Tag Archives: authors

Should authors feel bad when they kill off a character?

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Here I talk about the problem that pops up when you kill off a character in a series, only to realize later you’d like to have him around.  A more interesting issue is your emotional relationship with characters you create.  Should it bother you when you kill them off?  I was talking to a reader about Pontiff, where (not much of a spoiler alert) a sympathetic character dies at the climax.  She wasn’t especially bothered by this, because it was a bit of a twist on what she was expecting, but it made perfect sense in the context of the plot.  Which was the effect I had hoped to achieve.

But I had grown to like that character.  I wished her nothing but the best!  I was sorry she had to die!  This didn’t stop me from killing her, all the same.  It wasn’t a question of morality; it was a question of aesthetics.  Your readers aren’t going to care about your characters if you don’t care about them yourself.  But you’re the boss — not the characters.

This brings me to the case of the angelic character Little Nell in Dickens’ The Old Curiosity Shop  The novel was serialized, as all of his novels were, so readers could follow the decline of the little girl’s health week by week. Wikipedia says:

The hype surrounding the conclusion of the series was unprecedented; Dickens fans were reported to storm the piers of New York City, shouting to arriving sailors (who might have already read the last installment in the United Kingdom), “Is Little Nell alive?” In 2007, many newspapers claimed the excitement at the release of the last volume of The Old Curiosity Shop was the only historical comparison that could be made to the excitement at the release of the last Harry Potter novel, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Dickens lived life and wrote fiction in a higher key than anyone else. so it’s not surprising that he was as upset by her death as his readers were.

Dickens was traumatized by the death of Little Nell.  As he was writing it he felt as though he were experiencing the death of one of his children.  It also brought back painful memories of the death of his sister-in-law, Mary Hogarth.

But a novelist has gotta do what a novelist has gottta do.

Here, if you can bear to read it, is Dickens’ description of Little Nell in death:

She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. “When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always.” Those were her words.

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird, a poor, slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed, was stirring nimbly in its cage, and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless forever! Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues? All gone. Sorrow was dead, indeed, in her; but peace and perfect happiness were born, imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.

This is great stuff, although you may be inclined to agree with Oscar Wilde: “One would have to have a heart of stone to read the death of little Nell without dissolving into tears…of laughter.”

Writing advice (good and bad) from Flavorwire

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Flavorwire is one of those annoying listicle-based sites.  But it does have some good pieces about books and writing.  Here is a list of quotations from writers about revising your work. The pithiest (and most vivid) is from Raymond Chandler:

Throw up into your typewriter every morning. Clean up every noon.

Most of the writers (except Nick Hornby) are big on cutting stuff out.  This doesn’t always work for me, because I tend to underwrite my first drafts.  But your mileage may vary.

And here is a list of what the author considers bad writing advice from famous authors. This one seems like a bit of a stretch.  Many of the quotes are obviously exaggerations to make a point (for example, Richard Ford’s “Don’t have children”).  And the author seems to misunderstand a couple of them.  For example, she doesn’t like this famous quote from George Orwell:

Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.

Her comment: “Never use anything you’ve seen before? That seems like a tall order.” But as a commenter points out, that’s not what Orwell said — he’s talking about figures of speech you’re used to seeing.  Big difference.

Portal, an online novel: Chapter 16

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Kevin appears to have survived drikana.  Once the quarantine was over, he and Larry, along with Professor Palmer, escaped the invading Canadians in Cambridge and rowed back across the river to Boston, nearly getting killed in the process.  Now more adventures await them . . .

**********************

Chapter 16

That nighttime journey from Cambridge back to Boston was the second time we had been shot at in this world.  It wouldn’t be the last.

#

Except for blue-uniformed policemen carrying nightsticks, the streets of Boston were deserted as we headed for the hospital.  The policemen eyed our wagon as we raced past them, but no one tried to stop us.  I think the sergeant would’ve shot anyone who tried.

Within a few minutes he pulled up in front of a large brick building with a sign in front that said Massachusetts General Hospital.  “Wait here,” the sergeant ordered us.  He got down from the wagon and went inside.  A few minutes later he returned with a couple of people carrying a stretcher.  They lifted Kevin out of the wagon and onto the stretcher.  The professor and I followed along as they brought him inside.  We never saw the sergeant again.

The building didn’t smell like hospitals in our world.  It stank, really.  And it was dark, with just an occasional oil lamp lighting the corridors, and not all that clean.  Somewhere a woman was screaming in pain.  As we walked, a bearded guy who was apparently a doctor started questioning us about Kevin’s drikana.  When had the symptoms appeared?  Who had been present at the onset?  How had we treated the illness?  He wasn’t happy to learn that we hadn’t bled Kevin.  “The height of folly,” he said.

“Except that the patient still lives,” Professor Palmer growled.

We passed through a door with a red “C” on it, and then into a small room with no furniture except for a bed, a chair, a little table with a candle on it, and a chamber pot.  There was one small, barred window.  Kevin was put into the bed, and the doctor examined the three of us.  It turned out that the professor had been nicked in the shoulder by a bullet back on the river and hadn’t said anything about it.  The doctor bandaged him up, but other than the bullet wound he couldn’t find anything wrong with us.

“You will be examined further in the morning,” he said.  “In the meantime, none of you is to leave this room.”

“In the meantime,” the professor said, “we demand that you send a message to Lieutenant William Carmody, chief of staff to General Solomon Aldridge, informing him of our presence here.  Also, send word immediately to my old friend Doctor George Dreier, who is the president of this august institution.  Tell him that Professor Alexander Palmer has taken up residence in his hospital and would like to chat about the accommodations.  And bring us some food; we’ve had a taxing night.”

The doctor didn’t look too happy about getting those orders.  He simply nodded and left without a word.  We were by ourselves finally.  And safe.  The professor sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.  “A little too much excitement for someone my age, lads,” he said.

“Are we going to be stuck here?” I asked.

“I’m afraid Kevin may be in hospital for a while,” he replied.  “Even though the claustration is officially over, they’ll want to be especially careful that he doesn’t suffer a relapse.  A drikana outbreak in the city would be just too devastating to contemplate.  As for us–I expect we’ll be able to leave once they’ve poked at us enough to be assured we don’t have the disease.”

I noticed that Kevin had already fallen asleep.  “Will we be able to visit him?” I asked.  “He’s going to get awfully lonely in here.  This place is creepy.”

“That should be possible, Larry.  I’ll talk to Doctor Dreier.”

I decided I was getting pretty tired, too.  I closed my eyes.  “You were really brave on the river, Professor,” I said.

“One becomes brave when one has no other choice,” he replied.  “Now we can all relax a little.”  And that’s the last thing I remembered until I opened my eyes and saw Lieutenant Carmody standing in the room.

“Very glad to find you have all survived,” he said.  “I’m informed you’re all in reasonably good health as well, thank God.”  Gray light shone through the small window.  I figured it was about dawn.  As usual, the lieutenant was freshly shaved, and his uniform was gleaming.

“You might have asked your sentries on the shore to refrain from shooting at us,” the professor replied.  “I received a welcoming present in the shoulder from one of them.”

“We did send out an order, actually, but unfortunately orders from headquarters do not always reach the men in the field.  And if they do, all too often they’re ignored or forgotten.”

“No wonder we’re losing this war,” the professor muttered.  “Anyway, what have we been missing in the past week?”

