something he didn’t like.”
“Your godfather? You never mentioned him before. How could he do that?”
“He is a person of great power over life,” I said, “who is responsible for whatever power I possess over death. Fortunately, he thinks I’m dead now. So I believe I’ll have some reconstructive surgery, change the spelling of my name, grow a beard, move to another state, and run a small, low-key practice to cover the expense of my bleafage research. I love you. Will you marry me and come along?”
Dorel said, “I hate to tell you that you sound a little crazy, Dave, but you do.”
She stared at my bike.
“Are you a ventriloquist, too?” she asked me.
“No, that was Dorel talking. He just saved my life. Hes a rebel spirit doing time as a bicycle, and he’s been with me since I was a kid. Saved my life a couple of times then, too.” I reached out and patted his seat.
Descending the steps, she leaned forward and kissed the top of the handlebars.
“Thanks Dorel,” she said, “whatever you are.”
Whatever he was, it was no longer a blcycle. He fell apart in the day’s-end light into a swirling collection of golden motes. I watched, fascinated, as the phenomenon resolved itself into a tower about six feet in height, narrowing as it grew.
I heard Betty draw in a long breath.
“What did I just set off?” she asked.
“Beats me,” I said. “But since there was no frog I don’t think you get a prince.”
“Guess I’m stuck with you then,” she said, and we watched the bright whirlwind assemble itself into a human shape—that of a tall, bewhiskered man in buckskins.
He bowed to Betty.
“Don Laurel,” he said. “At your service, ma’am.”
Then he turned and shook my hand.
“Sorry to deprive you of transportation, Dave,” he said. “But I just got my enchantment broken.”
“Calls for a celebration,” I said.
He shook his head.
“Now that I’m unbiked I have to find a niche quick,” he said, “or, I’ll fade to airy nothingness. So I’ll be heading back below, and I’ll take up residence in the caves. He’ll never spot an extra invisible entity. And I’ll keep moving both of your candles out of his way. Good luck with the bleafage work. I’ll be in touch.”
With that, he turned once more into a tower of light. The motes darted like fireflies and were gone.
“That’s a relief,” I said, moving once more to embrace her. “But I wish things had gone differently with Morrie. I like him. I’m going to miss him.”
“He doesn’t exactly sound like a nice guy,” she observed .
“His line of work hardens him a bit,” I explained. “He’s actually quite sensitive.”
“How can you tell?”
“He likes football and chess.”
“They both represent violence—physical, and abstract.”
“…And hot chocolate. And Schubert’s Quartet in D Minor. And he does care about the balance between life and death, most of the time.”
She shook her head.
“I know he’s family,” she said. “But he scares me.”
“Well, we’re going incognito now. He shan’t be a problem.”
I was able to leave it at that for a long time. Betty and I were married, and I did change my name and move to a small town in the South—though I opted against cosmetic surgery. The beard and tinted glasses and a different hairstyle altered my appearance considerably, or so I thouht. I built up a satisfactory practice, had a greenhouse full of bleafage, and set up a small home laboratory. For over a year I managed not to be present at life-and-death crises, and when visiting my patients in hospital I was able t oavoid other patients at terminal moments which might have resulted in an undesired family reunion.
You might say I was pathologically circumspect in this regard; even so, I did glimpse Morrie going around corners on a few occasions.
I kept wondering, though, given my line of work, when—not if—we would meet, and whether I would be able to carry the encounter with
“Your godfather? You never mentioned him before. How could he do that?”
“He is a person of great power over life,” I said, “who is responsible for whatever power I possess over death. Fortunately, he thinks I’m dead now. So I believe I’ll have some reconstructive surgery, change the spelling of my name, grow a beard, move to another state, and run a small, low-key practice to cover the expense of my bleafage research. I love you. Will you marry me and come along?”
Dorel said, “I hate to tell you that you sound a little crazy, Dave, but you do.”
She stared at my bike.
“Are you a ventriloquist, too?” she asked me.
“No, that was Dorel talking. He just saved my life. Hes a rebel spirit doing time as a bicycle, and he’s been with me since I was a kid. Saved my life a couple of times then, too.” I reached out and patted his seat.
Descending the steps, she leaned forward and kissed the top of the handlebars.
“Thanks Dorel,” she said, “whatever you are.”
Whatever he was, it was no longer a blcycle. He fell apart in the day’s-end light into a swirling collection of golden motes. I watched, fascinated, as the phenomenon resolved itself into a tower about six feet in height, narrowing as it grew.
I heard Betty draw in a long breath.
“What did I just set off?” she asked.
“Beats me,” I said. “But since there was no frog I don’t think you get a prince.”
“Guess I’m stuck with you then,” she said, and we watched the bright whirlwind assemble itself into a human shape—that of a tall, bewhiskered man in buckskins.
He bowed to Betty.
“Don Laurel,” he said. “At your service, ma’am.”
Then he turned and shook my hand.
“Sorry to deprive you of transportation, Dave,” he said. “But I just got my enchantment broken.”
“Calls for a celebration,” I said.
He shook his head.
“Now that I’m unbiked I have to find a niche quick,” he said, “or, I’ll fade to airy nothingness. So I’ll be heading back below, and I’ll take up residence in the caves. He’ll never spot an extra invisible entity. And I’ll keep moving both of your candles out of his way. Good luck with the bleafage work. I’ll be in touch.”
With that, he turned once more into a tower of light. The motes darted like fireflies and were gone.
“That’s a relief,” I said, moving once more to embrace her. “But I wish things had gone differently with Morrie. I like him. I’m going to miss him.”
“He doesn’t exactly sound like a nice guy,” she observed .
“His line of work hardens him a bit,” I explained. “He’s actually quite sensitive.”
“How can you tell?”
“He likes football and chess.”
“They both represent violence—physical, and abstract.”
“…And hot chocolate. And Schubert’s Quartet in D Minor. And he does care about the balance between life and death, most of the time.”
She shook her head.
“I know he’s family,” she said. “But he scares me.”
“Well, we’re going incognito now. He shan’t be a problem.”
I was able to leave it at that for a long time. Betty and I were married, and I did change my name and move to a small town in the South—though I opted against cosmetic surgery. The beard and tinted glasses and a different hairstyle altered my appearance considerably, or so I thouht. I built up a satisfactory practice, had a greenhouse full of bleafage, and set up a small home laboratory. For over a year I managed not to be present at life-and-death crises, and when visiting my patients in hospital I was able t oavoid other patients at terminal moments which might have resulted in an undesired family reunion.
You might say I was pathologically circumspect in this regard; even so, I did glimpse Morrie going around corners on a few occasions.
I kept wondering, though, given my line of work, when—not if—we would meet, and whether I would be able to carry the encounter with
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