020918

Journey to the Middle of the Earth

The wind hurtled through the canyons of the city, picking up bits of trash, insects, and fraying hats, batting them about for a while, and then dropping them. It tugged at hair and clothing, it pushed and pulled, fluffed up fur and feathers, tumbled pigeons protesting from their roosts. Walter overbalanced in response to a sudden gust and teetered wildly before toppling from the wall. He cursed and clutched his elbow. ‘That’s what I get for pretending I’m a kid again,’ he thought. His threadbare grey overcoat flapped arhythmically as he tacked across the park towards Papa Joe’s. Flying dust almost hid the pink neon letters spelling out UNCH OOM. Above the neon, Papa Josef’s Georgian was spelled out unsteadily in flaking green paint. Amazing that the neon still worked; nothing more sophisticated did.

Bells tinkled as he pushed open the door and gratefully stepped out of the turbulence. He shook his hair into place and surveyed the room. Eddy Somebody-or-other waved from the counter. All the other customers were strangers. At least, he had never spoken to them. The blond girl with the perfect body was sitting alone near the Destroyer game. Walter longed to meet her, but knew he’d never nerve himself to speak to her, and couldn’t afford to waste a sawbuck playing the game just to be near her. His eyes lingered briefly on what he could see of her body, then he sighed and pretended to notice Eddy’s round, bald head for the first time. Walter slid onto the stool next to him and opened the tattered plastic menu. It was time to leave this decaying city. Soon, he would get started.

“Haw, you allus order the same thin’ Walt,” Eddy said, “Whatcha lookin’ for?”

“A new me.” Walter did not like being called Walt, and he did not like being predictable. Morosely he scanned the short list of entrees. The trouble was, nothing he hadn’t tried looked appetizing. Maggie M. poured coffee in a chipped plastic cup and rattled it in front of him. “Oh well, gimme two scrambled eggs and sausage.”

“No orange juice?” She scribbled on the green and white pad held as usual just above his eye level so he couldn’t see if she got the order right.

“He’s daring to be different again today,” remarked Eddy.

Walter mentally hacked Eddy into small pieces and fed them to huge winged housecats, mostly calico. The cats flew out through the shattered storefront and he unbuttoned his coat. The little café was usually over air-conditioned but today the air was hot and moist.

“Papa Joe is conserving energy today,” he said.

“More likely the AC is broke.” Eddy slurped the last of his coffee and rubbed his stubbly chin. “I can’t find batteries for my razor cos the place that made ‘em was in Missouri.”

Walter grunted in commiseration and gingerly tasted the coffee. He had his own problems. Missouri was at the heart of the disturbance that had split the continent in two and destroyed the global computer networks. But Sarah lived (had lived?) in Saint Louis, and that was where he wanted to go. As soon as the wind died down and the roads west were clear…. ‘But I can’t decide,’ he thought, ‘if I want to atone for letting her go out there alone and then the whole damn state gets obliterated, along with half the midcontinent, or if I really want her back after all this time, or maybe I just want an excuse for an adventure.’ Walter had always had a problem with motivations. Because he didn’t like to do things without knowing why he did them, this led to procrastination. ‘And a pretty much wasted life so far,’ he reflected.

The coffee was awful, the eggs were runny, and the sausage was burnt. He did not leave a tip, but felt guilty about it.

The little group of pigeons huddled under the granite roses, achieving some slight shelter from the force of the wind. A yearling male stepped nervously to the edge of the narrow sill and was gone. The wind tore past the cathedral and elbowed its way into the offices high up in the business district. Many of the larger buildings had been mostly windows but these were nearly all broken. The wind played with swivel chairs and teak-paneled desks, then it hurried westward over the city. Occasionally a barn roof, cow or other small object was plucked up into the maelstrom as it sped ever faster towards its center in Missouri. The wind was rising. Walter sipped his beer and leaned back in the recliner. Yeah, he’d head west at the beginning of the next lull in the gale. With luck he could get all the way to Missouri before the wind started up again. He turned the page and sipped again. Miss October sure was looking nice.

Walter clutched the automatic rifle in both hands and crouched lower behind the $25-$49 dresses. The windows thrummed in response to the varying pressure outside as the wind swirled around the corners of the building and the racks of clothing vibrated in muted echo. Something clattered off to his right and he whirled, firing a short burst into the photo department. Breath rasped loudly in his throat.