“We are established on the grounds of the palace, and progress continues, although Professor Foster’s behavior has left something to be desired.  He has not taken your absence well.”

“I’ll take care of Benjamin.  How are negotiations with the enemy progressing?”

“Vice President Boatner and Lord Percival ably represent our interests,” the lieutenant replied.  “Unfortunately, the enemy seems to think there is little to negotiate.  ‘Unconditional surrender or death’ would be a reasonable summary of their position.”

“Not especially conducive to a diplomatic solution.  And the situation in the city?”

“Not pleasant, I’m afraid,” the lieutenant replied.  “There is a strict curfew in force, dusk to dawn, and we’ve had to divert soldiers to help the police maintain order.  So far things are relatively calm, but I wouldn’t want to guess how much longer they will remain so.  People are cold and hungry and frightened, and there is little hope that their situation will improve.”

The curfew helped explain why the streets had been so deserted last night, I figured.

“At any rate,” the lieutenant went on, “I’m delighted you made it to Boston safely, and we’d like to get you back to work as soon as possible.”

“Yes,” the professor said.  “We may need a dispensation from Doctor Dreier to get Larry and me out of here, however.”

“I’m sure he’ll listen to reason.”

They went off to find the doctor, and I stayed behind with Kevin.  There was a loaf of bread and a pot of tea on a table next to Kevin’s bed.  The bread was stale, though, and the tea was cold.  Kevin woke up while I was trying to swallow a few bites.  I gave him some bread and explained what was going on.

“You mean I’m gonna be stuck in this place by myself?” he asked.

“Looks like it.  But I’ll come and visit you as often as they’ll let me.”

“Thanks,” Kevin said.  “They really don’t mess around with this disease, do they?”

I shook my head.  “Look at the bars on that window over there.  I bet they’re to keep drikana patients from escaping.”

“I can see why they’re scared,” Kevin said.  “I wouldn’t wish this disease on my worst enemy.  Still, it’s gonna be really boring in here.”

“Yeah, but it’s better than most of the alternatives.”

“No kidding.”

Lieutenant Carmody and Professor Palmer returned then with sort of good news.  The doctor had no objection to the professor and me leaving, but Kevin had to stay in the hospital for at least a couple more weeks.  “He is also very interested in some of the medical theories I have picked up from you boys,” the professor said.  “An extraordinarily open-minded man, for a doctor.  Larry, let’s go.  Kevin, we’ll be back to visit.  I’ll see if I can find a chess set and some books to keep you entertained.”

It felt awful leaving Kevin behind, but there was nothing we could do about it.  We went outside, and Peter was waiting there with the lieutenant’s carriage.  It was good to see him again.  He brought us straight to Coolidge Palace, and we got out to inspect the work going on.  I just kind of tagged along, actually; there wasn’t a lot I could help with at this point.

The balloons looked pretty much ready to use, now that they had figured out how to stop the leaks.  They were still experimenting with the best way of heating the air, but that seemed like a detail.  People had seen the balloons flying over the palace grounds and had gotten very excited.  “Airships,” they called them.

Professor Foster was very proud of his electric fence, but there was concern about how much power his batteries could generate, and what distance the fence would be able to cover.  Professor Palmer questioned him sharply, and as usual he got confused and defensive.  “It will work,” he insisted.  “You can count on me.  You can count on electricity.”

No one looked convinced.

Lieutenant Carmody left Professor Palmer in charge after a while and returned to headquarters.  I hung around all day, doing whatever people asked me to, and in the evening the professor and I went to headquarters too.  He was pretty tired.  I figured his shoulder was bothering him, but he wouldn’t admit it.  “There is much still to be done, and precious little time,” he said.  “I fear I won’t be able to visit Kevin as often as I’d like.”

“I can go by myself,” I pointed out.

“Traveling through the city alone will be quite dangerous,” he responded.

“I survived drikana and the Canadians,” I said.  “Not much is going to scare me anymore.”

That brought a smile to his face.  “Good point,” he admitted.  “But courage doesn’t keep you safe.  We should talk to Lieutenant Carmody.  Perhaps Peter can drive you.”

We found the lieutenant in his room.  He was okay with having Peter drive me once in a while, but not every day.  “I’m sorry that Kevin is in hospital,” he said, “but winning the war must take precedence.”

“I worry about Larry on the city streets by himself,” the professor said.

The lieutenant considered.  “We could give him a military pass,” he said.  “That might keep him out of trouble if the police pick him up after curfew.”

“That’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

So I got a pass, and they found me a beat-up winter coat that looked like it would be even more useful.  It was definitely getting colder now.  I couldn’t imagine how people in the camps would survive, once winter really set in.  On the other hand, everyone expected the war to be over before that happened.

The next morning Peter drove me to the hospital.  It turned out to be near the river, down the hill from Coolidge Palace.  I brought along a couple of books, a deck of cards, and a chess set that the professor had borrowed from a colonel who was too busy to use it.  The streets were still crowded during the day, but it was hard to go a block without people running up to the carriage begging for food.  The restaurants were all closed, I noticed, and there were armed guards outside the few grocery stores that were still open.

Kevin was overjoyed to see me.  “This place is horrible,” he said.  “There’s nothing to do, no one to talk to.  They just bring you a lousy meal every once in a while and empty your chamber pot and then disappear.  And that doctor with the beard is still mad that you guys didn’t bleed me.”

“And no TV,” I pointed out.

Kevin sighed.  “No TV.  No nothing.”

So we played chess (I lost every game), and we played cards, and we talked–about this world and our world, sort of all mixed in together.  I had to go after a couple of hours, but I came back the next day, and the next, and every day after that.

A couple of times I had to walk, but that was okay.  I was familiar with the route, and I always got back to headquarters well before the dusk curfew.  Nobody bothered me, although I saw a fight or two and some people trying to break into a store.  Professor Palmer started to worry less about me–not that he had much time to worry, with all the stuff he was supervising at Coolidge Palace.  At the officer’s mess, the food got skimpier and skimpier.  Standing in line to wash up in the morning, I overheard the officers worrying that the situation couldn’t last much longer.  Even Bessy, the huge woman who brought out the hot water, was starting to look thin.

As for Kevin–physically he kept getting better, although he too looked thin.  His mental state was another story.  He had too much time to think, and the more he thought, the unhappier he got.  It was the same old stuff: we wouldn’t find the portal, we’d never get home, we’d be stuck here forever.  But now it all seemed more real to him.  “We’re going to die here,” he said one day.  “Next week or in, like, sixty years, it’s gonna happen.”

“If we can just get back to Glanbury–”

“But we might not even be able to do that,” he pointed out, “if New England loses the war.”

“We won’t lose.”

But Kevin was too depressed to be convinced.  “Larry,” he said, “remember that first day, sitting in the brig?  Remember how we wondered if our families were in the camp?”

“Yeah, I guess so.  You were the one who was wondering.”

“Well, I still am.  I was thinking: If we can’t get back home, maybe at least we can find another version of our families here.”

“That’d be creepy,” I said.  “What if you met yourself?”

“That wouldn’t be creepy.  It’d be cool.”

I thought about it.  Hadn’t I wondered if I existed in the Burger Queen world?  But still . . .  “I know Stinky Glover was in the Burger Queen world, and Nora Lally,” I said.  “But this world split off from ours hundreds of years ago.  What are the odds they’d be here?”

