Chapter four: The Tower Room

THE TOWER ROOM

Part One

Once upon a time there was an artist whose medium was farming. He was famous for his cannabis farming in particular: connoisseurs of his crop admired the way he had always worked in a cellar, flooding his harvest (it was always in harvest) with UV rays and immersing them in baths of nutrients, couching them—this was his mark--in ancient four- legged bathtubs, the older the better; very traditional. He thought that that was what his customers and critics would think. And they did. They trembled with nostalgia, even before they inhaled or ingested or even just e-haled his produce. He was a very famous artist.

For he was quite a business man, even if business was a matter of credit only; for without the critics the credits wouldn't accumulate, and he had, and needed to have apparently, a huge accumulation of credit. The critics and the creditors both loved him and the double whammy couldn't be beaten. He knew nostalgia was the opium of the masses right now, and this was so even when right now lingered into the unforeseeable future; that is to say, instinctively he knew nostalgia would never be a strictly now thing. For customers to be nostalgic about a practice which had outgrown its stigma so long ago that people were thrilled to pretend they understood its abuses was a great boon to Reynaldo. There were those who thought he even might have made nostalgia itself an art unto itself; but for the time being they were remaining quiet on that.

His customers indulged in the product of his art even while they thrilled to its authenticity--even while, that is, they grew nostalgic about his knowledge of ancient customs of cannabis evolution and cultivation and co-acculturation, the latter being a hot topic right now. Like his own, Reynaldo's customers' knowledge of cannabis was extensive; and they found his exhibits (from which they sampled samples and extended credit to an exorbitant degree to do so, you bet) both precious and priceless. Though some critics claimed this was true (about the overextended credit) to an almost banal degree, they were in the minority. Most agreed only barter might approach true value in this case. But no one knew what to barter, for Reynaldo was a very private person and always had dismissed without any consideration whatsoever any suggestion of barter. He insisted on credit only.

His own use and his customers' use of his art's by-product (namely, the produce) was, naturally, irrelevant to its real value; its use by a critic, on the other hand, meant something. These things were considered not nice to talk about, though perfectly understood by most educated people, the sign of an uncouth and perhaps unsavory sensitivity to the subject of value, certainly an unpleasant and even unhelpful subject to discuss in any event, either in public or in private. How could use, abuse, e-use or indeed any other practice-value/event-act have anything whatsoever to do with art a priori? Such an idea had to be consummately and inherently ridiculous: Reynaldo's art was measured by and registered in the feelings it evoked in the critics (and secondarily the customers') souls entirely. This, they agreed, made Reynaldo's art priceless. Classical, some said; at the very least, radical. Certainly, most credit-worthy customers agreed, for all time,

But now he yearned, strangely enough, for a tower room in which to cultivate his crop. He imagined sunshine instead of ultraviolet waves wafting with the breezes over the buds and flowers, doves and grackles instead of the inevitable spiders which came with all cellars, and best of all the blue sky beyond. The bathtubs were, during such moments, all but forgotten. What could this mean?

Sometimes it seemed to him to be a great bell room he imagined himself growing his crop in—sometimes there was no crop at all in what he imagined. For brief moments he would become the hunchback of Notre Dame, or the girl in the Marble Faun, experiencing an epiphany of peace in the face of the sun pouring in through the imagined tower room window, or aperture, or opening, located as they were on all i9ts sides. Other times he would stand in the imaginary tower room rapt, listening to the imaginary downpour from a perfectly terrific thunderstorm pouring down on the eaves, his eyes closed (imaginarily) just inches from his face, its damp stray occasionally rolling over him with a scent he remembered from childhood. Often, of course, he thought of Rapunzel.

For Reynaldo's other passion, twin to that for art, was reading. He read real books, the older the better, and had he not kept this fact a secret so well, more than a few customers might have offered him whole libraries of old, ancient books and manuscripts in barter for his art; but they did not know, and he did not know that this was so, and so it never happened. It is easy to see how and why Reynaldo's credit accumulated exponentially.

Credit was not Renaldo's problem.

Where to practice his art, which in Reynaldo's case meant where to farm his cannabis, began to form a problem, however, where one had formerly not existed--at least that he knew of. Where to practice his art, in fact, was fast becoming his obsession. For Reynaldo's art was as public as it could be, but his private life was as much his own as the world allowed it to be in these days. The correct term for Reynaldo was, and remains, reclusive.

And in his private life the tower room was beginning to pervade and occlude even his private, daily, reclusive routines as an artist. He forgot to answer the door (manual); he did not turn on the house at 5 am as usual, but neglected it until noon some days; he forgot to hydrate the plants, with unpublishable results ensuing; he even neglected the ancient Egyptian bathtub ring (he owned the oldest) he had known for months desperately needed re-ringing. And that wasn't all: he misplaced seeds and clone-lines, and even actually lost the stem cells to the ancient strain of 1969 gold Sancho had spent nearly three years tracking down in 'Columbia. All this because of a tower-room he couldn't get out of his head. But it got worse.

When he forgot to credit the energy bill (hydro vent, deep earth) and got shut off just when he was ready to reheat a late night bio-bun, he knew he had to take notice of his real behavior. His mild-mannered and relatively innocent-seeming daydreams of a new working space had evolved into a full-blown obsession, and he realized the implications. But what would—or could-- he actually do about it? Nothing. He told himself what friends and family would have told him if he had had any, which he didn't: artists are by nature obsessive--so what was the big deal? He indulged his obsession as freely as he accumulated credit. He just didn't didn't do it in public.

Obsession, you see, was not Reynaldo's problem either. Or so Reynaldo imagined.

One day he drove himself in his universally recognized white mid-20th. c. Mercedes (another obsession, one he could of course afford, and even afford to admit—he rarely allowed a car to drive him anywhere, even to the nearest biodome) into a valley across which beams of light chased one another colorfully and artfully through stands of sun washed and natural scenery hazily and mistily shrouded by, if not actually set off in deep, dark relief by, an enormous shadow.

It seemed to him, in fact, he was always coming out of that enormous shadow into still another perfectly beautiful vista when—bam!--back he would be under the shadow again. It was quite dazzling and beautiful, really, and he was reminded him of a Turner painting (Turner was his hero). The shifting light and shadow—not merely the road, that is--led him up and over gently sloping hills shot through with brilliant pale yellows, and subtle violets and greens. Everywhere he looked, indeed on every side, darkly mysterious, and mysteriously understated browns (infused, he rather though, with inner space) abounded.

These—with no regard to design at all-- seemed continuously and contiguously run through with shades and hues of colors he had never even seriously considered before, much less seriously considered actually using, had paint been his medium instead of farming. Each vista-venue of sublime and sublimated liminality sounded themes of common humanity deep within his heart. Everything he saw around him, that is, affected a resonance in his soul such as he hadn't ever experienced in his lifetime, or at least since art school.

He thought for a moment of his teacher then, the great master Rafaela Ernesto- Racine, of whom he always spoke with reverence, though he could not quite visualize what she looked like anymore, despite the crush. But only for a moment.