Maniacal laughter from somewhere near housewares. Dust sifted down from the ceiling as the building vibrated in sympathy with the gale. Walter bent lower and shuffled towards the CD counter, using the dresses as cover. His stomach rumbled; he hadn’t eaten recently. He licked his lips and wiped nervous sweat from his brow. A .45 cracked and a light bulb exploded overhead. He returned fire automatically and dived behind the counter. More laughter.

“Fucking squatter,” he muttered. He’d come into the store to get supplies for his trip. He had decided that whatever his motivations were, it was time to do a little less thinking and a little more acting. ‘And my life needs some overriding purpose,’ he thought.

“This store is mine! shrieked a shrill voice, rising in pitch on the last word, and the .45 discharged again. CDs exploded and showered Walter with Dave Matthews and 50 cent.

Walter shouted over the countertop: “Come out with your hands up and I’ll let you go!”

The answering bullet struck the plate glass window above register one. The window exploded outward. The tempest sucked at the hole like a child at a loose tooth. Walter crawled towards the back of the building, buffeted by dresses, bras, cans of paint, lacquer and varnish, books, bobbins and scraps of cloth, paper and pencils, fishing rods and all manner of paraphernalia bouncing and whirling out into the storm. His hair whipped his face, bringing tears to his eyes and he hunched his head to protect it. A rack of puzzles slid across the floor and fell on him. Puzzles broke open and became colored streamers of confetti. The wind drew the scents of paint and turpentine across his nose. He thought he heard someone scream but the wind made so much noise he couldn’t be sure. Beach balls and other toys rolled and bounced down the aisle, building up a drift against the fallen puzzle rack. Walter gasped for breath and tried to crawl forward. The rack was pressed against him by the suction of the wind as well as by its weight, and he couldn’t lift it. He heard splintering glass; the rest of the glass store front was disintegrating. The wind should have slackened days ago but it was still rising! Panic welled up as he realized he could die here. He heaved desperately at the puzzle rack.

With an echoing shout the wind died. A myriad colored fragments fluttered limply to the floor. A mangled book hit him on the nose: it was “144 Gross.” A laughing gingerbread man winked on the cover.

Walter waited but heard nothing. That scream… maybe the squatter was dead. Walter heaved the metal puzzle rack off and staggered to his feet. He ached all over, his face felt puffy and his hands bled from numerous minor cuts. He hobbled stupidly towards the shattered storefront. Bright sunlight dazzled him. He sank weakly to the sidewalk. The parking lot, cluttered with smashed cars, glittered with the wind’s abandoned booty. Hesitantly, a sparrow chipped.

Walter pedaled steadily westward on a scavenged Schwinn, its hamper bulging with food and camping supplies. Cheap sunglasses shaded his eyes from the falling sun and he tapped out a rhythm with his fingertips on the handlebars. “What really knocked me out was the cheap sunglasses,” he sang, “bo-bom bo-bom bom bo-bom bom bom.” The crowd cheered wildly as Walter, rock idol of the century, plucked riffs from his guitar. Steering carefully around the litter heaped in the street by the wind, he also kept a sharp eye out for signs of people. So far he had seen on one, but he knew that this part of the city was not totally deserted. Walter hummed vigorously as he pedaled the yellow bike into the twilight.

He stopped humming and squinted. Was someone standing in the road? Yes, a man holding a hunting rifle casually in the crook of his arm solidified out of the darkness. He wore stained jeans and a ragged Jack Daniels T-shirt. Tangled dark hair hung over his low brow. His nose was long and pointed and his lips were full. Walter silently dubbed him The Man.

“Hold it raht there.”

Walter braked and leaned on his right foot. His heart thudded, but somehow he could not take the encounter seriously. The Man seemed like a character right out of a made-for-TV movie.

“Git offa th’ bike.

“Naow walk forward a little.”

Walter left the Schwinn leaning on its kickstand. As he walked towards the other man, he saw figures scurrying to the bike from behind the rubble lining both sides of the road.

“Hi,” he said.