“Beethoven lived in this world,” Kevin pointed out.  “And look at Calvin Coolidge, for crying out loud.  If there was a Calvin Coolidge here, why can’t there be an Albright family and a Barnes family?”

“Well, Glanbury’s just a small farming town.  There can’t be anywhere near as many people living there in this world as in ours.  I mean, think about it.  The right people have to fall in love and get married, generation after generation, every since the two universes split off.  Even if it’s possible that our families are here, what are the odds?”

“I don’t know,” Kevin said.  “But I think you should go look for them.”

“You want me to go to the Fens camp?  That’s nuts!”

“Why?”

“Things are getting scary out there, Kevin.  Professor Palmer is worried about me even coming to the hospital.  And the camps are a whole lot worse.  They won’t let anyone out anymore, and people inside are getting desperate.  I was talking to a couple of soldiers at headquarters, and they said they wouldn’t go into the camp with anything less than a platoon.”

Kevin considered.  “I can’t make you go,” he said.  “But what if they’re in the camp?  What if Cassie and Matthew and your Mom and Dad are just a couple of miles away from here?”

“Come on, Kevin, they’re not the same people.  Even if they have the same DNA or whatever, all their experiences are different.  So they’d be different.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t be that different–how do you know?”

“What do we have in common?  Farming?  Smallpox?  Drikana?”

Kevin seemed to lose his energy all of a sudden.  Maybe it was my mentioning his disease.  “Suit yourself,” he said, lying back on his pillow.  “I’ll go myself when I get sprung from here.”

“Look, I’ll think about it, okay?”

“Okay,” he replied.  “Thanks, Larry.”  He didn’t sound like he meant it.

But I did think about it.  I had to admit I was curious, but was I curious enough to walk through Cheapside and talk my way into the camp?  If I got in, could I get back out?  I had my pass, but how much good was that going to do?  I guess I was braver than I used to be, but going to the camp really seemed stupid.

When I visited Kevin the next day, he didn’t bring it up, but I could tell he was still thinking about it too.  And he was still depressed about being in the hospital, and in this world.

Walking back to headquarters afterwards, I saw a woman begging outside a tavern, with a child Matthew’s age by her side.  They were both wearing rags, basically.  The mother looked desperate, and the child looked like he was too tired and hungry to care what happened to him.  There were lots of beggars now, and most people just walked past them.

I didn’t have anything to give her, but she started me thinking about my own mother.  If she was in the camp, how could she stand it?  At home she was worried about perverts from Rhode Island getting hold of us.  What would she do if there was real danger all around her?

And then I thought: What if I could help her?  Bring her food, maybe even get her out of the camp.

I got excited thinking about this, and it took me a while to realize that something weird was happening.  I had slipped from imagining my real mother being in the camp to thinking about my “other” mother–the one from this world.

And it didn’t seem to make any difference.  I had been arguing with Kevin that the Emma Barnes in this world would be a different person from my Emma Barnes.  Now I had fallen into thinking the opposite: She was my mom, no matter where she was.

Did I believe that?

I guess I sort of did.  And if so, why didn’t I agree with Kevin?  Why wasn’t I itching to go find my family?

The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to do just that.

I imagine this was the process Kevin had gone through, lying there in his hospital bed with nothing to do but think.  Practically everything about this world was different and strange.  But if we could find our families . . . well, they might be different, but I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be strange.  There would be some way in which my mom was still my mom, my dad was still my dad.

If they were here.

I lay awake that night in my cold attic room thinking about it some more.  In the morning I was still thinking about it as I washed up outside, then ate a hard biscuit and some thin porridge in the mess.  I went over to Coolidge Palace with Professor Palmer, but I didn’t say anything about going to the Fens camp; he would’ve gone nuts.  It turned out he didn’t even want me to visit Kevin anymore.

“But I haven’t had any problems at all going to the hospital,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but it keeps getting worse in the city,” he responded.  “I hear there was a riot at Dock Square yesterday.”

“I don’t go anywhere near Dock Square.  And Kevin is expecting me.”

He just shook his head.  “I can’t allow it, Larry,” he said.  “Things are just too dangerous, and you are too valuable to us.  If Peter could take you, then wait and bring you back, that would be acceptable.  But Lieutenant Carmody can’t spare him any longer.”

This wasn’t good.  Especially since I didn’t feel very valuable.  On the palace grounds, mostly I just hung around and got in the way.  Professor Palmer was usually in meetings or supervising something.  Once I saw President Gardner, along with Vice President Boatner and Lord Percival, but he barely nodded to me.  The three of them looked pretty tired.  I heard that the Portuguese and Canadian diplomats were meeting with them off and on inside the palace, but no one had any idea how the negotiations were coming.  For all any of us knew, the war could be over at any minute, with New England surrendering and all our efforts wasted.

After lunch I decided that I couldn’t stand it, so I just wandered away.  The soldiers with the big plumed hats at the gate knew me, and they let me out without a problem.

I was fine as I walked through the heart of the city, but I began to get nervous as I came to Cheapside.  When Kevin and I had walked through it before, it had been nighttime, and we hadn’t really seen just how run-down the place was, with its narrow dirt lanes and wretched shacks.  No more hogs snuffling around in the alleys, though–they’d all been eaten long ago, I supposed.  And no more music and laughter from inside the saloons.  The only people I saw were hunched in doorways, and they stared at me suspiciously.  I began to be conscious of my warm coat, which had looked pretty shabby when the lieutenant had first handed it to me.  But I thought: these people don’t have enough energy to attack me.

At last I made it through Cheapside and reached the military buildings outside the camp.  It felt strange to see them again, after so much had happened.

Near the barracks I spotted Chester, the guy who was in the brig with us.  He was digging a big hole in the ground with some other soldiers.  “Graves,” he said when he saw me.  “Need lots of graves.”

I shuddered and hurried on.

There seemed to be a lot more soldiers guarding the camp, and the fence looked higher and sturdier.  I searched for a familiar face, and finally spotted one.  “Caleb!” I called out.

He was standing in front of the barracks, talking to some other soldiers.  His beard was scruffier than I remember and, like everyone, he looked thinner.  He glanced over when I called his name and smiled.  “Hello, mate!” he said.  “What brings you back here?  I hear you was involved in that secret business back at the Palace.”

“I got the day off.  I was wondering–can I get into the camp?”

“Now why would you want to do that, mate?” he asked.  “It’s nasty in there.  Everyone who’s inside just wants to get out.”

“I’m looking for a friend.”

He shook his head.  “Know where he’s camped?”

“Not really.”

“Then you’ll not have much luck, I fear.”

“But I need to try,” I said, starting to feel desperate.

Caleb shrugged.  “Suit yourself.  Let’s go find Sergeant Hornbeam.  Easy enough to get in, I suppose.  The trick is getting back out.  Used to be folks could wander outside, as long as they came back before curfew.  Those days are gone now.  Too many people, not enough of anything else.”

He brought me inside the barracks to a little office next to Colonel Clarett’s–the one where I had first met Lieutenant Carmody.  Sergeant Hornbeam was sitting there writing on a sheet of paper.

“Sergeant, look who’s come back to visit!” Caleb said.

The sergeant looked up at me.  If I was expected him to be happy to see me, I was mistaken.  He just seemed puzzled and maybe a little annoyed.  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“He wants to go visiting in the camp,” Caleb said.