In a way Reynaldo was feeling reborn; but delivery hadn't quite happened yet. Indeed, color theory and SAIS (soul affect infusion syndrome), hitherto experienced only at the National Gallery in London and once at the Louvre while still a student, intruded so badly at one point he almost missed a turn in the road; and quite suddenly, under the grip of AAOD (auto automotive operational disorder), he realized he had arrived at his destination. Or, to be be entirely truthful, almost realized it; it took him a little time to register and therefore recover even his own consciousness at this moment. Of course, for Reynaldo this was his modus vivendi, and nothing out of the ordinary. He was, after all, an artist.

He actually thought for a second or two of allowing the car to drive him home again later, despite the possible threat to his personal autonomy. It was that bad. He looked around him, and to some extent continued his contemplation of his surroundings in terms of a lingering consideration of color theory, augmented by just a thought or two of design theory triggered (or so he thought at the time) by the slant of light through the limbs and leaves of the nearby towering beech tree. It was not to last.

For it was to a little collection of cottages nestled under a hill that he had driven, and to which he finally awoke, fifteen or twenty seconds later, from his reverie of color theory with a tad of design theory mixed in; and then he saw the tower building. In fact, he appeared to have parked directly across from it under the shade of a great beech tree. (That it was a beech eluded him at the time, but a beech it surely was, I assure you).

The sight of the tower, and the building upon which it was set simply took his breath way: surely it was the one in his dreams!

It was large and squarish and looked the way he almost always imagined the Alamo to look whenever he heard the epic recited, which was as often as possible; it and The Iliad, and maybe Gilgamesh were his favorites. Reynaldo was himself a connoisseur, not of cannabis history, but of poetry fests, and indeed received quite a few jabs from jokesters at roastings, something the famous could never avoid it seemed. He never missed the epic fest in Dallas every April. He actually allowed Sancho to take over the bathtubs for the ten days he would be gone each spring. The Alamo was one of his favorites, and privately Reynaldo aspired to be an epic poet himself, though few knew this, due to his reclusiveness. It was one of his most enduring, and secret, imaginary aspirations. He looked again up at the Alamo through his car door window. Slowly he rolled down the window and took a better look.

Its door was old, tall and wide, and located on the side. The side which was always toward him in his dreams–for indeed it did seem he had seen this very building in his dream—had no doors and windows. And it was the same with this real building here. It presented to the parked viewer a great square side of yellow stucco, unbroken by windows, pale and luminous in the light of the dusk descending. All around it were gardens, each with fireflies flickering from its darkening leafy recesses by the time Reynaldo rolled up in his Mercedes and rolled down his window. At the top of the building (Reynaldo had already inwardly pre-titled it The Alamo) was a large square tower, which must have been large enough to frame one ordinary sized room, a loft; reached, perhaps, by staircase.

And that reminded him. His dreams lately, besides the tower room, had been full of staircases too. Stepping off into the blackness from one was a common dream event; missing the top step, which turned into the bottom step, another; missing steps—all ordinary staircase dream fare. He yawned with the ordinariness of it—who hadn't had such dreams that he had read of? One time he was jumping off the stairs to catch a chandelier, to save himself by swinging up to....? What else but the tower-room? He was sure of it. He felt a certain, growing excitement and stopped mid-yawn. Where else could it lead--the staircase--but to some wonderful spacious tower-room landing in which to practice his art.

The door did not open when he approached and asked it to, so he assumed it was locked. Then he noticed the knob—not on display but apparently real. A real working manual doorknob—Reynaldo peered at it, intensely curious as he was about all such ancient technology. He knew in theory you were supposed to turn it, and push—or pull-- but had never actually turned a knob which was in actual operation, i.e. effecting the opening of a door, at least one which was not in an exhibition, as this one certainly appeared not to be--Reynaldo knew exhibits when he saw them and there was something too functional about this place, not just the knob, but everything. Everything around here seemed—what was the word?--too authentic. Dare he think it? Everything here seemed too real. Natural almost. He couldn't quite wrap his mind around it.

He reached for the knob—an old white, highly polished one of cracked enameled ceramic, attached by what appeared to be a single brass screw to the hob, just large enough to fit in his hand. He stood admiring it for a moment, and then remembered, just as he was getting ready to turn it: you were supposed to knock first. He knocked, though it made him slightly embarrassed, as though he was doing something he didn't understand how to do (and it was true, he didn't), or performing an ancient rite he hadn't the slightest idea how to perform (this too was true)--four or five raps, then two more.

No one answered the door of the building when he knocked, but he found the knob did turn when he tried it, and he pushed the door in easily, and found himself standing in a cool and slightly musty-smelling great huge dimly-lit room, the whole interior of the building apparently. Its floor was wooden, its wide-boarded floor painted in (he leaned close to inspect them) spatter paint drops of many colors, the whole spectrum in fact, including white. The whole long and wide expanse of the room was lit by windows on the south and east, and now that it was twilight, from the west, the north side being all wall. From far above somewhere fell a light in ambiance around him as he moved out into the middle of the floor. It was like a ball room—no, a gymnasium. Light seemed to be coming down from straight overhead, from high in the ceiling above him. He thought of New England meeting houses, of Spanish manor houses surrounded by haciendas and honeysuckle hedges, of the Globe Theatre, of a Roman atrium, though no pool was here, and it was not open to the sky--or was it? He couldn't quite see what was up there. Last of all he thought of the Parthenon. Yes, that was closest, though why he couldn't fathom. That and York cathedral. Natural light. He loved natural light. Why had he been in cellars so long with those damned ultraviolet rays?

The building was, in fact, open above him. In a single storey it rose up to a large square of light at the top of the ceiling where a perfectly square four -sided balcony framed what clearly looked like a room--or a space--above. He could not see, but he could imagine, the a room up there, iand it seemed to him it must be the tower room of his dreams he had found.

Reynaldo rushed back to the car and made it call home. Though Reynaldo loathed the phone, and loathed in particular making his authentic, antique car work like other cars (in phone mode), he knew the phone was Sancho's favorite mode of communication and so did it anyway. He informed Sancho that he would not be home for six days and told him to keep the current exhibit going for him. He found Sancho had already received and banked credit from one hundred and forty-four customers just since he had left that morning, but he hardly gave this a thought, so intent was he on exploring the old building, so empty and deserted he found it. He rather liked it that way, and he was thrilled to think that that he had actually discovered the tower room—he was sure—of his dreams!

He hurried back in to explore further. It half expected to locate staircases behind the two tall doors he found just to the side of the door as he went in. He imagined there would be a spiraling wooden staircase behind each giving access, surely, to the tower room far above. Unfortunately, when he opened first one and then the other, the doors revealed behind them empty stair well—or he guessed they were wells for stairs, though of course he was not really too familiar with them. He looked as far as he could up each. Empty.

