Read Online Pricksongs & Descants by Robert Coover - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Coover
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tube to the doctor. Dr. Peloris made a hasty smear, peered into the field microscope. “ 2-A! ” she exclaimed with a soft appreciative whistle. “ Not bad for a man of his age! ”
Morris now lay limp in the arms of the two men. His checks sagged indifferently. Defiance was over. Victory was ours!
Dr. Peloris turned toward Morris, smiled gently. “ There is still a place for you in our world, ” she said. “ You are more than healthy enough to warrant an attempted rehabilitation. I am in a position to recommend you. Perhaps a job at one of our mutton factories to begin with. Would you be interested? ”
Morris stared numbly at the doctor. He closed his mouth. Slowly, deliberately, sullenly, he shook his head. “ Put him in chains, ” the doctor ordered. She closed up her black bag, strode away, to the cheers of the gathered throng.
This, then, concludes our report. Dr. Doris Peloris has received highest State honors, yet it is of course recognized by all citizens that she cannot be rewarded enough. May history grant her that which is beyond our humble means! Though he remains in chains, Morris ’ story may not be ended. He has been turned over to the urbanologists and a famous urbaniat rist has taken a personal inter est in his case. They admit that Morris is a challenge serious beyond precedent to their young sciences, but reintegration does not seem entirely beyond possibility. We may well, in concert, wish that such might be the case!
(Doris Peloris the chorus and Morris sonorous canorous Horace scores Boris—should be able to make somethin outa that by juniper then there ’ s bore us and whore us and up the old torus no not so good not so good losin the old touch I am by damn/ ahh! Rameses ! why ’ d they go and do that to ye for? it ’ s the motherin insane are free!)
THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE
1
A pine forest in the midafternoon. Two children follow an old man, dropping breadcrumbs, singing nursery tunes. Dense earthy greens seep into the darkening distance, flecked and streaked with filtered sunlight. Spots of red, violet, pale blue, gold, burnt orange. The girl carries a basket for gathering flowers. The boy is occupied with the crumbs. Their song tells of God ’ s care for little ones.
2
Poverty and resignation weigh on the old man. His cloth jacket is patched and threadbare, sunbleached white over the shoulders, worn through on the elbows. His feet do not lift, but shuffle through the dust. White hair. Parched skin. Secret forces o£ despair and guilt seem to pull him earthward.
3
The girl plucks a flower. The boy watches curiously. The old man stares impatiently into the forest ’ s depths, where night seems already to crouch. The girl ’ s apron is a bright orange, the gay color of freshly picked tangerines, and is stitched happily with blues and reds and greens; but her dress is simple and brown, tattered at the hem, and her feet arc bare. Birds accompany the children in their singing and butterflies decorate the forest spaces.
4
The boy ’ s gesture is furtive. His right hand trails behind him, letting a crumb fall. His face is half-turned toward his hand, but his eyes remain watchfully fixed on the old man ’ s feet ahead. The old man wears heavy mud-spattered shoes, high-topped and leatherthonged. Like the old man ’ s own skin, the shoes are dry and cracked and furrowed with wrinkles. The boy ’ s pants are a bluish-brown, ragged at the cuffs, his jacket a faded red. He, like the girl, is barefoot.
5
The children sing nursery songs about May baskets and gingerbread houses and a saint who ate his own fleas. Perhaps they sing to lighten their young hearts, for puce wisps of dusk now coil through the trunks and branches of the thickening forest. Or perhaps they sing to conceal the boy ’ s subterfuge. More likely, they sing for no reason at all, a thoughtless childish habit. To hear themselves. Or to admire their memories. Or to entertain the old
Morris now lay limp in the arms of the two men. His checks sagged indifferently. Defiance was over. Victory was ours!
Dr. Peloris turned toward Morris, smiled gently. “ There is still a place for you in our world, ” she said. “ You are more than healthy enough to warrant an attempted rehabilitation. I am in a position to recommend you. Perhaps a job at one of our mutton factories to begin with. Would you be interested? ”
Morris stared numbly at the doctor. He closed his mouth. Slowly, deliberately, sullenly, he shook his head. “ Put him in chains, ” the doctor ordered. She closed up her black bag, strode away, to the cheers of the gathered throng.
This, then, concludes our report. Dr. Doris Peloris has received highest State honors, yet it is of course recognized by all citizens that she cannot be rewarded enough. May history grant her that which is beyond our humble means! Though he remains in chains, Morris ’ story may not be ended. He has been turned over to the urbanologists and a famous urbaniat rist has taken a personal inter est in his case. They admit that Morris is a challenge serious beyond precedent to their young sciences, but reintegration does not seem entirely beyond possibility. We may well, in concert, wish that such might be the case!
(Doris Peloris the chorus and Morris sonorous canorous Horace scores Boris—should be able to make somethin outa that by juniper then there ’ s bore us and whore us and up the old torus no not so good not so good losin the old touch I am by damn/ ahh! Rameses ! why ’ d they go and do that to ye for? it ’ s the motherin insane are free!)
THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE
1
A pine forest in the midafternoon. Two children follow an old man, dropping breadcrumbs, singing nursery tunes. Dense earthy greens seep into the darkening distance, flecked and streaked with filtered sunlight. Spots of red, violet, pale blue, gold, burnt orange. The girl carries a basket for gathering flowers. The boy is occupied with the crumbs. Their song tells of God ’ s care for little ones.
2
Poverty and resignation weigh on the old man. His cloth jacket is patched and threadbare, sunbleached white over the shoulders, worn through on the elbows. His feet do not lift, but shuffle through the dust. White hair. Parched skin. Secret forces o£ despair and guilt seem to pull him earthward.
3
The girl plucks a flower. The boy watches curiously. The old man stares impatiently into the forest ’ s depths, where night seems already to crouch. The girl ’ s apron is a bright orange, the gay color of freshly picked tangerines, and is stitched happily with blues and reds and greens; but her dress is simple and brown, tattered at the hem, and her feet arc bare. Birds accompany the children in their singing and butterflies decorate the forest spaces.
4
The boy ’ s gesture is furtive. His right hand trails behind him, letting a crumb fall. His face is half-turned toward his hand, but his eyes remain watchfully fixed on the old man ’ s feet ahead. The old man wears heavy mud-spattered shoes, high-topped and leatherthonged. Like the old man ’ s own skin, the shoes are dry and cracked and furrowed with wrinkles. The boy ’ s pants are a bluish-brown, ragged at the cuffs, his jacket a faded red. He, like the girl, is barefoot.
5
The children sing nursery songs about May baskets and gingerbread houses and a saint who ate his own fleas. Perhaps they sing to lighten their young hearts, for puce wisps of dusk now coil through the trunks and branches of the thickening forest. Or perhaps they sing to conceal the boy ’ s subterfuge. More likely, they sing for no reason at all, a thoughtless childish habit. To hear themselves. Or to admire their memories. Or to entertain the old
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