“By yourself?  Is Lieutenant Carmody with you?”

“No, uh, just me.  But I’ve got a pass from him.”

I dug it out and gave it to him.  He studied it.  “Odd,” he muttered, then handed the pass back to me.  “Hold onto it,” he said.  “But take my advice and don’t go into the camp.”

“I’ll be careful,” I promised.

He shook his head.  “We only go in there to cart out the dead now.  But suit yourself.  Show the pass to get back out.  If there’s a problem, tell the guards to find me.”

“Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.”

He waved me away, and Caleb escorted me out of the barracks.

“So,” Caleb said as we walked over to the camp gates, “what does headquarters have up its sleeve?  Flying airships, that’s what Fred heard.  Hundreds of feet above Coolidge Palace.”

“I can’t really talk about it, Caleb.”

“Could you just tell me if there’s something, mate?  Folks is getting mighty nervous, I don’t mind telling you.  There’s also rumors that the president’s going to surrender by week’s end.  So are we fighting, or are we giving up?  It’d be good to know what’s what.”

“I don’t know about surrendering,” I said.  “But I know they’re working on some things at Coolidge Palace, and I’m pretty sure they’re going to help.”

“As long as they’re still trying, that’s a good sign.  Here you go, mate.”

We had reached the main gates.  There were several soldiers standing guard.  A crowd of people on the other side of the fence was yelling at one of them, demanding to be let out.  The guards just ignored them.

“This here is Larry from headquarters, Sergeant,” Caleb said to the soldier in charge.  “He’s to be let in and out of the camp, though why he wants to go in there is beyond me.”

“He’ll learn soon enough,” the sergeant replied with a shrug.  “Take a couple of men and go to the side gate.  Fix bayonets, in case you have to clear a path.”

“Right.”  Caleb found a couple of his friends, and we went along the fence till we reached another gate, also heavily guarded, but with only a few people on the other side. Caleb and the guards put their bayonets on, then unlocked the gate and pretty much shoved me inside, while pushing back the people who lunged forward, trying to get out.

“Thanks, Caleb!” I shouted as I made my way through the people.

“Fare you well, mate!” he said.  “And be careful!”

And there I was, back inside the camp.

Portal, an online novel: Chapter 15

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The Canadian soldiers are approaching Cambridge.  It’s time for Professor Palmer and the boys to retreat to Boston with the New England soldiers.  They decide to spend one last night at home — to celebrate Harvest Day.

And then Kevin comes down with the dread disease drikana.  Now they all have to be quarantined for seven days, with the enemy invading their city.  Will Kevin survive?  Even if he does, will the Canadians discover them and burn down the house with the three of them inside?

Kevin and Larry are a long way their old lives, where all they had to worry about was getting wet willies from Stinky Glover . . .

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Chapter 15

We went back inside to take care of Kevin.  He was sitting on the edge of the bed, pale and shivering, trying to throw up.  “Am I dying?” he managed to whisper.

“You are very ill, Kevin,” the professor replied, “but we will take care of you.”

I wrapped a blanket around him.

Was he better?  Worse?  I changed my mind every few minutes, and finally decided he was about the same.  Which meant he still had a chance.  “Larry, what did I do to deserve this?” he whispered as he lay back, gasping, after one long stretch over the chamber pot.

“Hang in there, Kev,” I told him.

“I just want to go to school.  I just want to be with my family.”

“It’ll be all right.”

“This is awful.  They’ll never know what happened to me.  I’ll die, and–”  He started to cough, and then he began retching again.  He was right.  It was awful.

In the middle of the afternoon he drifted off to sleep again.  I was exhausted.  Just sitting was a strain.

“Go to my room and rest,” the professor urged me.  “I’ll take care of Kevin.”

I didn’t want to leave him, but I wasn’t doing much good sitting there, so I went across the hall and lay down on the professor’s bed.  I probably fell asleep right away.  This time I didn’t dream of balloon rides.  I dreamed of stepping into the portal and, instead of finding a new world, this one started spinning around me.  I got dizzier and dizzier, and I realized: the germs have got me.  Drikana.  I’m going to die.  And I thought: I hate this world, I hate this world . . .

I opened my eyes.  The room was dark.  I blinked and shook my head.  Was I dizzy?  Was I dying?

No, it was just a dream.  I was hungry.  I had to pee.  But I felt okay.  I got up and went back across the hall.  Kevin was still asleep.  The professor was reading a book by candlelight.

“This is good, right?”  I asked him.  “I mean, that he can sleep?”

“It is good.”

“And if he makes it through the night . . . ?”

“That will be a very good sign.  But there’s nothing certain about the course of the disease, Larry.  Even if Kevin survives the first two days, he will still be very weak.  Often victims succumb to another disease that overtakes them in their weakened state.  In rare cases, the drikana returns, and that is certain death.”

“I just want to be able to hope,” I said.

“So do I, Larry.  So do I.”

We heard the sound of gunfire in the distance.  I noticed that the curtain was drawn.  “We’ll have to be careful about candles and lamps at night,” I remarked.

The professor nodded.  “It’s lucky we’re not on a main thoroughfare,” he said.  “But our situation is still perilous.”

“How are we going to get to Boston after the claustration is over?”

The professor put down the book and rubbed his eyes.  “Let us first survive these first few days,” he said.  “There’ll be time to decide what we do after that.”

So we took turns watching Kevin through the night.  He woke up after a while, and the professor tried feeding him a little broth, but he couldn’t keep it down.  I read to him, and he seemed to like that, but he was too weak to pay much attention.  I wasn’t very sleepy, so I just kept on reading, even after Kevin had closed his eyes and fallen back asleep.  I was too worried to just sit there and think.  Was I dizzy yet?  What would I do if Kevin died?  What would happen if the Canadians showed up?  It was probably better not to think about those things.  But it was hard to avoid, sitting in the dark bedroom in the middle of the night with your friend maybe dying next to you.

Finally I nodded off again.  When I woke up, it was light out.  The professor was sitting in his chair, asleep.  I looked over at Kevin.  He was awake.  “This sucks, you know that, Larry?” he said.

I could have kissed him.

“Am I gonna be all right?” he asked.

“Of course you are.”

His voice was weak, he was too exhausted to move very much, and he had no appetite, but he was definitely better.  “You are a strong young man,” the professor pronounced after he had examined Kevin.  In private, he told me that Kevin still wasn’t out of danger, but I don’t think I really believed him.  Kevin was okay, and the professor and I were still okay, and drikana wasn’t going to defeat us.

By the end of the day we could feed Kevin some broth.  By the next morning he wanted to know what was going on–weren’t we supposed to leave Cambridge?  Where were the Canadians?  Professor Palmer explained to him about claustration, and how we’d had to stay behind.

“You mean this is, like, enemy territory now?  And we’re stuck here?”

“We haven’t seen any Canadians yet, but yes, I expect they have taken over Cambridge at this point.”

Kevin thought this over.  “And you stayed behind to save me,” he said.

The professor put on his gruff voice.  “We really had no choice, you see.  The entire household must be claustrated when any inhabitant falls ill with the disease.  It’s the law.”

“All right,” Kevin replied.  “But, thanks just the same.  I’d be dead without you.”

The professor nodded.  “Of course, of course.”  Then he turned away, and I think maybe his eyes were moist.