Reynaldo was used to e-lifts and automatic atomizers to get from level to level, like most people, and didn't know exactly what to do with such ancient artifacts (even if they were in this case only imaginary)—stairs. He had seen them only before in exhibits and, of course, in the home of the nostalgic, his customers. He was a practical man, he told himself, and going from here to there by the most efficient means made sense. Yet here he was at a loss what to do. He had to get up to the tower room somehow—what was he to do? Short of hiring a hovering helicopter, or ordering an automatic atomizer installed. The utter vulgarity of the thought made him shudder. Anything was better than that—possibly not even going there at all, though he didn't entertain that possibility for more than a minute or two. It was just that this place seemed wrong for conveniences of the common kind, even if it was what he was used to. It would seem like some kind of violation, though of what he couldn't

Reynaldo did what any artist would do—he sat down to think. And because Reynaldo was a famous artist and practical businessman, he thought about what people would give him credit for and what the critics would like, which naturally was art—but in this case, art that would give him access to that tower room. Before he knew it--but not before he was tired enough to blow up his tent (larger on the inside than on the out) and pitch it on the lawn beside the iron garden gate outside and take a little nap in it--he had thought up a solution.

He would find out whose exhibit this was (for surely someone's exhibit this place he had driven himself to must be, despite its almost too pure authenticity)--and acquire it. For credit hopefully, or (Reynaldo allowed himself to think for the first time perhaps in his whole life) barter. Then, whatever it took, he would design and build—create and install stairs up to the tower room himself. And what would that involve? He thought he knew. Then he had it. Carpentry! That was it—carpentry; where you used those ancient tools: saw, hammer, plane. He'd seen it once, performed in Maine. It left, as a residue, a sort of by-product, most marvelous-smelling, called sawdust. Yes, only though carpentry could he preserve, or at least not disturb, perhaps, the magnificent integrity of this place, wherever this place was (and of course of that he was not sure).

Reynaldo did not even think about the fact that he himself was not actually a carpenter, though there were many artists who were; he knew many whose medium was archaic plumbing and electricity, that ancient power source: the nostalgia craze made much credit for many artists. Reynaldo had 'tr'action with many such artists professionally; or, at the very least, was aware they were out there. He would find out. He would find someone to bring in supplies and help him do the building and. Somehow he would do it, even if he had to consult professional HRS's (historical restoration specialists). But he didn't think he would have to go that far. If all else failed he would shut down the house and cellars and bring Sancho in on it. Sancho could do anything--even carpentry. He was sure of it. How difficult could it be, after all?

And, even if it did turn out to be difficult beyond imagination, it would all be worth it in the end, because he would finally be able to get up there. The tower room—the sunny loft, the deluged eaves, the doves and grackles: the sun! And, he was fairly sure he could do it all--all that he needed to do--in six days, per usual. There were few projects Reynaldo hadn't been able to successfully accomplish in six days or less, after all. Reynaldo didn't believe in doing things that required more than one week's effort. That was another of Reynaldo's trade marks.

That night, happily contemplating his new stairway construction under the stars he made shine on the top of his tent (which he had pitched in the grass outside the tower building by the gate of its garden), with Sancho at home running the business and maintaining the bathtubs, Reynaldo fell asleep and had a long and wonderful dream.

But while he was sleeping, an enchanted fog descended upon him and his seemingly invulnerable tent. For this was a witch's garden beside which he was encamped, and the tower room was hers. Of course Reynaldo had no way of knowing this and innocently enough thought upon waking that something was wrong (inconceivable as that was) with his dream holder.

Since early childhood, when he had received it from his parents for his fifth birthday, it had held and analysed his dreams for him automatically, without fail, every morning, organizing each one as it came among all the others in terms of its symbols and possible implications with a print-out for happy contemplation later (he loved to read and scorned audio results). Now, apparently, it wouldn't work at all—it didn't even think he had had a dream! Of course there was no way to get into it and fix it. It was not ever supposed to need fixing, which was an archaic concept obviously. “Fixing”--what was that?

Reynaldo was more than fond of his dreams and his dream holder, it goes without saying but must be emphasized nevertheless. Now as he stood in the dawn of the new day with a brand new dream apparently unknown to the dream holder, Reynaldo shook his head and looked around. Where was this place? How had this happened? What now?

Chapter Three: Raphaela and the Kierkegard Part 2

A pedabot who deigned to take over a human role, and a human who aspired to take over a botian one were thus joined on this sunny Athenian day in September in a special kind of friendship, one which was to bring to each a special fame (or infamy, depending on whose perspective) at a future date. The important thing now was the friendship. How did it grow? What were its constituents—what indeed could they be between bot and human? Why was it a friendship fated to flourish and not bring, as one might think, given the mores of the time, shame to both? It flourished because, as the poet says, it was not a tale of shame or fame or blame, but rather one wrought of innocent ambition, humanity, and love. Such tales must flourish; it is their nature.

The Kierkegaard introduced her the next afternoon, after her class with the Nietsche, to two boys her own age or a little younger, other students she thought at first; and indeed they were introduced to her as such. Raphaela was like any other twenty-year old being introduced, shy when meeting someone new. Marriage, if not parenthood, was a happy potential prospective regardless of profession, or as some said, regardless of art, these terms now being practicably interchangeable. Parenthood, of course, was more a matter of luck, and best not thought about until one was “ready” to be a gambler in a major way, for it was only the fortunate few who were allowed to reproduce, and one had no way of knowing if they were going to be lucky or not. Of course relationships of all kinds existed for those not keen on formal ends, such as they were: like all human affairs, it was a private matter, and not anything anyone was likely to discuss at large.

The boys, Sancho and Reynaldo (whose tunics were a bit shabby it occurred to Raphaela, though she normally didn't think of such things), immediately struck it off with her. Sancho, who was tall and muscular, broad-shouldered and blond, contrasted sharply with Reynaldo, who was just slightly taller than herself, dark and wiry, with bright eyes. Both greeted her enthusiastically and, she was pleased to see, with formalily.

Chapter Two: Raphaela meets the Kierkegard

Once upon a time there was a little girl who wanted to be an artist when she grew up. Everyone in her family and everyone she knew was adept at drawing or sculpting or painting or printing: they were always showing her and each other their latest creation, and she wanted, quite naturally, to be like them and give her friends and relatives special little gifts she herself had created out of her own mind and heart.


Unfortunately the little girl, whose name was Raphaela, couldn't draw a straight line and had no talent at all for art--or so she thought. Of course drawing a straight line is no requirement for artistry, that's just an expression, but it didn't help Raphaela at all to think that in addition to having no talent for art, she also couldn't draw a straight line, proverbial or any other kind.


Nevertheless Raphaela was not deterred from her ambition of become the world's greatest, most renowned artist, or at the very least capable of gifting others what others would consider "art," and she spent her otherwise unremarkable childhood thinking up ways she could do just that. By the time she was twenty, which was only two years late for becoming a regular art student, she had what she felt was a good plan; and as we shall see by and by, it was a good plan.


First she enrolled in a school of art based on the almost-forgotten principle of post modernism, and its immediate successor post post modernism, the latter being the former identically but with less of an edge. It was the edge that attracted Raphaela when she read about it in an ancient humanities textbook, and the principle to which the edge belonged was relativism. She read on until she had become thoroughly informed about it, for both reading and nurturing her ambition were her burning passions.