The Man spat theatrically. “Yore either a fool or ya ain’t alone. And I know yore alone.” He shifted the gun a little and Walter saw that it was a Daisy BB gun. The safety was on. The Man swaggered forward and peered suspiciously into Walter’s face. Walter fought to keep from gagging.

“What’s it like in there?” The Man asked, gesturing towards the city with a quick jerk of his head.

Walter’s mind was not on the conversation. Something about the tableau had changed but he could not fathom what it was. He puzzled over it for a few moments, until the men behind him rustled impatiently. He cleared his throat. “The city is in ruins. Not many people are left alive.” He paused and The Man nodded in satisfaction. Walter thought, ‘He wants to loot the city, and he wants me to tell him they won’t have any trouble.’

“No govment left, raht?”

Walter shook his head, wondering if he would get out of this alive. Probably if The Man didn’t kill him he’d be forced to accompany them back to the city. He’d never get to Missouri, and Sarah. Something moved in the shadows. No one else seemed to notice it. Probably it was some other member of The Man’s band. Walter wondered what they were going to do with him.

“What’ll we do with him?” someone behind him called. The Man grinned.

“Blow his haid off,” he said, “an’ let’s git movin’.” Then his eyes bulged and his mouth Oed. He dropped the BB gun and clutched at his chest, retching and coughing. He fell forward. A short wooden shaft stood out from his back. He quivered but did not get up.

Walter froze. Spears flew from all directions. Small figures darted out of the night. He heard screams from behind, and one shot. He ran, dodging and weaving, straight down the road. The battle receded behind him in faint groans and high-pitched shouts. Walter was soon gasping for breath. He staggered off the road into the wood looking for a place to hide. He found the trees in the moonless dark with his hands and his head. When he could not draw another burning breath and his head rang from the blows it had received, he sank to the ground. Clutching the rough bole of a tree he pressed his throbbing head against his arm and moaned. Finally the pain diminished and he sighed and turned to sit leaning back against the tree.

When he opened his eyes he was surrounded by gingerbread men. They stood between one and two feet high, and their buttons were shiny moist raisins. Their skin was rough, with fine bumps, and their eyes were chocolate. Their noses were candy of many colors: crimson, violet, cyan, magenta, ebony, buttercup yellow and umber, and their mouths were twists of licorice. Their spears were tipped with obsidian and stained with blood. Walter rubbed his eyes. The gingerbread men nudged each other and giggled.

“Take me to your leader!” He had always wanted to say that.

Vultures floated far below the rim of the Depression, visible only as minute specks. They could not be seen at all from the Depression’s floor, which met its vertical wall four miles below the rim. The cracked and weathered highway ran to within a few yards of the edge and trailed out into loose slabs of asphalt, half-buried by vines and forbs. Walter rubbed the corner of his eye with a finger and stepped back from the edge.

“Your boss is down there?”

Abraham Lincoln nodded his brown head vigorously. “Boss down hole,” he piped.

The other gingerbread men clustered around Walter’s legs and waved their spears vaguely, as if making sure he knew where the hole was.

Walter sighed. It was impossible to get useful information out of his captors (or escorts), and after nearly four weeks of walking with them westward through a landscape devoid of any animal life, but luxuriant with plant growth, he did not even know the name of the man (?) he was being taken to meet. But they were still traveling in the right direction.

“Do we jump?” he asked, half expecting that the answer would be yes.

“Nope.”

Now he had to get crafty. Lincoln would never explain anything, but he would sometimes answer questions. You could learn a lot from the right questions.

“Do we wait?”

“Yup.” The other gingerbread men had wandered off. Some were now busy swiping the heads off daisies with their spears. Others had disappeared into the tall grass and weeds. A cool breeze flowed past them into the Depression. Walter looked around. Beyond the small strip of meadow in which the gingerbread men were diligently beheading flowers, the edge of the wood rose up cool and green. He wasn’t really in the mood for guessing games; he’d find out pretty soon anyway. He sat down on a chunk of cement and tossed a pebble into the abyss. He had named one of the gingerbread men Calvin Coolidge because of his reticence. Presidential names for the others had seemed inevitable at the time, though now he considered it rather childish. James Monroe strolled up and clipped a daisy, which flew into Walter’s lap.