So then it was a question of getting Kevin stronger and hoping the Canadians didn’t notice us until the seven days were up.  No fire during the day, no matter how cold it got; candlelight only behind thick curtains at night.  We went outside as little as possible–to visit the privy, to take care of the animals.  Once I was out in the barn, and I heard the sound of wagon wheels and soldiers’ voices, not that far away, and I prayed the animals would keep quiet until they passed.  Lieutenant Carmody’s warning kept buzzing around in my brain–when they saw the claustration sign they wouldn’t take us prisoner, they’d simply burn us up.  Could there be a worse death?  The sounds faded eventually, and we were still safe.

Eventually we began talking about our escape.  “Anything we attempt will be dangerous,” the professor explained, “but it should not be impossible to get to Boston.  I have lived here much of my life, and I know the backroads well.  On a clear night we should be able to reach the river without going near the Massachusetts Road–I have sketched out a route already.  The Canadians won’t be patrolling these roads, I think–their enemy is ahead of them, not behind them.”

“But what happens when we reach the river?” I asked.  “How do we get across?”

“The Canadians won’t have had time to build up positions along the entire length of the Charles, even if that is their strategy,” the professor replied.  “They’re probably massed on either side of the road.  We’ll need to work our way upriver.  I know an inlet where Harvard keeps a small boathouse for its students.  If we’re lucky, it will have escaped the enemy’s notice, and we can get a boat there and row across to the Boston side.”

“Will Kevin be strong enough to travel like this?”

“We don’t leave until Kevin is ready.  He can ride in the back of the carriage, but it will surely be a bumpy trip.”

“I can make it,” Kevin said.

The professor shook his head.  “Not until the seven days are up, at the earliest.”

I thought of the lieutenant’s final warning: We’d be shot if we showed up in Boston before those seven days.  People didn’t fool around here when it came to drikana.

Kevin had a question, too.  “What happens to Susie?”

“We’ll have to leave Susie at the boathouse,” the professor replied.  “It can’t be helped, I’m afraid.”

That was just awful.  The professor’s horse was like part of the family.  But there was nothing we could say.  It was clear we couldn’t get her across the river.

So we took care of Kevin, and we waited.

The seventh night was clear and cold.  Kevin was still very weak, but eager to leave.  “I’m ready,” he insisted.  “Let’s get out of here.”

Professor Palmer was hesitant.  “A day or two more would do you a world of good,” he said.

“Every day we’re here makes it more dangerous for all of us,” Kevin replied.  Couldn’t argue with that.  So the professor agreed: it was time to go.

There were things to be done first.  We burned all Kevin’s bedclothes–a requirement at the end of claustration.  Professor Palmer took down the sign; that was a big relief.  We unloaded the books and papers we had so carefully put into the professor’s carriage a week ago; we weren’t going to row them across the river.  It seemed like way more than a week had gone by since we had packed the carriage, since that happy Harvest Day.  If the professor was sad that we had to leave all his stuff behind, he didn’t let on.  Then we hitched up Susie, who seemed plenty surprised to have to go to work at this time of night.  Last of all, we brought Kevin out and made him as comfortable as we could in the back of the carriage.

“Ready?” Professor Palmer asked.

“Ready.”

We headed off.  I took one look back at the house, wondering if I’d ever see it again.  Then we turned a corner, and it disappeared.

The night was quiet, and we seemed to make a huge amount of noise as we clopped along in the moonlight.  Leaves floated down from the trees like small dark ghosts.  I thought of the pretend scariness of Halloween, and how different this was.  The enemy was out there somewhere, ready to kill us.

Susie seemed confused about where we were heading; this certainly wasn’t one of her regular routes.  The professor led us through little lanes and narrow paths, staying away from the main roads.  Sometimes it looked like there wasn’t a path at all, and we were cutting across a meadow or through someone’s backyard.  We didn’t see or hear anyone else; the town seemed entirely deserted.

“You okay, Kev?” I whispered to him after we went over a big bump.

“Hangin’ in there,” he replied, but he didn’t sound all that great.  “You know what I miss this time of year?”

“What’s that?”

“The World Series.  I wonder if the Red Sox–”

“Save the baseball talk for General Aldridge, Kevin.”

“Not much farther to go,” the professor said.

We made one final turn, and then I could see the rippling of water in the distance and the outline of a long, dark structure.  “The boathouse,” he whispered.  We had made it!

We pulled up in front of the building.  “Quickly,” the professor said, getting down from the carriage.  “Larry, bring the lantern.  We may have to risk a light inside.”

I turned to get the lantern.  And that’s when I heard the voice.

“Stop right there!  Turn around and get down!  Both of you, raise your hands where I can see ’em.”

I turned, my heart pounding, and saw the shape of a man aiming a rifle at me.  I did as I was told.

“Laurent,” he called out.  “Wake up and give us some light if you please.”

He had one of those French-Canadian accents.  In a few seconds a second soldier appeared out of the boathouse; he lit a lantern and held it up.

Both of the men had long hair and beards.  The one with the rifle was big and burly; Laurent was smaller, and looked nervous.  They were wearing dirty gray uniforms with the jackets unbuttoned.

“Put the lantern down and search them for weapons,” the burly soldier ordered Laurent.  He seemed to be the boss.

Laurent came over and patted us down.  “Trying to get to Boston, eh?” the other soldier asked meanwhile.

We didn’t reply.

“They don’t look like spies, Robert,” Laurent said when he was done.  He pronounced it “Row-bare.”

“And what exactly do spies look like?” Robert snapped.  “Do they wear red uniforms with ‘New England’ written on the sleeves?”

“We’re not spies,” the professor said.  “We’re merely residents of Cambridge who delayed in evacuating.”

“Well, you delayed too long,” Robert said.  “This is Canadian territory now.  D’ye think we’re too stupid to guard this boathouse?”

“Shall we shoot them, Robert?” Laurent asked.

Robert looked annoyed.  “No, fool, we bring them to headquarters and have them interrogated.  Even if they’re not spies, they may have valuable information.  Get some rope and tie them up.”

“Where’s the rope?”

Robert muttered what sounded like a French swear under his breath.  “Hold the rifle and give me the lantern,” he said.  “If either of them moves, shoot them both.”

“But I thought you said–”

Robert said the French word louder, then grabbed the lantern from Laurent and went back into the boat house.  The professor and I stayed where we were.  Laurent aimed the rifle at us in the moonlight.

And that’s when Kevin moved in the back of the carriage.

“What’s that?” Laurent demanded.

“That,” said the professor, “is our drikana patient.”

“Mon Dieu!” Laurent whispered, and he shifted the rifle and blessed himself.  “Robert!” he called out.  “Robert!”

Robert came back out of the boathouse a moment later, carrying another rifle along with the lantern.  “What the devil is it?” he demanded, when he saw that neither of us had moved.

“D-drikana,” Laurent said, pointing to the carriage.  “In the back.”

Robert went over to the carriage, shined the lantern inside, and saw Kevin lying down amid pillows and blankets.

“We were under claustration,” the professor said.  “That’s why we were delayed in leaving.”

Why is he telling them about that? I wondered.  They’ll want nothing to do with drikana, Lieutenant Carmody had said.  They’d just burn us alive.

“Now let’s shoot them,” Laurent begged, proving my point.

“If you shoot us,” the professor pointed out, “you’ll have to bury us.”

Robert backed away from the carriage.  “How do we know it’s drikana?” he said.

“Why else would we stay behind enemy lines instead of leaving with everyone else?” the professor replied.