According to legend (and several old tomes bore this up well), disciples of this quaint old theory believed anything could be great, valuable, beautiful—most importantly beautiful, for beauty is great a priori and inherently valuable in that respect--given the right context. Immediately Raphaela saw a loophole for herself in this esoteric concept: given the right context, couldn't she herself be considered an artist? Someone capable of creating a thing or an idea of great aesthetic value? It seemed to her she could indeed. But what context could it be which would render her art beautiful? It wasn't that she was simply brilliant to think of this; it was more that she was brilliantly opportunistic when reading. She continued reading.


Context itself might be relative too, it seemed, but that was the next step in relativistic thought and only for philosophers. For practitioners it was enough to know that Jack the Ripper himself, seen from the right angle, or through an unbiased eye (presumably, his mother's) could be judged a fine enough fellow, his soul redeemed and realigned with that of all other people collectively for all time, given he was ajudged so in the right context. "All other people collectively for all time" was called "common humanity." The book, an authentic tactile facsimile of a late 20th century "humanities" textbook (she chuckled at the expression) was written in a rich, ancient educational jargonese Raphaela was fond of to no end. She amused herself for hours thinking of contexts within contexts within contexts, each relative to all the others as perceived by the reader--that seemed the key phrase. Perhaps, she thought, there was some set theory which explained it more concisely than this Livingston Ick person? A little less redundancy might help her get through it quicker. For all the amusement it gave her, Raphaela was an efficient user of time and appreciated a lack of inordinate repetition in the works she chose to read.


Raphaela had learned through her extensive reading, and reading of archaic educational and lit'crit jargonese in particular (for she was fascinated by the "past" in the real sense of the word), that the terms "soul" and "common humanity" tended to reappear every other century or so in full force, while "post-modernism" itself formed a single-term late 20th c. incident--a fly speck, so to speak, on the grand historical design of things. Now it was dead as a dormouse, that concept, in and out in a wink, historically speaking, a thing to ponder at best, both term and idea. Raphaela did not realize it at the moment, so engrossed was she in becoming a world-renowned artist, but she might have made a fine historian. Right now she had only her ambition in mind.


It was with great excitement, therefore, that she located an art school dedicated to preserving the strange and esoteric ideas of post modernism, deep inside the classical era into which she had been born--and it was located right next door (so to speak; for what wasn't, in a sense, right next door these days?)


She paid no attention to the fact that the founders of the school had conceived it as a sort of joke among friends who had been discussing the quaint, antiquarian ideal of contextual relativism in light of Plato's Phaedrus one night, and had the credit to see what might happen if they actually founded an entire art institute upon the (apparently) absurd proposition that idealism (First Millennium Realism, rightly speaking) and relativism were not necessarily incompatible concepts and might yield philosophical revelations of astonishing dimensions (......hahahahaha........)


It is possible Raphaela didn't read the school's brochure thoroughly enough and so was ignorant of its beginnings and ultimate purpose--that being laughter and, as it were, laughter only among a small group of friends with a little bit too much credit on their hands. She took it seriously. Why not?


It wasn't that hard to get in. First she gathered together her best stick drawings and, stifling the impulse to point out to the admissions officer that some of her lines were indeed quite straight, presented her portfolio straight-faced. Her instincts were correct--the admissions officer didn't care one way or the other; he was just eager to get a student. It was a rather odd-ball school, after all, in an age of Art which seemed to be ever-burgeoningly classical in spirit and import--and that in itself appeared never likely to end. Who would even notice such a school as this? It was just a joke among friends.


Little did Raphaela realize that by enrolling in the brand spanking new New Athens Institute of Virtual Existence--or, more popularly, the Friends' Little Joke, as the establishment eventually came to be known grid around--she was on the verge of inventing the next big earthquake in the art world--metaphorically speaking of course, since real earthquakes had not been experienced for centuries, after all. In her great desire to fit in with her family and relatives (such is the simple beginning of greatness!) she was on the verge of championing a true neo-postmodern age deep within the Golden Age of Art itself!-post-post-post-modern actually: hence, the PM Cube.


The logo, tradition informs us, intruded upon her consciousness welcomingly, and she immediately wrote it down--drew it in pencil on a sketch pad, quaint as that may seem-- a little triangle with a PM in the middle. She noted with satisfaction all its lines were straight, even the loop of the p itself forming a tiny triangle. She had no idea whatsoever that it was touches like this which would become the hallmark of her fame someday.


Raphaela soon discovered that the school held all its classes outdoors in a sort of public arena, a courtyard-like area broad as a football field and shaped like one too, with colonnades in the background edged by an agora. She half expected to see a Socrates surrounded by students, though it was only orientation day and none would be about if

there were any. After all this was a postmodern establishment, so why presume?


She did examine it more closely though: This school's agora was indeed an excellent facsimile of the famous original one depicted in her grandmother's Golden Graphophile, the one she loved to look at when she was little: its Socrates represented the original one, she knew--the real one, 5th c. BC. Raphaela heaved a sigh. This was no original; it was quite typical, rather. From this agora, she knew even without reading the brochure (she hated brochures as a genre) that freshmen students were expected to bring food to upperclassmen at lunchtime everyday as part of their initiation. A little discouraging. You get into college and right away they make you a slave.


But, it was explained to her at freshman orientation--no subs, no holosubs, no e-slaves, no robo-subs even the lowest level, were allowed. You had to do it yourself. (Hahaha-e-slaves? Holosubbing? What else would freshmen think up? It had been tried, you bet; and with dire consequences! ) The orientation director's voice reverberated with understated emotion when he mentioned the consequences proceeding from such hypothetical wrong-doing on the part of imaginative freshmen, and this were not lost on Raphaela; no flies on her. She sighed again, for though she was she was not particularly given to being the demonstrative sort, she was personally expressive. And determined. She would do it, all of it, herself. Anything to be an artist--hopefully, a great and famous one.


There was even a lynx ("The Pynx") and podium here, from which administration made announcements and a few hot-headed upperclass'ons yelled rude things at their friends before jumping down again; and central to the campus, where everyone could see it, a rugged Acropolis rose (like Wordsworth's peak, she thought) straight up out of thegrid-rock with a Parthenon on top- "Whoa!"everyone thought who saw it; particularly the new students, though Raphaela wasn't that impressed.


Beneath it, of course, she knew would be the amphitheater; and next to that, the gymnasium where all students were expected to begin the day. Behind that the row of clay houses (furnished with couches and three-legged tables, naturally) in which the faculty held forth with students in nightly bouts of e-wine imbibing, feasting, and

syllogism-spinning; and then, of course, beyond the faculty row was the library with the unforgettable friezes, the dorms (like Spartan barracks, their "ice-chests" disguising the biodome units within, of course), the oak grove (lucem con lucare) with its marble statues, and finally the inevitable sacred spring and forest--and back around again to the courtyard, green like that of fabled Dartmouth Green of old, and most probably patterned precisely after it too. It was the usual GSF (grid standard facsimile) fare for most post-secondary establishments, art schools in particular.