“Are there any gingerbread women?” Walter asked suddenly. The question had been bothering him for days, ever since it had occurred to him that the cookie presidents were all male, with tiny gingerbread genitals. Their semen was probably chocolate syrup!

Monroe and Lincoln looked at each other and laughed. “Of course not!” Monroe finally choked out, and wandered off, still chuckling. He stopped to tell Benjamin Harrison and Ronald Reagan the joke. Whatever it was.

Walter sighed again and cupped his chin in his hands.

A low frequency thrumming filled the air, like the sound of a giant bumblebee. The gingerbread men ran back to where Walter and Abraham Lincoln sat near the ruined highway (it was Interstate 70) and formed a solemn ring about their leader and guest (prisoner?).

“What is it?” Walter asked, instantly regretting the question. He hated being a straight man. But no one answered. Walter stood up and made to walk towards the rim, but his cookie guard did not move out of the way. The humming grew louder and pebbles danced on the cracked asphalt. A monstrous shape began to rise over the lip of the Depression. It was a gigantic mottled dome not unlike the Astrodome in Houston (where Walter had once been in his youth), but its colors were a bilious green, dotted with blotches of red and yellow. It was fissured and quivering, and its shadow fell across the little company that awaited it. Walter could not imagine how it was propelled, nor what it was. Then, as its huge shaft rose into view, he recognized it. It was a mushroom. Actually, a toadstool. The humming rose abruptly in pitch and volume as the base of the stalk rose above the rim to reveal the blurred vanes that were evidently its source of propulsion. Trailing from the base of the stalk were the hyphae. In normal mushrooms they fulfilled the functions of a root system, but their purpose on this travesty must be otherwise. Perhaps they served for anchoring.

“How are we to get to the top?” he shouted at Lincoln, ‘and how are we to stay there,’ he silently added. The ex-president stared at him blankly. Walter peered more closely at the mushroom, and realized that it was propelled by rapidly beating butterfly wings. They were more than twenty feet across. They beat so rapidly that they were blurred as the mushroom hovered, yet surely they could not support its weight. Perhaps the cap was filled with helium and the wings were just for steering.

The mushroom drifted over them, and Walter thought in sudden fright, ‘it’s going to land on us, we’ll be crushed.’ But he was wrong. A hyphal cable as thick as his arm deftly encircled his waist and curled behind his legs, forcing him to sit on it. He saw that the gingerbread men were held in the same manner. Then the wings beat faster to lift them off the ground, and they flew out over the rim of the great Depression.

The land below was hidden beneath fleecy white cloud pillows; the rock wall plummeted some two miles in a sheer polished cliff before reaching the clouds. It was obviously not a natural feature. Walter looked up. The tangled cables writhed with stately grace, but grew so thickly that the base of the mushroom could not be seen. He was near to the middle of the hyphal mass, and could not see the edge of the cap either. He felt like the prey of a giant jellyfish. The cable which gripped him was as hard as oak but as flexible as rubber, and he knew it could squeeze him in two in a moment.

“Have a pleasant flight,” he muttered bitterly to himself, “I’m sorry but we are all out of complimentary cocktails.” None of the gingerbread men paid him any attention, but grinned at each other and patted the hyphae affectionately, some even snuggling into them. He wondered what the airport would look like.

The mushroom brought them to a citadel of crystal. It set them gently on a broad flat roof of red slate ringed with a parapet of transparent quartz. Then it rose slowly into the air again and moved out of sight westward. It had made most of the trip above the clouds, so Walter was not sure how far they had traveled, but he guessed it to be somewhere around 300 miles. They might be in the vicinity of St. Louis now. He really had to pee.

“Welcome to the city of Nargothrond. I am Dr. Vala.” Walter whirled about, startled out of his discomfort by a full-timbred tenor voice. He beheld a short stocky man with a bristling black beard and eyebrows who strode forward with hand and smile outstretched. The gingerbread men scampered out of his way, squeaking. This must be the boss.

Walter placed his hand in the firm, vigorous grip of his host. “Walter Hodgson.”

“Come along Walt. You don’t mind if I call you Walt. And call me Dr. V., everyone does. But let me show you to your rooms where you can bathe and recover from your flight.” He tugged on Walter’s arm and led the way to a little penthouse with open door. As soon as they entered the room the door closed with a single chime and the floor plunged downwards. Dr. Vala smiled reassuringly and released Walter, who rubbed his bicep where the Dr. had clutched it. Dr. Vala reminded him of a politician, and Walter had a generally low opinion of politicians.

