why. The west sky holds on to a pale version of daytime blue, while night has taken over everywhere else.      Yet there's more than the heat and the velvet sky and her new cologne. There's . . . more.      For once they ride quietly, not because they have nothing to say but because neither of them wants to spoil this strange, peaceful, tense feeling.      His control of the bicycle has grown expert; he has acquired more control and strength in his shoulders and his arms and hands. He can take one hand off, even with her as a rider. He enjoys showing his skill. She knows he has practiced to impress her.      He doesn't know she likes to look at his strong hands and to imagine how they would feel touching her. He doesn't know recently she has had new, exciting thoughts, at night especially, thoughts about boys and especially thoughts about him.      "When does school start?" She turns her face and speaks softly and he bends his head close to her mouth.      "What?" He heard but he wants to hold his head close to her lips.      "School start?" She whispers and lets her lips brush his ear, sending shivers through him. And through her.      "A week from tomorrow," he whispers too, "isn't it?"      "I guess. I'm glad."      "I'm not. Why?"      "Summer's nice, but after a while there's nothing left to do." She pushes the word "do" into a whine. "You know?"      "Yah, but I still like it, the sun and all. No snow shoveling or slush. Do? Like what?"      "Oh, like stuff. Fun. Everything's getting kind of old. I'm tired of the heat. It's kind of boring."      "Are you bored?"      "Not now, I mean. But you know. Don't you feel like doing something different?"      "Yes, some. . ." His throat tightens and he lets the word hang.      As he pedals into the park, she thinks about what she had said -- about summer getting old. Did she mean it? Summer boring? Is she bored? In a way she is, but she's excited, too. Bored with yesterday, but excited about . . . now, tonight? Funny how she can feel bored and excited at the same time. She wonders if other people can.      She pretends to herself she doesn't know why she feels this way, then she denies her thoughts. It's confused and scary, almost like two people thinking in her one brain. When it has happened before, she has wondered which is her, really.      The park is empty except at one end where she sees some older kids on a blanket, with a radio turned up to old songs. A man's voice sings, "They Tried To Tell Us We're Too Young." It's one of her favorite old songs. Most kids never even heard of it.      She can't see what the people on the blanket are doing but she imagines. She imagines every night now, it seems.      The park. Almost every day he comes here to play baseball or football, or "I got it," which is the opposite of "it," because everybody chases one person instead of the other way around. He likes "I got it" best. He's very good. Except he will have to quit when school starts, because he thinks he's grown too big. It's a game for the younger kids.      She plays there too, not really plays, but stands on the fringe, watching and giggling with the other girls. They talk about boys, mostly. If only the boys knew. But the boys never do. It's as though boys look past everything.      He knows the park. He knows every tree, every hole, the places where the grass is thin. He says he could walk through the park with his eyes closed and tell where the baseball diamond is, and the sewer cover that trips you in left field, and where the bush near first base is, and where the old crabapple tree stands.      But summer has turned long and slow and he knows she's right, there's nothing to do. So he says, when he thinks about school and winter, it maybe doesn't seem so bad. Even the shoveling.      She wonders whether he feels the same things she does and decides he doesn't. A boy doesn't feel the same way a girl does.      They ride near the crabapple tree. "It's dark here," she uses her most mysterious voice, and her own words make her heart beat faster. Some of the older kids have said that crabapples are poison and taste bitter. She's afraid to taste. Her mom says they're poisonous, too.      Real night has come. His profile is so dark she scarcely can see him but she can feel his chest against her. She imagines him in the darkness. He slides forward on his bicycle seat and presses against her. He pretends it's nothing. But it's something.      "Let's stop a while," she says. "My rear hurts."      "I'll rub it," he says, and they both laugh. It wasn't all that funny, but she giggles and so does he. It feels good, giggling together. She wants to say, "O.K., do it," but she can't.      They get off the bicycle and sit under the tree, leaning against the trunk, with their shoulders touching. He takes a blade of grass between his thumbs, and blows and makes a screeching noise.      "Oh, stop," she laughs, "that hurt my ears."      So he does it again but the grass tears and a squeak comes out. And they both laugh. Everything's funny now. He reaches for another blade but she grabs at him and they wrestle, rolling on each other.      He likes to use his strength against her and to feel her yield to him, and she sort of likes it, too. He rolls on top, straddles her waist and holds her wrists to the ground. It excites her but it scares her. She tells herself she doesn't know why, but she does know why and everything's confused. It must scare him too, because he climbs off and sits against the tree. They are out of breath. For no reason. It wasn't that hard, wrestling, but they are out of breath.      She crawls over and sits between his legs with her back nestled against his chest. They never have sat this way before, although she has seen the big kids do it.      He doesn't know where to put his hands. He rests them on her stomach. After a while she says, "I can't see my hand, can you?" He says he can't so he holds up his own hand and says he can't see it, either.      "It's really dark." She whispers as though there were danger.      "Yes. Are you still here?" he jokes.      "I don't know. I feel me so I must be. But it's kind of scary."      He reaches across her chest and holds her shoulder, with his arm resting on her breasts. His arm is strong. She can feel him breathe. Or is it her own breath? She can't tell.      He says, "I'll protect you."      She leans her head back until her ear touches his cheek. "You will? Promise?"      "Yes. I promise."      "We're alone. Nobody can see us." She doesn't know what else to say. She hopes he will . . . do something, say something, but she guesses he doesn't know what. She notices she can't hear the radio. They are alone.      While he squeezes her closer, his other hand fiddles with something on the ground.      "What's that?" she whispers.      "A crabapple. I stuck my thumbnail in and got juice on my hand."      "Let me taste." She takes his hand in hers and brings it to her face and presses it against her lips. She licks his thumb, up and down, then slides it into her mouth and holds it there and sucks on it. She's surprised, crabapples taste sweet. She keeps his thumb in her mouth and rolls her tongue around it.      He says, "Do you like it?"      She takes his thumb from her mouth, kisses it, then lowers his hand onto her breast and holds it there. "Yes. It tastes good. Have you ever done it?"      He doesn't move his hand. "Done what?" He knows what she means, but he wants her to say it.      "You know. It. Don't act dopey."      "Oh, that. No. But I saw a film once."      "Neither have I." She's glad he hasn't either. "What kind of film?"      "At home. My folks had a party and I was supposed to be asleep but there's a mirror in the hall so I saw the reflection from my bed. The mirror made it backwards."      "Backwards?" She giggles. "What was it like?"      He still doesn't move his hand on her breast. Maybe he's afraid she'll stop him, afraid she'll say she wants to go home. She has done that to boys, acted flirty and then when they did something, acted insulted or bored or giggly. She doesn't know why. All the girls do.      "It was goofy. They stood around and right away they took off their clothes and started doing it."      "How?"      "Well he got on top of her . . . you know."      "But what happened? I really don't." She hears herself talking fast. "I never did it. Did it hurt her? Did she say anything. Did she cry?"      "I couldn't tell. But now I know how."      "I never saw a boy naked."      "I have. What's the big deal?"      "Show me?"      "Here? It's dark. You couldn't see anything anyway."      "No one'll know. I promise I won't tell. Will you?"      "No, I won't tell."      "I just want to see what it looks like."      "It's too dark to see."      "Maybe I can touch it. Would you like to touch me?"      "O.K."      She unbuttons her blouse and takes his hand and puts it in against her chest.      "It's soft." His voice is shaky.      "It's supposed to be. Now can I touch you?"      "My chest?"      "No, silly."      "O.K."      She rolls out of his arms and kneels beside him. "Where is it?"      "I have to open the buttons. Jeans' buttons are tough. There."      "Where?"      "Here, I'll take your hand."      "Gosh."      "What?"      "It's different from what I thought. It's hard and it's big. I thought they were softer, kind of little wormy things, sort of like my baby brother's, only bigger. Is it supposed to be like that?"      "Just sometimes. When I think about girls. But sometimes I don't know why. Like in school or walking or anywhere. Dumb."      "Does it hurt when I touch it?"      "No."           "Want to touch mine?"      "Yes."      "Put your hand down in there. Farther. Oh."      "Did I hurt you?"      "No, it felt kind of . . . I don't know. Let's do it. Show me how. But go slow. Let's kiss, first." She lies on her back and he rolls onto her and kisses her.      He says, "I can taste the crabapple on your lips. It's sort of sweet."       "I told you."      He tries to push her jeans down. He says, "O.K. I think this is the . . . Gosh."      "What's wrong?"      "Your jeans are in the way. But it's all right, I guess."      "What did they say?"      "Who?      "In the movie."      "Mostly `I love you.' It was hard to hear."      "Say that."      "I love you? OK, I love you."      It feels good, him telling her that. "Me too. I love you." She holds him to her and looks up at the night sky. The stars, everything is beautiful. "I love you. I do. I really do." And she does.      She tries to spread her knees and move against him, but her jeans still are in the way. When she wiggles to get them down he stiffens. "Oh." He stiffens again, then he slumps against her.      She kisses his cheek. "What's wrong? Is it in?"      "I don't . . . I couldn't help it."      They lie still. He says, "I'm sorry." He rolls off and lying on his back, buttons his jeans.      She doesn't move. "It wasn't hardly in. A little I think."      "I know. Your jeans were hurting me."      "But it felt good. You did real good. I liked it. I really did." She rests until an invisible cloud begins to cover the stars. "Maybe we should go home."      "O.K. I'm sorry. I couldn't help it."      "Is it supposed to be that fast?"      "In the movie it lasted longer."      "It was just a movie." -/-      At home, she curls under her blankets, hugs her pillow in her arms and legs, and kisses it and whispers to it and promises she'll only do it with him and won't do that with anyone else, ever. "Not ever," she vows. "Not ever. Not ever." -/-      School begins. He tells her that he had visited the tree and had picked some crabapples to take home, but they were sour, and everyone told him that's the way crabapples always taste and he was surprised, because it had tasted sweet on her lips.      She decided she wouldn't go to the park and taste a crabapple.      Soon, he moved away and she knew they never again would see each other. They never again would talk together or ride together or lie together in the park. It was the first time she had thought about the "never agains" that would creep silent and regretful, one by one into her life. -/-      Now it is years later, and she knows he still remembers. She can't say whether he remembers her name or even her face, but she knows he remembers that night, her perfume and the air and the color of the sunset, that night he first did it, almost. And it still will anger him that he hadn't been smart enough to take her jeans all the way down.      And she, though she has broken her vow many times and with many men, she never will forget him. She won't forget his slender body and his pretty face, nor the good smell and feel of him, nor the innocence. She'll carry in her forever the special, romantic feelings she had that first, that one real time in her life.      And always, always she'll remember that sweet taste of crabapple.            -End- . . THE ARROW OF TIME Short story by Rodger Malcolm Mitchell phyllisrgarber@yahoo.com This version reproduced November 12, 2007 Copyright 1997, 1998, 2001, 2007 Rodger Malcolm Mitchell. All rights reserved. No part of this collection of stories may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written consent of Rodger Malcolm Mitchell. The flight of stars grinds down, lingers in one infinite instant of balance, then reverses and begins the trillion year collapse toward the next lower dimension.           Sadly, but three will remain.            When all the years before have passed, Jon's time for birth arrives. The indication came one century ago, when men were required to install his carved granite head stone. It was cracked and moss-covered then, but the years made the cracks heal and the moss shrink and disappear, until the stone weathered to a smooth, crisp shine. Then last year they removed the stone and left the mound and a foot stone.      On this spring day, brown leaves form out of dust, and the sun paints them as they leap from the damp earth and fly in the wind, twirling like carousel horses, up, up to the trees. Stones trail long, eerie shadows, whose strong colors harmonize like the art now being removed from museums for the genius, edwerd hoppir, to erase in his beautiful, strange style.      Two men sag at their shovels, and sweat in anticipation of effort. Then they dig Jon's embark, soft earth flying into a pile, until his vessel shows bare.      Welcomers arrive, those who will befriend Jon, those who will love him, and those who come because they must. (Though, of course, they all come because they must.)      One of Jon's brothers bows his head. The other will not arrive for several years. Jon's wife weeps and tries to accept the inevitability of life. Jon's small son, who arrived many years ago, no longer understands and cannot even try.      Reporters wait outside this private ceremony. The last of the words preceding this incident soon will be erased. Jon's vessel rises. As a sign of respect, the welcomers bend to remove unfolding flowers from its cover. The pastor speaks surely and authoritatively of God's wishes and of the bitter sweetness of this life and of others.      Six grim men lift Jon's vessel to their shoulders and carry it to be admitted to his carriage. The welcomers say customary words and kiss the air and touch cheeks and hug and shake hands, then shuffle back.      Their cars, long and shiny black, reflect the gaping crowds and bursting camera lights, and file through the gate, honk out into the boulevard, out and away. The stones and their shadows remain. The leaves whirling high and far, soon will bind to their greening trees. It is October, the time for life.      Jon's vessel is conveyed to the home, where great masses of flowers smooth the way, all unnoticed by the six struggling men who shoulder Jon to the receiving room.      His cover is lifted. Welcomers comment on his progress, examine him and pass before him.      A woman says, "Isn't it a shame? Look how smooth around the eyes."      A man says, "And his mouth. I would judge fifty years, perhaps less. Maybe forty-eight with that face. Short stay, surely."      "Do you actually know? Life indoors can lengthen it. you see a creased, sallow skin and you think, `long stay.' But the sun, a virus, tobacco, stress -- who knows -- will remove wrinkles faster. So he may live healthy indoors and stay longer."      He frowns, "Sun or no, I know a short stay when I see one." They turn away and laugh with others, who also laugh. None will become Jon's friends. His friends-to-be know how long he will stay. They do not laugh.      After a suitable time of conversation and speeches, the welcomers leave. Jon waits alone. In another room, rests a tiny girl with clear skin and innocent smile. Her loved ones know she soon will be gone. She lies surrounded by tears. Thus states the universe.      For Jon, the next two days are filled with darkness. Still in his vessel, he is rolled to another room where clothing and makeup and poisons are removed. Then he is transferred to the sanitarium and into the operating room, where the doctors work on his shattered head. Though the doctors are expert, only the spontaneous exit of the bullet and time itself, however brief, can repair such wounds. As time always does. -/-      He first awakens to the instant of pain and streak of red. His sleep-furred mind had heard, "Help him. Oh, God." Then, "Anyway the people love you, Jon. This heat is brutal." Her voice is good. "Won't that be nice? This evening we'll go to bed early."      Jon waves and smiles to the blur and lets the sound and heat beat in him. Sweat covers his face and body. There come smells -- rubber, sweat, leather, asphalt, grass, perfume -- all throbbing like the sound.      He smiles and waves and opens his eyes. Jacwilin laughs, "You'll have plenty of time for that. Bunny, don't sleep. Enjoy the acclaim." He closes his eyes. His open car rolls past the white cloud of cheering faces and waving hands.      He tolerates the long ride to the hotel, and to the airplane and to the car and to the white house, where he squints at the brilliant white of the pillars. That is the first day he knows.      The flavors of his first meal leave him, while the sun, rises through the western window and receives light from his eyes and the eyes of billions who live upon this earth and elsewhere in creation. On the second evening he watches himself speak on television. That afternoon he presents his speech and by morning, he begins to rehearse. -/-      Jon is left with his imagination. Normah steps through the door. "We can't do this again," she says. As she tosses off her clothes her wan smile reveals her embarrassment.      The small candle flame struggles for life, pulling atoms from the air in the dim room and turning them to wax. Jon sits up and stares at her. She stands naked before him, then lies beside him. They embrace one time, wet and exhausted. She rests her head on his chest. They fondle without a word, lovers with no love in them.      Words surprise him, "Normah, I love you, too."      "I do. I love you, Jon."      He feels her fluids enter him. For a while he can say nothing.      She draws up his undershorts and trousers and takes her face from his lap. Her breasts are heavy in his hands. She buckles his belt, reaches up, and kneels before him.      The elastic has pressed her skin. He sees red lines on her back. There are three hooks that close. He watches her hook her brassiere.      She turns to him. A drop of sweat rises from her brassiere. It travels up between her breasts to her neck.      