In short, it was like every other art college whose brochure she had ever perused, and she prepared herself to fit into it comfortably as soon as possible. This might be a little difficult for Raphaela at first, she conceded, whose high school had been high Italian baroque, and whose entire grammar school experience had been in the ever-popular

one-room, multigrade 17th century New England dame school chosen and cherished by so many over-protective mothers (of which her mother most surely was one!)


Raphaela considered: would there ever be any down time here in this place? How would the post-modernism fit in? Wouldn't it be all outdoor education under perpetually sunny (authentically Athenian) skies by day, supplemented by indoor feasting at faculty quarters by night--at which she, as a freshman, would be expected to really serve? On weekends she'd be expected to really attend Olympic events, drama contests, and religious festivals, all of course dependent upon the calendar, which was bound to be an exact duplicate of the original Athenian one of classical times, 5th c. BC-in other words, a full schedule, with little time for reading or ambition? Ambition was her burning ember, she thought gloomily, and it was being extinguished by one burdensome tradition after another before she even had a chance to blow it into the roaring conflagration she wanted it to become.


Of course, on second thought, it did only made sense: the founders of the school, like everybody else, were steeped in the Athenian model of education and knew no other way to go about running a school except the way all schools in the (apparently endless) Age of Art were run. How were they to know that founding a school upon postmodernistic principles might require something different in a fundamental sort of way? Improve on something already pretty perfect? But how? Indeed, why? These were questions for which Rapaela had no answers as she looked around campus on her first day of school.


Then it happened and she felt reborn, or at least she had her hope renewed. For on the first day of classes, in her very first class out on the green, she found herself face to face with an actual pedabot of Livingston Ick (!!!! ) She recognized him right away, since he looked exactly like the hol'mobile she had acquired of him right after getting accepted and had hung from her spartan dorm ceiling.


Raphaela was used to pedabots for teachers, all of which looked, acted and taught exactly like the great natural figures they were all modeled upon--she knew nothing else in fact, human teachers having become obsolete centuries, maybe millenia ago (Who knew? No one remembered).


She would never have thought of her grandmother, for instance, as capable of teaching, though she loved to listen to her talk and was fascinated by her stories. Also, her grandmother showed her "tricks" with math even the Newton aide her father had hired hadn't thought of. But her grandmother a teacher? It would have been too degrading (or shameful?) to think of her that way. "Bots know their business; best not to meddle" was an old, old saying.


Developers of the first pedabots had quickly discovered neither fame nor infamy predicted great pedagogy--Shakespeare, Hitler, and Newton had all proved absolute duds, though Newton was a slight improvement over the original and many ordered a user-friendly version of him as a math or Latin aide. It was largely a popular call. Socrates of course was a slamming success and pretty much the default pedabot in any school which couldn't make up its mind yet who (or more technically precise, what) to order, despite the problematic ending of the program--did he always have to take the hemlock at semester's end just to be authentic? It was a recurring problem for the authenticity script writers and raters alike. And of course, you could make fun of his looks and he didn't even care--welcomed it in fact, and used it to make a point more often than not.


She herself had been introduced to Shakespeare by a Kittredge, to botany by a Muir, and to natural classicism by a Turner. She had become so fond of her dame school teacher, in fact (the irrepressible and ubiquitous Alcott, very popular among primary level students) that she had wanted to take her home with her and keep her after eighth grade graduation. It was not an unusual request; many children found it hard not to become dependent upon the wise motherly figure who was always telling them stories even after they fell asleep. Sadly, her father (who had loved his Alcott as well) had put his foot down and said it was too much credit, though he did let her rent her for a few months to ease the transition. Even under Louisa May's encouraging tutelage, though, Raphaela had failed to learn how to draw a straight line. Her Alcott had serenely dismissed this desire as "not important."


Now, during the first week, as she progressed through all her classes, she realized that the entire faculty, or almost all of them, were famous postmodernists--though not necessarily famous teachers. That couldn't be right! They (the founders) must not have had time to develop a bug-free faculty was all she could think. The Derrida was perfectly terrible--he either didn't notice or didn't care that he kept drifting off topic and indulging in what Raphaela felt were obvious tautologies--and losing his chalk, which he didn't need anyway (the programmer had assumed a classroom? Give me a break!); the Nietzsche kept explaining metaphor in metaphor and insisting, in an annoying way, that that was all there was "at the bottom" anyway (metaphor); when someone else asked him if bottom was a metaphor too, he got snappy and accused them of impertinence and ignored their other questions. She found the Kierkegard, though, enlightening, inspiring and a natural teacher. She sighed gratefully and guessed one out of four wasn't bad. But she still didn't have a clue what context would make her a great artist.


She walked along, still thinking about the Kierkegard, and decided she would engage him after class in extracurricular conversation, which she sensed was in line with postmodernism, which she now felt she had a better grasp of with a week of it under her belt; even though, as of course was to be expected, this school was turning out to be what most schools usually were-- theory, theory, theory. Raphaela wondered when they ever actually get to draw something.


She was drawn out of her reverie, however, by the Kierkegard, who had joined her after she beamed him her request. He fascinated her. For one thing, he wasn't even a postmodernist, was he? Strictly speaking? She knew a bit more about historical authenticity than your average college freshman, but unfortunately didn't realize it or she might have been more assertive on her weekly evalog. In short, she didn't dare ask him if it was so. Had she done so, he would no doubt have replied "How did you guess?"


The Kierkegard was now speaking, for she had just told him about her ambition in life, re straight lines and greatness.


"What is it about drawing straight lines and giving gifts which drives your passion so? And what is this passion for?"


As she looked into his clear intelligent eyes she had a hard time, for a second, remembering he was a robot. He made such sense! Like all pedabots he framed his wisdom predominantly in questions, which tended to make him a bit rhetorical-sounding, but she didn't care. This must be an existential moment (!) she thought, and finally grasped, she imagined, that concept firmly.


"I love giving gifts because I love to see others feeling what I do when someone gives me presents" she answered as precisely as she could, which was how you were supposed to answer pedabots if you want to get your credit's worth out of them. Pedabots usually understood you perfectly, right away; it wasn't always so easy to understand them, was her experience. Each one was a little different, and this one seemed somehow very different.


"Yes," he nodded, "and...?" The pause was nicely couched in an expectation of equal wisdom on her part.


"And drawing straight lines represents a talent I don't have."


"But don't you?" The look on his face told her he was telling her something she ought already to know, but, sadly, didn't. He was so easy to understand!


"What? Possess a talent? No--" But then she saw what he meant. She did have a talent; her talent was seeing what others felt—as all human naturally did--and she'd been practicing the craft of it her whole life. She could see what HE felt anyway, the Kierkegard—or rather, by extension, what he (or it) might have felt had he (or it) been human; for certainly bots were derived from beings, not the other way around. There was a profound difference between bots and humans, though they might look the same. She could read his expressions, but that didn't mean he felt the emotions those expressions represented. His were purely—symbolic.


“I don't think that's a talent, exactly. You mean reading expressions? That's just being—human.”