“Please let’s shoot them,” Laurent said.

“Shut up!” Robert ordered him.  “The claustration, it is over?” he asked the professor.

“It ended tonight.  And now you can kill us and deal with our bodies, or you can let us row our patient over to the city.”

So then I understood what the professor was up to.  The best solution for the Canadians was to let us go and bring the disease across the river into Boston.  Let New England deal with us.

Robert got the point.  “The boy is definitely ill,” he said.  “Could be consumption, I suppose.”

“Could be,” the professor agreed.  “But it’s drikana.”

Laurent looked very unhappy.  “My sister died of it,” he said.

“It is not a pleasant disease.”

“Laurent, get a boat out for ’em,” Robert ordered.  “They’re going to Boston.”

Laurent didn’t have to be told twice.  He ran back into the boathouse, and soon after that we could hear him dragging a boat out into the water.

“This gun will be trained on you as you cross,” Robert said to us.  “If I see you turning back, you’ll all be dead before you reach the shore.”

“We understand,” the professor replied.  “Believe me, we have no desire to return to Cambridge.”

Robert motioned with the rifle.  “Get the boy,” he ordered.

We put our hands down–my arms were really tired–and went to get Kevin.  “Sorry,” he said.

“Sorry for what?” I replied.  “Come on, Kev.  Let’s get into the boat.”

The professor and I half-carried Kevin along a narrow path to the dock, where the boat was waiting.  Laurent was standing as far away from us as he could on the dock.  We arranged Kevin in the boat as well as possible, but he looked pretty uncomfortable.  “We need the blankets,” Professor Palmer said to Laurent, and he motioned with the rifle to go back and get them.  “Larry, you stay with Kevin,” the professor said.

“Say goodbye to Susie for us,” I said.

He patted me on the head and then returned to the carriage.  “That was a smart move by the professor,” Kevin said while we waited.

“I bet he planned it all along, and just didn’t want to tell us.”

He returned in a minute with the blankets and pillows.  “Can you row?” he asked me.

“A little.”  Thank goodness I had taken lessons at camp last summer.

“We’ll take turns.  You begin.”

Robert was on the dock now, too.  “To Boston,” he reminded us.  “Return, and you die.”

I picked up the oars, fit them into the oarlocks, and moved us away from the dock.  “So far so good,” I said.

“Indeed,” the professor replied.  “Unfortunately, now it begins to be really dangerous.”

Why?  I didn’t want to ask.  I focused on getting us out of the inlet and onto the river.  I was pretty rusty at rowing, but I got back the hang of it quickly.  The dock was out of sight once we were on the river, and I wondered how the Canadian soldiers were going to track us.  Had Robert just been bluffing?  The river was calm; its surface was like glass in the moonlight.  There were just a few dim lights on either shore.  And there wasn’t a sound except for the swooshing of the oars.  It felt incredibly peaceful.

When we were about in the middle of the river, the professor said, “I’ll take over now.”

“I’m not tired,” I said.  “I can make it the whole way.”

“Larry, let me take over,” he repeated.  “I want you to get down in the bottom of the boat with Kevin.”

“Why?”

“Because I expect the New England soldiers will start shooting at us any moment now.”

“Huh?  But the claustration is over!  We’re okay.”

After a few weeks with us, the professor didn’t need a translation of “okay”.  “They don’t know who we are,” he said.  “They just see a boat heading toward them from enemy territory.  They’re first instinct will be to shoot at it.  Now do as I say and get down with Kevin.”

I didn’t really have a choice.  I awkwardly switched positions with the professor, then scrunched down next to Kevin.  “Scary, huh?” I said.

“Wouldn’t it be great just to feel safe again?” he replied.

“Not gonna happen anytime soon.”

We approached the Boston shore.  The professor was a pretty good rower, for someone his age.  “Won’t be long now,” he muttered.  And then he shouted, “This is Alexander Palmer!  Let us come ashore!”

He barely got the second sentence out when the guns started firing.  The sound was like a punch in the stomach.  The bullets sprayed the water around us.  One of them nicked an oarlock.  Kevin and I huddled together.

“Alexander Palmer!” the professor repeated at the top of his lungs.  “I’m Professor Alexander Palmer!  Don’t shoot!  Let us come ashore!”

There was a pause.  “You all right?” I asked the professor.

“Yes, yes.  But their aim will get better as we get closer.”  He shouted out his name again, and then added: “We are friends of Lieutenant William Carmody.  We have no weapons.”

They fired a couple more shots at us, then I heard a shout from the shore that I couldn’t understand.  But the shooting stopped after that, and we continued to make our way toward Boston.  I sat up a little, and I saw a lantern ahead of us.  “Over here,” a voice called out.  “Stay in the boat.”

We eased up to the bank.  A squad of soldiers approached, with rifles aimed at us.  “You have the drikana patient with you?” one of them demanded.

“We do,” Professor Palmer replied.

The soldier came up to the boat.  He was a short, plump lieutenant, and he carried a pistol instead of a rifle.

“He is much improved,” the professor said.  “And the claustration is complete.”

The lieutenant peered in at Kevin.  “Hi,” Kevin said.

“Sergeant,” the lieutenant called out.  “Have you found the order from headquarters?”

“Yes, sir,” one of the other soldiers replied.

“What time does it expire?”

“Midnight, sir.”

The lieutenant took out his watch and made a big deal of checking it.  What a jerk, I thought.  We hadn’t left Cambridge till after midnight.  Obviously the time was up.  “Very well,” he said.  “I don’t approve, but the order is clear.  Sergeant, find a wagon and get these people to hospital without delay.  And keep everyone away from them.”

“Yes, sir.”  The sergeant headed off away from the bank.

The lieutenant turned back to us.  “Can he walk?”

“We can help him,” Professor Palmer replied.

“Follow the sergeant up the path.  Don’t touch anyone.  Don’t talk to anyone.”

“Let’s go, lads,” the professor said without replying to the lieutenant.

The lieutenant stepped back away from us as we got out of the boat.  “Corporal,” he said to another soldier, “burn the boat and everything in it.”

“Welcome back to Boston, eh?” the professor said to us as we headed towards the path leading away from the river, and all the soldiers shrank back.

“Could have been worse,” I said.

“Indeed it could,” the professor replied.  “Indeed it could.”

Portal, an online novel: Chapter 13

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In the alternate universe Kevin and Larry find themselves stuck in, they are helping the United States of New England in its war against New Portugal and Canada.  The boys are working with the military on hot air balloons and electricity when they get a summons from President Gardner.  Their guardian, Professor Palmer, is not happy about it.

Previous chapters are up there on the menu.  They’re all pretty good!

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Chapter 13

“The man’s an idiot,” Professor Palmer said.  “We won’t go.”

General Aldridge scratched his chin.  “I may have my disagreements with the president, but I fear he’s no idiot.  In any case, you don’t have any choice.  This wasn’t an invitation, Alexander; it was a summons.”

“Why can’t we just bring him out here and show him what we’ve accomplished?” Kevin asked.

“One must first persuade him that it’s worth the trip,” the general replied.  “Lieutenant, see that they get to the palace.  If Professor Palmer gives you any trouble, arrest him or something.  I’ll follow along presently.”

“Yes, sir.”  Lieutenant Carmody turned to us.  “Let’s go, then, shall we?”