“Where am I?” he asked.

Dr. V. smiled and bowed with a flourish. “Middle Earth!”

Walter gestured around at the hurrying hobbits in the big shopping mall. “So you created them?!”

Dr. V. nodded benignly. “And the orcs. And Smaug.” He lost his cheery smile for a moment as if a shadow had passed across his face. “But I had some trouble with him. Wheels.”

Walter raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon.”

“No legs,” the swarthy ruler explained, “two sets of wheels. I gave him radial tires of course, but he keeps melting the front ones with his breath. Biotech can be tricky. I’m still working on it.”

“Hell on wheels, eh?”

Dr. V. scowled. Walter turned his chuckle into a cough.

They strolled on through the mall. They passed Hamfast’s, and Baggins and Taylor, and of course, Gummidge Cards and Games. The mall seemed like any other, except that most of the buildings appeared to be constructed of rock crystal, and it was populated by hobbits and gingerbread men. Walter was pleased to see that short skirts were in fashion among hobbit girls. He found himself admiring the figure of one of them, and realized with a shock that she was less than three feet tall! ‘But it wouldn’t really be pedophilia,’ he thought, ‘she isn’t underage … just diminutive.’ He began to wonder whether size would be a problem for sex, ‘Or would I be like the proverbial British sailor in medieval Japan,’ he mused.

The gingerbread men didn’t really fit in with the idea of Middle Earth, but then, neither did the mall itself. The doctor had not yet explained how he had created the city and the beings inhabiting it, or why technology seemed to work here when it was virtually dead everywhere else, but he had promised to give Walter the grand tour. He’d also promised to explain why he’d had Walter brought to Middle Earth, but Walter suspected that he already knew. The doctor seemed to be the only other genuine human being in the entire city, and he wanted to brag to someone who wasn’t merely an extension of himself. Walter hadn’t decided how much he resented the kidnapping, because he suspected that Dr. V. could answer most of his questions. Also, he could never have gotten down into the Depression without the gingerbread men.

They left the mall and walked down a broad thoroughfare called General Baggins Boulevard. A crew of orcs were repairing the sidewalk with picks and hammers. Transportation seemed to be by foot or horse, though Walter had seen toy cars in a shop window in the mall. In fact, the entire place was unbelievably retro, especially considering that it had apparently been made using some kind of technology more advanced than anything he’d seen before the Collapse.

A group of hobbit children ran past singing:

“The birds are on the wing,

Gingerbread is baking,

Worries are no thing,

The future we are making.

Mushrooms are our taste,

Though gingerbread is sweeter,

Let us now make haste,

To the mushroomometer!”

“That’s not a very authentic hobbit song,” Walter remarked.

Dr. V. frowned. “What do you mean? They wrote it themselves.”

“Come on, what’s a mushroomometer?”

“Why, a device to measure mushrooms I suppose!”

“There is something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Walter said abruptly, as the thought returned to him.

“Yes?”

“Why aren’t there any gingerbread women?”

Dr. V. frowned. “A problem with the recipe. They’re all gay, fortunately.”

Walter smothered a giggle at the unintended pun, but then he frowned. Dr. V. seemed to have some serious hangups.

As they continued to stroll through the city, Walter noticed that there were no orc women in evidence, but that was in line with Tolkien’s writings. Hobbits of both sexes seemed to form the bulk of the population. As they neared the heart of the city, the buildings became more fanciful. Soon they came to a place where several major boulevards intersected, leaving a large plaza in the center. At the center of the plaza stood a gaudy pink crystal palace. Dr. V. led the way to the palace and when they reached it he bounded up the banded marble steps. He flung open the door and ushered Walter in.

“Come in, come in. This is my laboratory.” Walter mounted the translucent steps at the back of the small antechamber and stepped through a huge jade archway. The gigantic room beyond appeared to fill virtually the entire palace. It was lit only by sunlight refracted through the crystal walls and roof. The only thing in the room was a dark object near its center. They walked towards it, the doctor striding rapidly and Walter stretching his legs to keep up. As they approached, the object resolved itself into a machine of dark grey metal, covered with dials, knobs, and levers. It was dull and weathered, and appeared to be very old, but resembled the computers of 1950’s science fiction.