"Exactly, “ said the pedabot, and then seamlessly continued, even though he may as well have planted an atomic bomb in her consciousness for the explosive effect his monosyllabic comment had on her thought content. Exactly. She was human. What did he mean?


“Have you been reading?" asked the Kierkegard presciently.


She smiled, and nodded vaguely, off on a tangent trying to see what the robot was feeling, seeing nothing, of course, because he was a robot and had no real feelings, even though he made expressions of the subtlest sort, intended to cue response in her.


Raphaela realized in that moment that she was actually in tune with common humanity (it amused her to apply those terms to herself), even if she didn't have any talent; or if she did have talent, it was the one everyone else must have too, at least potentially; and it was one which, most ironically, her new friend the Kierkegard must absolutely lack, being bot. She wasn't just programmed; she was the genuine article, a human being. For the first time in her life she thought she had an inkling of what that meant. All this while a certain feeling of friendship for the bot was slowly and insidiously overtaking her finer sensibilities (and other sensibilities too, as she was to belatedly realize).


It was a profound insight, with all its furthest implications inherent in it; and if it took a stretch to turn it into a talent, it was a stretch she was up to at this moment and which she found most soul-satisfying. She had indeed been reading, as the Kierkegard had queried at just the right moment--and more than books. She could read people. And people who could read people should be.....teachers.


Shocking but true. Ever the rationalist, she had never aspired to becoming a teacher, if simply because no human ever thought of becoming teachers anymore: People didn't teach--bots did. How could she--a simple human being--become a teacher? She wasn't even famous yet; and of course only the famous (ancient famous humans) were allowed to teach and then customarily (outrageous to think otherwise!) only in bot form.


She took the liberty of thinking freely, and in that moment reached still another conclusion--she was not a postmodernist, she a humanist!


She allowed the ancient terms to turn and collide in her mind for a moment, for she had been brought up to think syllogistically: Why was she not a postmodernist? Why did it seem so obvious? It wasn't because of the relativism; she swept the term aside. It was the human element. She had a potential the bot hadn't; she knew it, she was sure of it—and not in the ordinary banal way explained in all bot manuals, including those that came with pedabots.


She proceeded with her disciplined thinking ploddingly (so she thought, though future ages would find her reasoning brilliant), following this train of thought. She was not a postmodernist because she had common humanity in her, and postmodernists didn't. Why didn't they? Because, by definition, to have anything in common with anyone else a priori, especially perspectives, precluded the postmodernistic stance. She knew this! Hadn't she already read enough on her own to know that was true? And the Livingston Ick had made her head ache with repetition of the point.


“Yes, I have been reading” she answered the Kierkegard. He had been sitting silently beside her for what seemed forever, but which she knew was only a few seconds.


The pedabot remained silent while she continued thinking, sipping her latte, looking out over the blue expanse of sky and then back at the pedabot in curiosity. She was grateful for his silence, because it seemed full of afterthoughts—her afterthoughts. And they were always the best....


True, the pedabot had made her realize the differences between them existed because of the commonalities she shared with other humans and not with him (it), though he (it) had made her think about it—hadn't he?. Strange, strange indeed. She was in a......conundrum? No--more like a dither thinking about the tautologies that involved. And all because of an ounce of pronouns found in a pound of silence.


Bots were only bots, and yet they represented all the greatness human beings had ever owned. One looked up to them, somehow; and somehow the humans had been forgotten. A human hadn't become famous among humans in eons. If anyone became famous these days it was a bot--and for being a bot of a famous human! Human couldn't compete.....


Raphaela trembled, her humor suddenly dashed in the prospects of the enormity of the challenge she recognized before her: how could she presume to believe a pedabot would someday be made of her?

Chapter One: The Magic Stone

In the woods, in a cottage, dwelt an old man and an old woman. Their names were, respectively, Roger (RH) Hawkins Farnsworth-Seekins and Martha Jean Stapleton-Hawkins, but they were married anyway, despite what their names would otherwise indicate or suggest to the curious. They had retired from life outside the woods when they were still young, and had grown old together there in their little cottage (littler on the outside than on the in), he with his plants and paintings and watches, she with her photography and writing.

It was a life of focused effort run through with frequent but vague expressions of annoyance, both verbal and non-verbal; and the living they made, they made do without much effort, mostly by means of a used vegetable stand set up at the edge of the woods where they displayed their wares. To that extent they were partners and shared the upkeep of the stand, a simple sweep-through or two and a dusting they gave it every other month or so. The tourists flocked there, though they were never seen by the couple, nor did the tourists see them. They used a can for collection and both sides had faith in it.

What was in the can when they looked to see, was what sustained them, for they needed nothing anyway. Lacking health insurance, they depended wholly upon a magic stone given them by their youngest son on his twenty-first birthday. With it, they needed no health insurance (this he had assured them). He had been given the stone, along with an invisible cloak (not intended for military use but for amour), by an apparently ageless crone by a well—or so he maintained. According to him, the well itself was located deep inside a newly excavated 21st century nuclear fuel processing facility in Iran, that being used by one of his friends as a backdrop for one of his innumerable movies depicting his own life, a gift of course for the friend's parents: it was full of irony and symbolism, and best of all evoked nostalgia, which of course they loved, being deeply traditional as they were.

The old couple's son, whose name was Jack, had done the old crone a favor, specifically had filled in for her at a team meeting she was having difficulty attending. He had attended it instead for her, disguised as her, undignified and unsettling for him as that must have been; and she had been so grateful of his doing that for her, that she had given him the stone then and there; and so he in turn had given it to his parents, thinking that they needed it more than he did (boy, would he rethink that one some day!) What her name was--their son's benefactor the crone--of what her education consisted, and lastly, most importantly, how well she spoke.  They demanded he tell them at once, of course, without further ado—they weren't fools. Amanda-Lou Fern Chan, home-educated, and so-so, he had answered in their questions in order and honestly, in as casual a tone a tone of voice as he could muster, yawning in a tic-like sigh. Why look a gift horse in the mouth he figured privately, though he didn't say so aloud

The magic stone was way better than Medicaid, Jack made sure they knew--or would be in twenty-five years when Medicaid would be a pay-in rather than a pay-out affair; in fact, it was better than even Medicare Part Eight A -Option 12 would be worth right now, if they needed it, which of course they didn't--yet. But the old couple was not convinced. Wasn't this what people had been saying for at least two hundred years, maybe longer, about every new health insurance plan that had come up?

They fussed and fumed and laughed at him further. Why should they have to believe what an old crone had said? (Not that they were in the least bit ageist, of course, for they had been careful to raise their children ist-free; but this was different.) Patiently enough, he explained: You had to believe what she said, because shortly after she had given the stone and cloak to him, she had turned into a beautiful nineteen year old knockout, very hot, with long, raven hair, sparkling eyes, a gorgeous smile, and perfect teeth. And, he said, her real name was Gloria—just Gloria. Did they still want to know where she went to school and how well she spoke English? This he said with just a shade of sarcasm detectable only to his mother, and she let it go. After this, he would say no more; he packed up his fretless bass and left--he said, to go to a party. His, he pointed out, making them feel slightly guilty. It was his birthday, remember? And then he was gone.. They had not seen him since.

