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Authors: Wayne Johnston
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saying farts.
“I’m not sitting on your shoulders,” Deacon said. He said a dose of Landish was ten times worse than a dose of Deacon.
“The flatulent are petulant,” Landish said. He could get the boy to walk more often if he could stand to eat cabbage à deux more often.
They had veg-edibles and Dark Marsh Fish. France’s bacon, henglish eggs. Cod au cretin. Black Forest Cram. Dark Marsh Toad. The traditional Easter Rooster.
But Landish got fewer jobs as winter came on.
“We’re down to the vestiges,” Landish said.
Landish milked goats and cows that belonged to others who let them roam to graze on whatever they could find. Deacon didn’t like it when Landish milked other people’s cows. “Well, you can’t unmilk a cow,” Landish said, “so you might as well drink up.” He gathered up the eggs of wayward hens whose legs bore the bands of their owners. “Just-laid eggs from unlaid hens.”
When the boy had a stomach ache from lack of food, Landish would lie beside him on the bed and rub his back and belly. The boy was paler than the newly perished. Landish pretended to eat so that Deacon could have more. He went to bed hungry and, unable to sleep,made up food puns: The Merchant of Venison. Broth fresh from the brothel. A sacrificial lamb was a mutton for punishment.
Would the winter never end? Season desist.
He should write Van and tell him they had dined tonight on Sham Chowder, Lack of Lamb, Crazed Ham and Duck à Mirage. Steam of Mushroom Soup and Perish Jubilee.
Landish remembered the food they had when he was growing up, the holiday feasts. His father, who lived in the house once Gen of Eve was gone, spread a good board: imported fruits and vegetables, brightly coloured, many of them from the tropics, smoked meats, cheeses, jams and sauces, all manner of bread and cream-crammed pastries. He remembered the apparition on the Druken board of whole pineapples, coconuts, wreaths of grapes, bananas in layered bunches of fifty or sixty, brightly coloured and oddly shaped marrows. The board was as important a decoration as the Christmas tree and much of it was merely admired, never eaten.
Deacon asked Landish how you got inside your mother from the Womb of Time, and how you got from her womb to the world.
Landish told him about Dick and the happy couple. Deacon asked him what the happy couple did. Landish said they had no choice but to live in wedded bliss.
He answered all of Deacon’s questions. Deacon laughed until he coughed. Landish swore that it was true. He added that he wondered if he should have waited until Deacon was older because at his age he might get it all mixed up. He said he had known men who were still confused about it when they died of old age.
“You’ll see. But not until you’re older. If your parents hadn’t done it, you’d be purely hypothetical.”
“What’s that?”
“An idea in Just Mist.”
Landish looked at him. If the boy were purely hypothetical, he wouldn’t weigh much less than he did now.
Deacon looked inside his underwear and laughed again.
“It grows on you,” Landish said. “I hope to God that something does.”
Deacon knew when he was joking, so he knew that it was true. The father he had never met. The mother he could not remember. When he was hypothetical.
The “contribution,” Landish called what a father did. Deacon was not old enough to make a contribution. Landish said he wasn’t sure how many he had made but he was almost certain that none of them had worked.
If Deacon’s father hadn’t made a contribution, Deacon would still be waiting in the Womb of Time. More waited there forever than ever had or ever would be born.
Landish tried to see and feel what Deacon did. He tried to remember when he himself was fresh from the Murk.
Deacon seemed to see only what was good in others. He delighted in watching others enjoy themselves as if he were one of them, as if their fine clothing and conveyances, their large houses with their
“I’m not sitting on your shoulders,” Deacon said. He said a dose of Landish was ten times worse than a dose of Deacon.
“The flatulent are petulant,” Landish said. He could get the boy to walk more often if he could stand to eat cabbage à deux more often.
They had veg-edibles and Dark Marsh Fish. France’s bacon, henglish eggs. Cod au cretin. Black Forest Cram. Dark Marsh Toad. The traditional Easter Rooster.
But Landish got fewer jobs as winter came on.
“We’re down to the vestiges,” Landish said.
Landish milked goats and cows that belonged to others who let them roam to graze on whatever they could find. Deacon didn’t like it when Landish milked other people’s cows. “Well, you can’t unmilk a cow,” Landish said, “so you might as well drink up.” He gathered up the eggs of wayward hens whose legs bore the bands of their owners. “Just-laid eggs from unlaid hens.”
When the boy had a stomach ache from lack of food, Landish would lie beside him on the bed and rub his back and belly. The boy was paler than the newly perished. Landish pretended to eat so that Deacon could have more. He went to bed hungry and, unable to sleep,made up food puns: The Merchant of Venison. Broth fresh from the brothel. A sacrificial lamb was a mutton for punishment.
Would the winter never end? Season desist.
He should write Van and tell him they had dined tonight on Sham Chowder, Lack of Lamb, Crazed Ham and Duck à Mirage. Steam of Mushroom Soup and Perish Jubilee.
Landish remembered the food they had when he was growing up, the holiday feasts. His father, who lived in the house once Gen of Eve was gone, spread a good board: imported fruits and vegetables, brightly coloured, many of them from the tropics, smoked meats, cheeses, jams and sauces, all manner of bread and cream-crammed pastries. He remembered the apparition on the Druken board of whole pineapples, coconuts, wreaths of grapes, bananas in layered bunches of fifty or sixty, brightly coloured and oddly shaped marrows. The board was as important a decoration as the Christmas tree and much of it was merely admired, never eaten.
Deacon asked Landish how you got inside your mother from the Womb of Time, and how you got from her womb to the world.
Landish told him about Dick and the happy couple. Deacon asked him what the happy couple did. Landish said they had no choice but to live in wedded bliss.
He answered all of Deacon’s questions. Deacon laughed until he coughed. Landish swore that it was true. He added that he wondered if he should have waited until Deacon was older because at his age he might get it all mixed up. He said he had known men who were still confused about it when they died of old age.
“You’ll see. But not until you’re older. If your parents hadn’t done it, you’d be purely hypothetical.”
“What’s that?”
“An idea in Just Mist.”
Landish looked at him. If the boy were purely hypothetical, he wouldn’t weigh much less than he did now.
Deacon looked inside his underwear and laughed again.
“It grows on you,” Landish said. “I hope to God that something does.”
Deacon knew when he was joking, so he knew that it was true. The father he had never met. The mother he could not remember. When he was hypothetical.
The “contribution,” Landish called what a father did. Deacon was not old enough to make a contribution. Landish said he wasn’t sure how many he had made but he was almost certain that none of them had worked.
If Deacon’s father hadn’t made a contribution, Deacon would still be waiting in the Womb of Time. More waited there forever than ever had or ever would be born.
Landish tried to see and feel what Deacon did. He tried to remember when he himself was fresh from the Murk.
Deacon seemed to see only what was good in others. He delighted in watching others enjoy themselves as if he were one of them, as if their fine clothing and conveyances, their large houses with their
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