She picks up her clothes. She steps into her skirt. It slips up over her hips. The black cloth closes as Jon hears the raspy sound and watches the zipper.      Her skin sparkles in the candlelight. Her blouse flutters like a wounded, white bird, up from the floor. It wraps her arms and shoulders. All the buttons are open. Her blouse is of transparent cotton. She presses each button through its hole. She stands before him as he watches.      The small candle flame flares, then disappears into the match.      "Very well, together, we light a candle."      "Give me your hand," he reaches for her.           "But I like to see your pretty face, Jon. A candle is romantic."      "We do not need the light," he says. "You see a tree filled with apples. You know their colors and their shape. Yet you know nothing if you never will taste an apple."      He is surprised at how he feels, breathless as though about to descend stairs.      She kisses him. She is golden and shiny, like a sleek goddess. Jon is glad Normah is here, and cannot know he was not glad, earlier.      That evening, while Jacwilin is in France, where they love her best, beautiful Normah, all yellow-haired and blowzy, with sleep lines dividing her face, came to lie in Jon's bed.      The evening sun still shines from his bed and his room and his eyes, lighting the sky with red. From his nostrils and out through the open windows passes the smell of flowers and earth and thoughts of her.      Jon does not know, nor would he care, that last year, before Jon's birth, Normah Joan comforted Jon's brother, Rober. -/-      Rober faces the window. He was born earlier than Jon. He too had carried a bullet. Two brothers born with bullets. Improbable but true.      Jon is an eminent eradicator. He will eradicate poems, novels and philosophy, and was acclaimed for years before he arrived.      Rober asks, "What will you eradicate soon?"      "A science novel. It contains things called `computers,' which if they existed, would make eradicating easier. The mechanical eradicator is cumbersome."      "What is the novel called?"      "`The Arrow of Time.' It is about a universe different from ours, where the stars fly apart rather than coming together. Effect follows cause. Information is gained rather than lost." "How is this possible? Gained from where?" "From nowhere. From nothing. As iron emerges from the deoxygenation of rust, so do facts come together and information results. That is one way it is unlike the real world, where all knowledge existed in the beginning, and dissipates through the centuries." "More slowly, now that there is so much less. Some believe there will be eras in which almost no knowledge at all is lost. How else is this strange world different?" "There, the people are said to come from the union of their mothers and fathers, and emerge from their mothers, smooth and tiny no matter how many years they have."      "Good heavens, emerge from their mothers? How grotesque. And when their time comes to leave, what happens?"      "They leave, whenever. There is no special time and no way to foresee it. Things happen to them and then they are put into the ground to dissolve."      "As though earth is the receiver instead of the mother? You say that a body is disintegrated by the earth, your molecules rip apart and travel who knows where? Horrifying. And in that world, you never know how many years you have left."      "Robber, we don't know with certainty, now."      "But we have a good estimate. Within a few hours, anyway. In that backward time you could eradicate unexpectedly. You'd never know."      "Maybe that would be better."      "God no, but Jon, there's something worse I've thought of. In backward time you'd squander the feel-good, the tender years of innocence first, only to look ahead to cracked flesh and arthritic pain. I expect everyone would wish for short lives in such a world. Why would anyone wish to live long?" "Yet they do, at least in my book." "Anyhow, you said your novel was scientific?"      "It describes a paradox. In our real world, order increases through the centuries. That is the natural course of things. The stars gain mass by attracting energy from the universe. It's called, "The second law of thermodynamics." Yet though knowledge is order, our knowledge decreases. Each hundred years humankind forgets much of what we know. In fifty thousand, we'll be beasts. Nearly all knowledge will be lost."      Rober asks, "How can order and knowledge be the same, while one increases and the other decreases?"      "That's the paradox. As you know, we will end with nothing. Our group knowledge leaves us, as we lose our memories to the years. New people arrive who will have much less to forget. I'm a senator. Do you think the next generation will know I once was president? Of course, not. Even I won't be sure. Gone, all gone, knowledge ends in the blowing ashes of time."      "So in the world of your novel, how does knowledge begin?"      "It says when time runs backward, information is created out of nothing. Events precede memory. Humans learn to travel to the stars, to the most distant ends of the universe. As long as the stars fly apart the total of human knowledge grows. Eventually we know everything and our thoughts alone stir the universe. But, the stars turn and began to converge. That's why time now runs forward. In trillions of years, the stars all will crash together, rebound, and begin the cycle again. That fact remains on the edge of my memory."      Rober smiled. "It's still hard to accept time running backward. Imagine the terror. You and I end in boxes, lowered into the ground, lie there as our atoms disperse. Our bullets would have burrowed in while we were awake. Logically then, everyone and everything, including you and me, a trillion, trillion years ago, we'd have done this before. Backward. Or maybe many times before. Depends on how often the universe bounces."      "You see the idea. There would be imperfections in the time line. Each cycle would include subtle differences from the last and the next. But yes, that's the theme of my book, not that I necessarily believe it."      Rober began to giggle. "Necessarily? In that world, disease could grow and end us, rather than dying and drawing us forth. When you said, ...`thoughts stirred the universe...', do you mean people would have the illusion that they alter the course of the universe, rather than the universe altering them? But, the path of every atom already is determined. How could people change that?"      "They can't, of course. It's a story. "      "I prefer the real world."      "Perhaps, but do you realize a few years ago, we walked on the moon. Now we've forgotten how. Lives are shorter than they used to be and will continue to grow shorter. In the distant past we may have lived for thousands of years. And there are fewer people produced. Once fertile and prolific, mother earth is runs down."      "That’s the natural course. And about your bouncing universe Jon, will you ever know whether you're coming or going?      "If I ever do," he laughed, "It'll be about time." -/-      Summer begins its departure. Each day, the sun arrives later and leaves earlier, and first the flowers and then the leaves, shrink into the tree branches. Then, comes winter. Jon watches as frost emerges from the ground, and builds to snow that flies to the clouds, and more frost emerges, and more snow, then less as the last, few flakes rise into the gray skies. The days lengthen and leaves of all colors form from the earth, and they lift and drift in the breeze up into the branches and green there, and the days become warm again, and it is a year. -/-      There will be an election in two years. Jon will be happy to leave the senate. His back gives him great pain when he first stands, though after a few hours on his feet, his pain eases somewhat. He is idolized and there is talk of Camelot. -/-      Jacwilin says, "Since we divorced I've been alone, so I'm glad to have you here with me. Before you, Avion was an unattractive man, but kind, though I never received with him. He arrived later than I, and will continue for many years after me. Avion is very wealthy, though not so pretty as you. Soon we'll forget you are my second husband."      "The words soothe me."      "Do you never tire of it?"      "Your story Jackee, tell me again." -/-      An infant son comes to Jon and Jacwilin. They have felt sadness for years. They'd watched the dates, engraved in the cemetery stone, grow sharper, and men taking the stone away. Still, one never becomes immune to the horror of an infant born.      The vessel rises from the earth. It is so tiny, Jon carries it in his own arms. He and Jacwilin take the infant to the home, and later to the hospital. The doctor reassures them about the procedure. He will do this many times.      The child is wiped with a bloody towel, then he is forced into Jacwilin, whose screams begin as bare gasps, gurgling deep in her throat, and grow to racking shrieks, hours and hours of her ghastly screams. When it is done, Jon and she drive home together and through the next months, while their son dissolves into her, they feel the joy of his coming. Though she was his receiver, Jacwilin never had the opportunity to know this child merging with her. That is how life goes. -/-      Jacwilin notices Jon's face is smooth and there is no gray in his hair. "We'll be single soon," she says. "I feel sad about that."      She gives him a mirror. He inspects his face, and is disappointed to see how old it has become. Nearly all wrinkles have disappeared. "Well ... if we're like most people, at least we'll soon enter the most pleasant days of our lives. College, high school. Carefree play succeeds responsibility. The bliss of innocence is our reward for living."      "Some find it stressful."      "But think how we'll feel. I'll get rid of this back pain. You'll have the vigor of age. God's reward." "I hate the forgetting." "Much of life is best forgotten," he muses. -/-      One winter morning, Jon and Jacwilin skip outside, holding hands. She wears icedrop baguettes in her hair and lashes, and Jon looks at her with more passion than he ever felt. They run into the house, throw off their heavy jackets, merge and begin to plan for their divorce. It will be beautiful. -/-      The divorce night is joyous, beginning when the exhausted guests arrive, there to be stimulated by hours of dance and sweets and dinner. The evening ends with the most lovely ceremony ever seen by the six hundred attending. Jacwilin looks elegant in white, and Jon regrets they would know each other only a short time longer. -/-      As Jon says, college is the best of times. With nineteen years still to come, he finds his final union with a girl he'd been surprised to learn had only sixteen years ahead of her. He does not know her name.      They merge in the back seat of his last car. It is her final union too, very urgent and passionate. Then after suitable cuddling they go to eat and see a movie. That day, at the amusement park, Jon sees her for the last time, never learning that nine months earlier she had received a daughter, and half the seed of her child had entered him.      During the next seven years Jon provides his own comfort, and with just twelve years ahead, ceases even that. -/-      By this time Jon moves in with his parents. During high school Jon shrinks so fast he is the smallest boy in the ninth grade.      He eradicates his last poem. It speaks of the seasons. He likes least when the days became chill and dim, and butterflies wrap themselves in their chrysalis, and the leaves fold into buds and enter the twigs. He loves best to run outside and feel his skin warmed by the rays it sends to the sun.      With six years left, he becomes quite small, and he charges among his dreams. His receiver spoils him foolish, for these were to be the best of the best years, when each day is a glorious, perfumed waft of honeyed sunshine and magic.      He forgets his pains and cares, and lives for the moment. And the moment is good. -/-      Time melts and hazes and divides into random events. Jon's life focuses on his receiver. She is kindness and gentleness and goodness. He cuddles in her lap, his ear to her heartbeat. -/-      On his last day, his receiver wraps him in his blanket and takes him to the sanitarium, where he dozes most of the time, often sleeping in her arms. The nurses roll him, enclosed in his incubator, to the large room with the sharp lights overhead.      People lift him and remove his blanket and hold him chilly and squirming above his naked, sweating mother, and smear him with warm, sticky fluid and begin the insertion.      Fear strikes him, and he screams as feet first he enters her. She churns warm inside. He hears her moan. His legs are in. It is tight. His chest. She says, "Oh, oh, oh," in staccato puffs. His shoulders twist to enter. Her body throbs and bucks. Hot fluid rushes past him into her.      The doctor presses Jon's head. In slides his chin, his nose, his forehead. So much pressure. In. In. To where it feels warm and dark and safe.      