The old couple were a little skeptical still about the stone; and yet as the years went by and they saw their health only improve and their vigor increase, they began to believe the stone was indeed as good as health insurance--was, in fact, magic. They ceased to worry about such things as mortality and aging and instead concentrated on their art, which they believed sufficient to sustain them for eternity—or thereabouts. It was a huge shock then, when Roger, the old man, woke up one morning to find Martha, the old woman, dead beside him in bed, her hand still gripping the paper she had been writing her sonnet on the night before, the fine-pointed pen she had been using to write it with fallen to the quilt-cover, an old photograph from their early years lying beside it on the bed. Her eyes were slightly open, he noticed, as though gazing at something she was trying to make out in the distance, though it was only the wall she was looking at. He knew she was dead without a second glance.

Almost instantly the old man reached for the stone on the bedside stand where they kept it. Was it there? Yes—there it was. He looked at his dead wife dumb-founded. But how? Why? What could this mean? And for the first time in years, fear crept into his heart.

Roger's heart was broken, though it took him several months to realize it. At first he thought nothing but happy thoughts about Martha, but the month following her death, when he took her turn sweeping out the stand by the edge of the wood, he realized with a new, mournful awareness how much he loved and missed her. Even more apparent to him was the knowledge that that thought was intensely painful. Looking backwards he thought she could do no wrong. She had been the best of wives, the best of mothers; even, he began to think, the best of artists. Why did it hurt so? He realized it was because he would never see her again.

He began to appreciate her photography and poetry, thinking of framing the photographs he liked the best (he liked them all, he discovered) when he looked at each one; and of gathering her sonnets together to submit to poetry contests as she had always thought of doing. Hopefully they could be published postmortem and that would please her wherever she was, or please his memory of her at least.

And still another thing changed which he could not explain to himself. He no longer thought of himself and of her as an old couple who had lived in a little cottage in the woods, even if that was what they had been together for so long. He thought of her simply as Martha, and of himself simply as Roger, an old man who had lost his best friend. Sometimes, looking at the can by the stand he would weep, whether it was empty or not. Only his beloved watches kept his mind off Martha for a little while.

And then, as though the forces of the universe were conspiring to confound him, inexplicably the items at the farm stand began to actually sell like hot cakes; for he found the can full of all sorts of things given in exchange for them, bartering being very much the in-thing now to do. This was because no one used money any more, but only accumulated credit or dispensed of it, a rather boring, mundane transaction without much tactile pleasure to it. More and more often, more and more plants and paintings, watches and photographs, even the poetry, seemed to be missing from the farm stand trays, whereas before Martha's death things had stayed there for months, sometimes even years, and nobody cared. Martha's photographs and sonnets seemed to have become phenomenally popular, in fact, with the tourists, and he watched them disappear one by one as time went on.

He was actually thinking he would need two cans next, and heaved many a sigh thinking how surprised Martha would have been at that. The stuff he collected in the can, though, seemed of little value to him now, without Martha, so he gave them away to the almost extinct Poor People through the charities, themselves failing miserably for want of takers. If forced to, of course, he took credit for them, though his pension was already embarrassingly ample, since he was an artist and an amateur at that. His most treasured moments were his walks along the road beside the woods, now unfortunately without Martha. He tended to keep the stone in his pocket when he went for a walk alone, which was virtually every time.

The autopsy finally was completed and revealed Martha had died of natural causes; and when he had them repeat it (for he'd never heard of such a thing), the results were the same. There was no explanation readily forthcoming from prior experience, when Roger tried to think about what that meant (natural causes?). He hadn't a clue. And he told no one that the findings worried him more than they soothed him, though they sounded un-alarming enough. He did have the coroner's license traced, but it was to no avail. Natural causes. She had died in her sleep, that was all. But was that the same as natural? Roger kept quiet and pondered these unanswerable questions in his heart, though even why he did that he didn't know.

The children (all but Jack) joined their father at the funeral for a few days, after it was finally held, months and months after the death (as so many are these days, since, let's face it, risks are involved; and, no getting around it, funerals take time.) They offered him their constant support, along with that which came from their various relatives, most of whom attended in hologram. It was almost like their being there.

The oldest son, Philip, always an especially thoughtful son, had offered him an upstairs loft to stay in above the living room play-station pit in Philip's house—originally Roger and Martha's house before they moved to the woods. Now it (the pit) was the actual location of his son's burgeoning antique video game restoration business. Philip made credit up to his ears restoring, displaying and/or dispersing and uploading old video games anywhere, any place, any time all over the planet. They were pirated usually, despite the obsolescence of the word—really old and rare video games, some from the 20th century, though that was a bit hard to believe. The word “pirated,” Philip explained, lent flavor and nostalgia to the sale, and he insisted on its use.

The only problem was, Philip continued, compassion shining in his brown eyes, his father would have to leave his watches and his paintings and his plants behind at the cottage (transposition being far too credit-stressing, even for him), along with his mother's poetry and photography. All their effects, in fact, would have to remain in the cottage, he took time to explain, because there was no real room for them in real space anymore in that house (he emphasized the “real”)--did his father understand what he meant by that? He started to gently explain what he meant by that exactly, but his father waved him off. He knew when he was defeated; he was no fool. And yet unknowingly almost, his hand sought the stone in his pocket, and he took a bit of comfort there; and as he considered his plight in the peculiarly calm silence that followed Philip's proposal, Roger was almost torpidly respectful, and careful not to sustain the conversation longer than was necessary. For he was, actually, no fool.

His daughter Hattie Ophelia immediately too offered to have them (her father's paintings, plants and watches; and her mother's sonnets and photographs) embalmed, so to speak, in atomite, fully inspectable everywhere, anywhere, anytime; for wasn't that her business? She ran it (of course) from home and she was full of stories about how pleased customers were with her preservatives. That way all his things—and their mother's too if he so desired—could be easily e-posited in the room over her brother's (precious, unstated) pit, without their actually being there taking up real (she didn't bother to emphasize the real) time and space—did he want that? Because, wouldn't that solve everything?

He almost relented and said yes, because his daughter was the only one of his children left who was still toying with the idea of having children. Other than Jack that is—and who was thinking about him? His father, for one, was; especially since Martha's death. But nobody had seen Jack for a long time.

Some of Hattie Ophelia's protochildren had indeed been alarmingly cute and adorable, even when projected into middle age, which Roger found strangely disturbing though he couldn't understand why really. Nevertheless something always kept her from going through with it to the next step, actually having the child, male or female. After an agonizing bout of apparently reputable reality therapy, usually induced in faux utero (terrifically realistic these days, and entirely safe) followed by a bit too much of her favorite champagne, she would always finally choose delete, only to begin all over again a few months later.