Dr. V. stopped in front of the machine. “My mutatron!” he cried proudly.

“What is it?” But he knew. Walter knew what had caused the obliteration of Missouri and the collapse of modern civilization. Sarah was certainly dead, along with everyone else who had lived in the mid-continent.

The doctor snorted. “What is it?! Why nothing at all! Only the machine with which I created Nargothrond and all within it. Only the device that dug the Depression…”

The maniac was actually proud of what he had done. “Only the source of the great wind and the cause of the devastation of the earth!” Walter shouted. “You murderer! You killed millions of innocent people and you spend your time playing god in this slipshod imitation city!” Walter’s hands jerked and he prepared to throw himself on the doctor and strangle him.

Dr. V. leaped to the machine and turned a knob all the way counterclockwise. The earth groaned and the pink palace exploded about them. It turned to cotton candy and melted in the sun. Dr. V. looked startled for a moment but then smiled grimly. “Impudent oaf!” he bellowed. “I didn’t use this machine to destroy the earth. But I could. I found it here amid chaos that would boil your brain! Only I had the strength of will to control it. I tamed it and used it to build this paradise. I control it and through it the world, but now I have a festering pustule to remove from that world.” And he pressed a blue button.

Chaos erupted around them. The floor dissolved into noisome ooze, and livid vines grew up about them. Walter slipped and fell face down in the mud. He levered himself out of the muck and something bit his finger. Dr. V. stood on a small hillock on which grew a grey metallic bush. Giant befronded salamanders menaced the two men. Walter staggered towards Dr. V., who squeezed a turquoise berry.

Gingerbread men hundreds of feet high thundered over the mountains pursuing tiny green hobbits. Walter and Dr. V. stood in a mature pine forest. Between them a grey stone idol winked, its body scribed in geometric patterns. A coppery-golden juggernaut raced between the trees, its tires screeching. Dr. V. poked the idol’s sapphire eye.

And he flew into the jellied sky, clutching at the ground that turned to water in his hands. The grey wooden chest floated in a turgid yellow sea. Walter clung to one curlicued corner and spat brine from his mouth. The chest was covered with cleverly carved wooden buttons, dials, switches, etc. Walter pulled two levers and twirled a blue knob set into one side of the chest.

A two-foot tall bearded dwarf with six legs and wearing a plaid vest and three pairs of pants rode a tiny motorcycle down the corridor towards him. Walter kicked over the motorcycle and the rider flew headfirst into the corner of an open door. Dr. V. waved his left legs and screamed. Walter hit escape on his gunmetal-grey laptop.

He staggered away from the machine, his hands pressed to his ears to keep out the hideous noise of fingernails on blackboards. In the street ten-foot plastic hobbits bit the heads off laughing gingerbread men. Dr. V. fell onto the machine from about the level of the ceiling.

A ripple passed outward from the machine and the crystal city mutated again. Walter ruffled his feathers in panic. He pecked at a blue button with his beak.

A ripple passed outward from the machine and the hardwood forest mutated again. Walter feebly wiggled his flippers. Things were definitely out of control.

A ripple: the desert shimmered. Walter hopped desperately out of the way of falling cacti. Azure pebbles rang harmoniously.

And the sea came in, and the sea withdrew, and the glaciers melted, and the machine shook the world like a dog with an old shoe. All was still.

Walter got to his feet and brushed fine purple dust from his hair. Tall orange grass waved in a light breeze and here and there baroque silver trees bore polyhedral fruit. In the distance, he could just see the cliffs rimming Deep Valley. He imagined Sarona busy in the plant, coordinating the Doblo shipments, her arms glistening. What a wonderful creature she was! He fell into a reverie, thinking of her body, their plans for a home, a family …. He shook his head and sighed. Breaktime was over and he wasn’t paid to watch the fruit crystallize. He hopped into the cabin of the thresher and disengaged the brake. For a moment the many dials and knobs on the dashboard reminded him of something he’d seen once, perhaps in a dream. He reached out with his lower left arm and pressed the blue starter button.