The lieutenant didn’t have his carriage, so we all piled into Professor Palmer’s.  He decided we needed to improve our appearance, so we stopped back at the house, cleaned up, and borrowed a couple of the professor’s dressy white shirts.  They were about the right size for me, but way too big for Kevin.  Lieutenant Carmody thought it was an improvement, though.

The professor, meanwhile, was still in a snit.  “Everything is wasted–science, planning, courage–without political wisdom,” he said.

“We elected the president,” Lieutenant Carmody pointed out.

“Not with my vote.  He promised us a stronger New England.  And now with his reckless adventurism he has all but destroyed it.”

The lieutenant wasn’t very interested in what the professor had to say about President Gardner.  He just wanted to get us to Coolidge Palace.  Once we had changed, we got back in the carriage and hurried off to Boston.

It was twilight by the time we crossed the bridge into the city.  Things were looking worse.  Many of the trees I had seen there on the trip to Cambridge had been chopped down–for firewood, I guess; the smoke from the fires in the refugee camp stung my eyes.  The smell of sewage was almost unbearable.  There were fewer people on the streets, but those who were out looked tired and hungry.  More than one of them rushed up to the carriage with his hands outstretched, begging for food.  We didn’t stop.

In our world, I’d gone into Boston a couple of times to visit the Massachusetts State House, a big brick building with a gold dome at the top of Beacon Hill.  Here, there was more than one hill in the center of the city, and the president lived in a mansion at the top of the middle hill.  This was Coolidge Palace–named, I found out, after the first president of New England, Sir Calvin Coolidge.  I remembered him as a not-so-important president in our world, so that struck me as really strange.  But I didn’t say anything about it.

We drove up to the front gate, which was guarded by stern-looking soldiers with those silly plumes in their hats.  Lieutenant Carmody got out of the carriage and talked to one of them, who came up and looked at us suspiciously.  He wrote down our names, then opened the gates and let us through.

It was like going through the portal again–this time entering a serene, lovely world where nothing was out of place.  As we drove up the gravel drive to the large granite building we saw one groundskeeper sweeping leaves off the immaculate lawn, another trimming a bush that was so perfectly shaped it looked artificial.

“No refugees allowed near Coolidge Palace,” Professor Palmer muttered.  “Wouldn’t do.”

At the front steps a groom took Professor Palmer’s carriage, and then a tall man in a bright green suit wearing a long white wig escorted us up the steps and opened the door for us.  I thought I caught him sneering at Kevin and me, in our crufty pants and shoes, but I couldn’t be sure.  This was the first time I’d ever seen anyone in a wig for real, and I almost burst out laughing.  He led us along a couple of corridors lined with portraits of people I didn’t recognize, and finally deposited us in a small room whose walls were painted with scenes of pretty shepherdesses tending flocks of sheep.  He instructed us to wait there until summoned, and then he left.

“Waste of time,” the professor said.

Lieutenant Carmody gave us instructions about how to act in front of the president.  Give a small bow when you’re introduced, speak only when spoken to, throw in lots of “Your Excellency”‘s.  He looked like he was right at home in the palace.

Eventually the guy in the green suit led in General Aldridge.  He had shaved and put on a clean uniform, although the way he wore it, it still managed to look rumpled.  At least he wasn’t chewing on a cigar.  He sat in one of the overstuffed armchairs and folded his arms.  “His Excellency is dining this evening with the British ambassador and friends,” he said.  “I expect that we are the entertainment.”

“What’s the game?” Lieutenant Carmody asked.  “Is he trying to embarrass you?”

“Perhaps.  Show that he’s still in charge.”

“He could simply discharge you.”

“At the risk of having half his cabinet resign,” General Aldridge pointed out.  “Lord Percival would certainly object, as would some of the others.  At any rate, the president can’t afford a political crisis now.  And he can’t afford to make me too angry.”

Professor Palmer seemed to pick up on this.  “Your soldiers respect you, Solomon,” he said, “and they don’t respect Gardner.  They’ll follow you, if you decide to–”

The general raised a hand.  “Rebellion is not an option,” he replied in a stern voice.

“But surrender is?”

“None of us can guarantee victory,” the general replied.  “Even with electricity on our side.”

“How do you think the president found out about us?” Kevin asked.

“The president has spies everywhere, and there are many people working on our projects.  Apparently Cambridge wasn’t far enough away to keep them secret from him.  I didn’t really think it would be.  As for you boys–it isn’t clear what he knows about you, other than your existence.  So I think we should just find out.”

So we fell silent and waited some more.  Night fell, and I got hungry.  I started to wonder if this was some kind of punishment, and we weren’t really going to see anybody after all.  Then at last the guy in the green suit returned, and we walked down another fancy corridor.  He opened a set of big double doors, and we were ushered into the presence of the president of New England.

General Aldridge went in first, and the rest of us followed.  We were in a large dining room with high ceilings and walls covered with more portraits of men wearing wigs.  A bunch of people were seated at a long table, eating dinner.  My stomach growled as I caught the aroma of roast beef.  A fat, red-faced man sat at the head of the table, digging into his food like he was afraid any minute the Portuguese would swoop down and grab it away from him.  He was wearing a black coat, a white ruffled shirt, and a short wig.  Sweat poured down his face.  When he noticed us he waved a fork at General Aldridge.  “Solomon,” he said, “I hear these boys are your new military advisers.”  He had a strange, high-pitched voice.

The remark didn’t seem very funny to me, but the men and women at the table gave it a big laugh.  Most of the men wore black suits, like the president.  The women wore fancy gowns and lots of jewelry; their hair was piled up so high on top of their heads I thought they might lose their balance.

General Aldridge smiled and bowed.  “Your Excellency,” he said, “nowadays I take advice wherever I can get it.”

“Odd you can’t get good advice from your highly trained staff.  You’ve met the Earl of Chatham, Solomon?”

The general bowed to the guy on the president’s right, a short man with huge ears that stuck out from his wig.  “Mr. Ambassador, good to see you again.”

The earl nodded back with a little smile.  He didn’t seem to be enjoying himself.

“You,” the president said, pointing his fork at Kevin, “where are you from, boy?”

Kevin remembered to bow; I’m not sure I would have.  “From Glanbury, Your Excellency,” he said.

The president chuckled.  “Glanbury?  When has anything useful come out of that godforsaken village?”  More laughter from the table.  The president speared a hunk of roast beef and stuck it into his mouth, looking satisfied with himself.  “And you are full of advice for General Aldridge?”

“Not really, Your Excellency.  We’re just staying with Professor Palmer.”

“I hear differently,” the president replied.  “I am told there are very strange doings over in Cambridge.”

“We are attempting to develop–” General Aldridge began.

“I know exactly what you’re attempting to do,” the president interrupted.  “We’re besieged by our enemies, winter is setting in, and you’re devoting precious time and manpower to projects suggested to you by ten-year-olds?”

I wanted to yell at him that Kevin and I were both teenagers, practically, but I managed to restrain myself.

“Come and see for yourself, Your Excellency,” the general offered calmly.

President Gardner waved away the suggestion and speared another hunk of roast beef with his knife.  “Mr. Ambassador,” he said, turning to the earl next to him.  “What is the message you delivered to me today, smuggled in from your superiors in London at great risk?”

The earl shifted in his seat and looked uncomfortable.  “Excellency,” he said, “I think it more suitable for–”

“Come, Cecil, we are all friends here,” the president insisted.