During the funeral service, Roger had an epiphany of sorts which made him decide against his daughter's suggestion to embalm his and Martha's effects, despite the suggestion itself being fairly rife with multiple ope-ended options and free choices—enough options and choices, in fact, to please anyone. Hattie Ophelia, for all her ever-ready creativity, was a bit too much like his own mother, the original Hattie; and probably the real grandchildren would never really arrive, unless by accident—not likely to happen. (Accident? Hattie Ophelia was not familiar with the concept.) She liked her holograms just a tad too much perhaps, he mused to himself; and her possibilities just a tad bit more than her realities, just like her grandmother. Roger patted himself on the back, thinking that, since Martha's death, he had grown a little wiser, if lonelier. And he did have, after all, one son left.

After the funeral service, when everyone had departed, or faded, or, in one case, remained perpetually on-line (essentially a token connection, since the perpetually undeparted funeral guest was not then, or apt to be ever again actually accessible either), Roger went to the bedstead and put the stone in his pocket and went out to find his son Jack.

He found the trail leading to Jack starting back at the cottage, which of course was still there just as he had left it, on pause. The twenty years (or was it twenty minutes?) since Jack had handed his parents the magic stone on his 21st birthday and departed had not obliterated the footprints he had left behind, though Roger couldn't remember having seen them there before. Perhaps he had just taken too little notice of them. He shook his head mournfully and set off immediately, following the now only too obvious footprints..

Almost immediately he found himself in a pastoral scene he didn't believe still existed anywhere, but here it was. The road passed under and then up over a gently sloping hill and down again into a green valley. Nestled against another hill in the distance at the edge of the forest was a small collection of cottages, far away but clearly discernible. It was then he spotted the bean stalk, for if he was not mistaken, that is what it was, though at first he had thought it was an enormous tree, under which the whole valley was seemingly shaded.

In fact it was a bean stalk (Roger knew his plants); and Jack's footprints led directly to its base with its great gnarled and intertwining roots. On his way up (for Roger began immediately to climb it) he paused periodically at various vantage points to admire the way the foliage through which he was climbing allowed the sunlight and shade to chase each other in patterns across the valley below and around it in an ever-changing display of shape and color--he was a painter, after all, and noticed such things. The climb itself was much easier than he thought it would be and yet took much longer than he thought it would take. By the time he reached the top, with several stops to admire the view, he was not out of breath but surely ready for something new.

It took his breath away, what he saw at the top of the beanstalk. There was a large castle wall with seven gates in it—Roger counted them as he circled its circumference—and over the arched iron and barred gate of the central one (which was either the first or the last in the series depending on how you counted) was an almost perfect facsimile, etched in granite, of the grandfather clock he had worked on just last week—or (and here he lingered only for a second)--could it possibly be that one on the mantle piece of his childhood home's sitting room, the one he had taken apart when he was nine?

Imperceptibly, in that nanosecond in which he considered this other possibility, even while he stared at it, the lithograph seemed to change, redrawing itself into the mantle clock before it resumed its grandfather clock visage once again. Involuntarily he reached for the stone in his pocket, and as the stone touched his hand, he heard and saw the iron gate open before him, causing him to leap back to avoid impact with it. Just for a second he paused, and then he passed through it.

He thought he heard a distant resonant baritone fee! fie! fo! fum! echoing from somewhere, but when he tried to focus on it, it faded. It was an ambient recollection eked out of an almost forgotten memory by what he saw around him which had caused this phenomenon, but of this he was quite unaware. He just wanted to find a pattern in this strange world to which his son's footprints had so unerringly led him, a pattern which would allow him to make sense of it all.

Next he noticed a little boy peeking out at him from a hiding place in a hedge across the lawn, obviously trying not to be seen; and there was a group of people across the court yard standing and listening to a man speaking under a beech tree. But when he tried to focus on them closely, both the boy and the group tended to fade and finally disappear, though the hedge was still there and the beech tree remained as tall and green as ever. He took off his glasses to see if that was the trouble and noticed how well he could see without them.

It was then he spied Jack. Jack was just entering a door, a beautiful raven-haired woman at his side, and several children following them (Roger couldn't quite count the number). They were all in the process of entering a door leading by a side entrance into a large building situated just behind and to the rear of the beech tree and just in front of what appeared to be a large garden. This time, when he tried to focus on his son's face, instead of fading away, it came into sharper focus. As it did, he saw Jack turn and look directly at him, beckoning him to follow them into the building, just as though he had known his father was there all along. Without hesitation Roger rose and followed him. Suddenly he knew where he was and what would happen next. It made him very, very happy.

To his delight, but not to his surprise, not many minutes later Roger found himself-- along with Jack and his family (for such it was as it had appeared to be, Jack's family) in the tower room of the building they had entered, after ascending a broad and steep staircase--standing next to his dead wife Martha. Only it was clear she was not dead, but only sleeping--and she was as young-looking as the day he had spotted her by the waterfall, writing poetry on a soggy pad of paper with a pencil which kept breaking, her wet bathing suit clinging to her, making her shiver a little in the breeze. She had looked particularly beautiful then to Roger, and it occurred to him now that she did so again, only more so.

Here, now, in death-like sleep she had been placed upon a bier of flowers, and the youngest of Jack's children (which he recognized as the child who had been peering out at him from behind the hedge only moments ago) informed him that Martha, who he referred to as “the princess,” had been sleeping like that there for a hundred years, and that they came there every day to see her. Roger, who was no fool and furthermore was growing wiser by the moment, knew well this story's ending—he kissed his wife and she woke up.

But as she awoke and smiled her beautiful smile, opening her eyes to him, she slowly aged into the wife he had last seen dead of natural causes in their very own bed at home in the cottage in the woods: she aged before his very eyes even while he watched. And he saw that she was indeed even more beautiful to him than she had ever been before; and he embraced her with grateful, loving arms and made her promise never to leave him again.

“I told you it was better than health insurance,” commented Jack, whose mother never had been able to teach him not to say things in an I-told-you-so kind of voice.

“He means the stone, dear,” said Martha. It was then he noticed that the raven-haired beauty by Jack's side (this must be Gloria, he surmised) still looked young, though he could see Jack looked exactly as old as a father of many children ought to look, the lines of worry and laughter etching the edges of his eyes and mouth, his hair thinning a bit on top and graying at the edges. Gloria, though, looked better than young; she looked....ageless.

It was not long after that, that the old couple became the old couple again in their cottage in the woods. Their art work was again on display on the farm stand, and the can was never empty, to their great pleasure. It began to fill up with doll houses and swings and old wooden croquet sets which the little man delighted in painting and the old woman enjoyed photographing whenever their grandchildren visited and played with them. This was almost every day, since Jack used some golden eggs he had “found” at his previous residence to barter for the cottage next door, a cottage the old couple hadn't even known existed until then.

As for the stone, the children's mother borrowed it from them one Easter, having run short of eggs she needed for the hunt she always had for the neighborhood children in her garden, children of neighbors the old couple had never noticed before either. They watched her hide it under the rhubarb leaves where the youngest children loved to hide when they went out in the afternoon to play hide-and-seek. At any rate, they never gave it another thought; surely though, someone must have found it. Or would some day.