Jon's receiver whimpers and twists as he draws his knees up and binds to her. He feels her writhe and contract in waves, and hears her voice far away. Her heart pounds through him, shocking him like lightning on a primeval ocean. He settles back deeper as the waves of pressure ease.      It happens in minutes. Not like some children who resist for hours, or those unfortunate few who must enter a recently born woman.      Soon her sobs end and her writhing ends and her heart slows to its normal, loving rhythm. Jon's body begins its wonderful merge with hers, the flesh and the bone and the essence of him channel into his receiver.      Cell by atom he enters and flows and becomes her, and finally, peacefully they become one, the most beautiful moment in all creation. -/-      One distant day, receiver earth runs out of humans to yield. For a while, she continues to bring forth other creatures, some huge, followed by smaller creatures and smaller still. Until there are none. Then the mother herself begins to heat and melt and disassemble, parts of her drift off into ever smaller parts, then into molecules, into atoms into elementary particles and beyond, all part of the barren universe speeding faster, faster, faster, toward singularity.      The arrow of time springs from the mark and accelerates, drawn to the bowstring in the inevitable course of the universe. The dimensions disappear, dull flat in the next cycle and stark linear in the next. How magnificent the universe must have been in the previous times, when dimensions were counted in the grandeur of infinities. -End- . . . PERFECT BLOOD Short story by Rodger Malcolm Mitchell phyllisrgarber@yahoo.com This version reproduced November 12, 2007 Copyright 1996, 1998, 2001, 2007 Rodger Malcolm Mitchell. All rights reserved. No part of this collection of stories may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written consent of Rodger Malcolm Mitchell.      "I can give you only fifteen minutes," the doctor said. She realized she shouldn't have said "only." It diminished the gesture. She should have said, "Oh good, I can give you fifteen minutes." So she did. "I mean, I'm pleased I can give you fifteen minutes."      "That would be more than sufficient, although I expect you will change your mind. I'm here Mrs. . . . I'm here doctor, because I've committed an unspeakable evil."      "An evil?" To the psychiatrist, this slender, little man sitting across the desk from her looked like the timid soul whose greatest sin might have come when he peaked over someone's shoulder on a grade school test, or perhaps shoplifted a candy bar when he was six. Yet, one never knows. In one way or another, they all have done evil.      She never had seen him before, but he had called and demanded an appointment. "Emergency," he had said. She had heard that before. Aren't they all "emergencies?" But the intensity of his voice swayed her. She made room. Fifteen minutes.      "Yes. I know you've heard that before, but I'm sure you will find this evil to be quite different."      "Can you talk about it?" she said.      "You think I'm exaggerating?"      "Here, only what you think matters. And what do you think?" She glanced at the personal history he had completed, and was surprised to see he was forty-five. His quivering hands and ashen complexion made him seem much older. She looked over his head, avoiding his eyes. "Why not say whatever occurs to you." She paused. "Do you want to do that?"      "Sure, you don't want to be directive, but you want some babble, right? I know the drill."      These were the most difficult patients, the ones who "know the drill." While the doctor analyzes them, they analyze the doctor. It becomes a game rather than a treatment. "If you wish."      "OK, I'm a short guy as you can see, and shy. In school, I didn't have close friends. I went to class and came home. I don't remember much happening in between. No dates. No clubs. Not like you, I'll bet. Tall, beautiful, brilliant. You had all the guys panting, right? You must have been the Miss Perfect Prom Queen."      It was an interesting choice of words, she thought, all things considered. When she didn't answer, he jumped up, crossed the room, opened the window and hung his head far out. "Got to have some air. This room's strangling me."      She kept her voice calm and soft. "Would you prefer to sit here while you talk? I'll hear you better."      "Are you afraid I'm going to jump? It's thirty floors. It shouldn't take too long to hit bottom, much less than the fifteen minutes. I'll try not to make a mess. I'll carry a napkin."      Again, she whispered, "Why are you thinking about that?"      "Ever have anyone jump?"      "No. We always have found better solutions. There always are better solutions, you know, though sometimes they are difficult to see. Shall we explore them together?"      "There's always a first time, isn't there doc? Maybe it'll be me. I wonder whether I'd bounce, or just go splat? Wouldn't it be a kick if I bounced right back in?"      "You could have jumped from any number of windows before you came to see me. Did you make this long trip to a psychiatrist and argue for an appointment, so you could jump from that particular window?"      "Smart cookie, aren't you. OK, I'll sit." He brought his head in from the window and flopped into the chair. "How long you been a shrink?"      "Ten years. Why do you ask?"      "Guess by now you've heard it all. Got everybody figured, right? So tell me what I'm thinking."      "Wouldn't it be better if you did the telling?"      "Ten years. By now it's automatic pilot for you, doc. Like a machine. I say something. You ask, `Why?' I answer. You ask, `How do you feel about that?' And away we go. A damn machine could do your job. Let me ask you something. Who's responsible for a kid, his biological parents or his nurturing parents?"      Even before the question finished, she said, "What do you believe?" Later, the meaning of his question would strike her.      "See? Automatic. I toss in a non sequitur, and you don't even blink. Right away its, `What do you believe? How do you feel?' You shrinks are so pompous. So removed. People come to you glowing in agony. This whole room is radioactive with people's pain, but nothing gets through your shiny armor. Well, we'll see."      She said nothing. Silence always was her best speech motivator.      He looked over his shoulder, then back to her, leaned forward and whispered in a gangster voice, "O.K., here's the scoop, lady. I'm involved in a murder. I've killed a kid. Now, are you certain you want to hear about this?"      "If you had murdered someone, even your doctor would be required to report ..."      "Yah, yah, all that `required to report' crap." He leaned back, fidgeted, took out a cigarette and said, "Do you mind?"      "No."      He put the cigarette away. "Liar. Of course you mind. No ash trays here. You don't smoke. Non-smokers always mind. Don't worry, I don't smoke either. Gave it up. Guess why."      She said nothing, but gave him her best "I-sympathize-with-you" look.      "I gave up cigarettes, because they didn't work. They didn't relax me or give me pleasure. And you know what was worst of all?"      "No."      "They didn't kill me like they're supposed to. See? You can't trust anyone." He crushed the cigarette in his hands and made a small pile of tobacco on her desk. "Never heard that one before, did you? You thought you knew all the answers. Lady, you don't even begin. But you will. Oh yes, you will. How's my time?"      "About ten minutes left."      "Another lie. There's about five. So the extra time means I've caught your interest." He slouched back in his chair and closed his eyes, then leaned forward and spoke in the breathless voice children use when they tell ghost stories. "I got married young, to the first woman I'd ever dated. She was six years older. I asked her and no one else had, so she said, `Yes.' I loved her then, and though I can't imagine she felt much for me, she was as good and kind to me as anyone ever was or will be. Still taping?"      "Yes, is that all right?"      "It's what I want, Miss Perfect Prom Queen. There has to be a record of this so everyone will understand. Anyway, after a couple years, we had a son. I was excited, because I'd hoped for, no expected, a tall, strong, handsome, athletic son, who'd wreak havoc on the female population, if you get my meaning. Now you're supposed to say, `What is your meaning?'"      She had been about to, but she elected to remain silent. It was important to maintain control while appearing to give the patient complete latitude. Why was deception so important? Why was control so important? She couldn't think of the reasons, but she knew there were some -- some very good reasons.      Sometimes, when listening to a patient, she imagined herself in a cage with a beast, trying to tame its imagined illnesses. But the beast would not tame. It wanted its wildness. That was its strength. It used its insanity to intimidate, to control. Yes, that was why she had to control them, so they would not control her. Mental illness was the most selfish affliction.      His was a story she had heard numerous times. The weak father who wants to live through his son. Perhaps this patient was right. Perhaps she was on automatic pilot. Were her patients people? Or had they become trite stories?      Her husband teased her about being a "porcelain princess." In high school she had been the prom queen, and now this patient calls her, "Miss Perfect Prom Queen." It's true that she had begun to classify patients as "story `A,'" "story `B,'" and so on. But how else can you protect yourself? This man was a "B," except his self-proclaimed murder confession was unique for a "B."      He continued. "OK, the silent method. I named him `Eric,' which means `powerful.' As it turns out, Eric was sweet and nice and all that, but not powerful, and after a while I saw he was going to be like me, in other words, a classic nerd.      "Maybe I tried to be a loving father. I don't know. It wasn't in me. I wasn't bad, but I wasn't good. I was there. For a long time I thought I was great, because I knew of fathers who weren't even there.      "Anyway, Eric got on real well with his mother, and my feelings about that were mixed up. You know, Oedipus and all that, not that he . . . Any way, we went along until when he was thirteen years old, he started feeling sick. At first we thought it was a series of colds or allergies or something, but when the symptoms wouldn't clear up we took him to a doctor.      "The doctor did all kinds of tests on Eric and then did some tests on my wife and me. That kind of surprised us. When the results came back, he called us all in. He had Eric wait in the lobby while my wife and I went into the office.      "The doctor looked shook, and right away I figured the kid was very sick. I was right, but it was much worse even than I'd guessed."      He stopped and looked at her, playing the same silent game she had played. They stared at each other for two minutes, until he said, "OK, you're better at this than me. Want to know what the doctor told us? Now you say, `Would you like to tell me?'      "Is that what you'd like me to say?"      "Damn right I would. Jeez, that's irritating. Smug and irritating. That's why I came to you. The doctor started by telling us Eric did have allergies and they caused all the symptoms. I started to smile, but he held up his hand. The allergies were nothing. The real problem was, in doing all the tests, they discovered Eric also had Huntington's. As you know it's a genetic disease, not immediately fatal, but degenerative. No cure. No hope. When Eric would reach thirty, his mind would start to deteriorate and by fifty he'd die a slobbering fool.      "My wife cried, and I guess even I did, too. I said, `Did he get it from my wife or from me?' Right away I was sorry I'd asked such a dumb question. I didn't know much about Huntington's then and I was sort of hoping it wasn't me.      "But I saw a strange look come into the doctor's eyes. He said, `Huntington's is rare. It comes from both parents and neither of you has it. But obviously . . . Eric is . . . adopted?'      "`No,' I said, `What makes you think that?' He took a deep breath and said, "Surely, you're aware . . . I mean, of course you're aware . . . he isn't your biological son. I can see from the tests. Wrong blood type, wrong genes.' Good heavens, didn't you know this? How can that be? I'm so sorry. What a terrible way to learn.'      "I said, 'Not my biological son? That's impossible. Unless my wife was cheating around.' I was still being stupid.      "He said, `I don't know what this is all about, but he isn't her biological son, either. I can't imagine you didn't know.'           "'That's nuts,' I said. 'He's the same kid we took home from . . . Hey, are you telling me there was some kind of mixup in the hospital? We took home the wrong kid?'      "He sort of winced and said, `I know this. Eric wasn't born to your wife or to any other woman you could have impregnated. He's not the biological child of either of you. I feel terrible. I'm shocked. I had no idea you didn't know.'      "I don't remember much about the rest of that day. A week later, my wife and I decided it wouldn't be fair to keep the Huntington's a secret from Eric. After all, it was his life, and there weren't going to be that many years left. As for the other thing, we decided to tell that, too."      The psychiatrist stood and walked to the window. She did not want to hear any more of this story. She felt so weary now, weary of trying to tame the beasts, weary of failure.      She put her head out and let the wind blow across her ears, to silence the sounds from inside. Below, ant-like people were scurrying around, carrying their ant-like problems.      Early in her career, when any of them visited her office and sat across from her, they grew to giant size and their problems became horrific, smothering masses. Then, she had wondered, how can they survive such unbearable existences? She knew she never could.      So she had learned to hold herself apart. She allowed herself no problems, just questions starting with "how" or "why" and always containing the word, "you." That way, the problems were not real and the patients were not people. They were cases. They were stories. She had no more relation to the problems than a foot doctor has to a fungus. Don't touch it and you won't catch it. She was not a person for her patients to infect. She was a doctor. She felt justified, and believed that any psychiatrist who denies this is lying.      It was later, after her son was born, that her patients became beasts.      She brought her head in from the window. The wind had mussed her hair. She walked to the mirror to pat the few stray strands back in place. She would not turn back to face him.      "Hey doc, you OK? Something bother you?"      "No, yes, please continue." The words slipped out. She had forgotten to ask a question.      "We have five minutes left doc, even on your clock. You sure you want to keep going?"      "If you want to. Don't worry about the time."      "Right. If I want to. That's better. So we told Eric, and he took it well. Kids can handle being told they have a fatal illness. Better than adults. Kids don't believe they're going to die and anyhow, thirty seems like a long way off to a teenager. The part about not being our biological child didn't phase him at all. We were still his folks. See how great he was?      "After a while though, an obsession started growing in me. I had to find my blood son. I needed to see him, to see how he turned out. That's what I called him, my 'blood' son. The worst part was, we all knew I meant my 'real' son.      "I contacted the hospital, but got no help there. All they cared was, might I sue. My wife begged me to stop. `Can't you see what you're doing to Eric, with all this talk about your `blood' son. Eric is your son, your real son, your only son. And what will you do if you find this other boy? What will you do?'      "I had no answer for that. I didn't need one. Nothing mattered except finding him. I spent my days at City Hall going over birth records, trying to find any boy born at the same time, and in the same hospital.      It was weird. I couldn't find anything. At that hospital, no other boy had been born within two days of Eric. Almost as though the records had been wiped out. Almost, you understand?      "I got so crazed, I didn't see what was happening in my own family. I didn't pay attention to my wife's complaints about not feeling well. I didn't notice Eric closing in on himself. He seldom came out of his room any more. I couldn't see anything.       "One day my wife phoned me from a hospital. She'd been in such pain, she'd checked herself in. They found cancer all through her. Within two weeks she was gone.      Some lousy husband I'd been during those last agonizing days of her life. I hadn't even the sense to comfort her when she needed me. What a hell of a way to die, in pain and being ignored by your own husband. Can you think of a worse death?      "As bad as I feel now, Eric took it worse. He stopped talking. Literally. I had to take him out of school. Doctors couldn't do anything. Eric sat in a corner with his arms around his knees, and rocked and rocked. But even that couldn't stop me from searching for my blood son. Can you believe it?      "I kept going back to the hospital where he was born, talking to anyone who would talk to me. Janitors, cops, anyone. Finally, an older nurse, she must have felt sorry for me, or got tired of me, or something. She slipped me a piece of paper. It had a family name and address. A big house in the suburbs.      "I drove there and sat in my car and waited. After a couple hours a kid came out. He was tall and strong and good looking. But as different as he was from me, I could see his features were mine."      The psychiatrist continued to face the mirror. "How long ago was this?"      "Yesterday morning."           The psychiatrist stiffened. "Just yesterday morning? You saw the boy yesterday?" She turned to him. Her voice rose. "What did you do?"      "Have I sort of caught your interest, doc? Oh Jeez, I think my fifteen minutes are up. I guess I better go."      "No, you tell me. Just tell me, now. What did you do?"      "O.K., if you insist. I got out of the car and walked toward him. He was shooting baskets into a hoop mounted on the garage. He was good too, the way he moved, real smooth and athletic. I didn't know what I was going to do. There was no plan. But the ball bounced to me, and without thinking I took a shot. Believe it or not, it went in.      "I said to him, `How was that . . . son?' He said, `Not bad. Want to play horse?' His voice was my voice, younger but mine. We played horse, and he whipped my butt, naturally. We shook hands and I drove off, and that was it. I never even learned his name. So that's it. Done. The end."      The psychiatrist walked behind her desk and snapped, "That's it? Done? I doubt it. I'm sure there's much more, so you might as well get on with it. Why are you here and what do you want?"      "Oh, there is one more little thing."      "I thought there might be." Her voice was cold. "Listen to me. It's too late. If you try to change the past, you will destroy the future, yours, Eric's, everyone's who is involved."      "True, it is too late to change the past. Poetic and true. If you change the past you destroy the future, but it's not too late to know the past, is it? When I came home last night I found Eric dead. He'd hung himself from our balcony."   &nbs