People around the table grew quiet.

“Sir,” the earl began, “His Majesty’s government regret that they will be unable to provide assistance to your nation in its current difficulty.  Unfortunately, the demands of the war in Europe preclude–”

“Thank you, Cecil, we all understand about the demands of war,” the president said.  He motioned to a servant to refill his glass with wine.  The earl looked down at his plate.

“Sir,” General Aldridge said to the president, “this is unhappy news.  But it simply means that we have all the more reason to press ahead with our efforts.”

“It means what I say it means,” the president retorted.  And he stuffed a large chunk of beef into his mouth.  I looked at General Aldridge.  He had turned red.  I imagined it was all he could do to keep his temper.  I had no idea how Professor Palmer was keeping his.

I looked back at the president, and his face was red, too.  Then he stood up.  One hand reached for his throat, the other reached for his wine, but knocked it over.  He tried to say something, but nothing came out.

He was choking on his meat.

The people at the table started shouting out instructions.  One of the servants came over and pounded the president on the back.  Didn’t help.  His eyes were bulging now, and his face was the color of a rotten tomato.  He gestured wildly, hitting one of the servants who was trying to loosen his collar.

That’s when I figured I should do something.

Mom made me take a first aid course in fifth grade.  It had never come in handy till that instant.

I went up behind the president–no one seemed to notice me.  He was doubled over now, still clutching at his throat.  I shoved a lady out of the way, then wrapped my arms around him, put my hands together, and pushed up on his chest.

The first push didn’t work.  I could feel people grabbing at me now, trying to pull me away, but I managed to try again.  And this time the piece of meat popped out of the president’s mouth.

People dragged me away from him then, and I didn’t see what happened next.  I was afraid some security guy was going to shoot me, but eventually they let me go and got out of the way, and President Gardner stood facing me.  His face was still red and splotchy, but at least he didn’t look like he was going to keel over.  At least he was breathing.

“You were the one?” he demanded.  “You saved me?”

I nodded.

“How did you learn how that–that thing you just did?”

“We know how to do a few things in Glanbury,” I said.  “Your Excellency.”

Kind of a wisecrack, I know, but he had made a wisecrack about my home town.  He stared at me, and I wondered if he was going to have me beheaded or something.  And then he threw his head back and laughed.  “Very well, then,” he said.  “Your village is apparently not as benighted as I had imagined.”  He picked up a glass of wine.  “A toast–to Glanbury!”

That kind of broke the tension.  The president ordered places to be set for all of us, so we got to eat some of that roast beef.  Which was good, because I was just about starving at that point.  The servants offered to pour us wine, but Kevin and I asked for milk instead.  General Aldridge ate, but he still didn’t look happy.  Professor Palmer asked me about what I’d done.  “Is that something from your world?”

“Uh-huh,” I said.  “It’s called the Heimlich maneuver.  I guess you haven’t figured it out here.”

“Indeed.  I wonder if it will change his attitude towards us.”

“Can’t hurt,” Lieutenant Carmody replied.  “You know, General Aldridge is right: he’s not as incompetent as you think, Professor.  He took some gambles during his presidency and lost.  But some would say the gambles had to be made, if New England were to survive.”

This was more of an opinion than we usually heard the lieutenant offer.  But Professor Palmer wasn’t buying it.  “A real leader would not be locked up behind palace gates,” he said, “swilling wine while his countrymen starve.”

The lieutenant shrugged.  “He has just seen his last gamble fail–reason enough to seek solace.  And in any case, little would change if the wine were not drunk.”

After the meal was over we got another summons from the green-suited butler.  The president wanted to see us all privately.  The butler brought us to a big office with lots of bookcases and a fire blazing in a marble fireplace.  “Now we’ll get down to business,” General Aldridge murmured.  Lieutenant Carmody, Kevin, and I stayed in the back of the room, while the general and the professor sat in a couple of chairs next to the fire.  Eventually the president showed up, followed by a couple of the guys who had been at the dinner.  One was tall, dark-haired, and a little stoop-shouldered, as if he had gone through too many doorways that were too small for him.  The other one was shorter, with a narrow face and bright eyes; he had taken his wig off, so you could see there were just a few wisps of gray hair on the top of his head.  “Vice President Boatner and the Foreign Minister, Lord Percival,” Lieutenant Carmody whispered to us.

General Aldridge and Professor Palmer stood as the others entered.  “Oh, sit down, sit down,” the president said, and he himself sank into one of the chairs by the fire.  He looked really tired.  The vice president and the foreign minister sat on either side of him.  “Anyone care for a brandy?” he asked.

No one did.  He sighed and waved the butler out of the room.

“So, would you care to explain about these boys, General?” the president said.  “I have heard that they are the spawn of Satan.  Seems rather unlikely, from the look of ’em, but what do I know?”

“Nothing as interesting as that, I fear,” General Aldridge replied.  “They were impressed onto a pirate ship a couple of years ago and spent a good deal of time in China.  On the return voyage they escaped and made their way back home to Glanbury, but the Portuguese had overrun the place, so they had to flee to Boston.  They are bright lads and picked up a good deal of useful knowledge in the Orient.  We are merely trying to take advantage of it amid our current difficulties.”

I was impressed by how smoothly the general could lie; he was very convincing.  The president shifted in his chair and stared at Kevin and me.  “They look no more like pirates than they do the spawn of Satan,” he remarked.  “But your story is somewhat more plausible, I suppose.  Now please tell us what is going on over there in Cambridge.”

So General Aldridge went through it all, with some help from Professor Palmer.  The president folded his hands over his big belly and closed his eyes.  I thought he might be falling asleep, but he opened his eyes every once in a while to ask a good question.  The foreign minister asked questions, too, but the vice president stayed silent.  The president especially liked the idea of balloons.  “Imagine being able to simply float away from this siege,” he murmured.  “How delightful.”

“Nevertheless,” the vice president said suddenly, “you should end all this nonsense immediately.”

“May I ask why, Randolph?” the general said.

“Because our only hope is in negotiating with the enemy, and if they find out what you are doing, it will simply make the negotiations more difficult.”

“Why so?  If they find out, I suggest it will incline them to negotiate more seriously, realizing how difficult we are going to make it for them to defeat us.”

“It will more likely incline them to end negotiations altogether and attack immediately, before you have a chance to complete your little science experiments.”

“They are far more than science experiments,” Professor Palmer replied hotly.  “They have the capacity to revolutionize the way we conduct warfare.”

“We have neither the men nor the munitions to defeat this enemy, now that the British have abandoned us,” the vice president insisted.  “To believe anything else is arrant nonsense.”

The president looked over at the foreign minister.  “Benjamin, what say you?  Might as well get everyone into the fray.”

“Well of course you know I disagree with Randolph,” Lord Percival began.  He had the most British accent of anyone I’d met so far, except the Earl of Chatham.  “We’re in a dire situation, I won’t deny it.  But if the Canadians and Portuguese believe they have such a decisive advantage as Randolph describes, why haven’t they attacked already, instead of sitting outside our gates and waiting for us to crumble?  They have as much to fear from a long siege as we do.  Their supply lines are hopelessly extended, so they have to live off the land–but what supplies will be left for them, by January?  And of course the Portuguese soldiers aren’t used to the cold, and neither Portuguese nor Canadians are eager to be here in the first place.  Their armies may simply melt away if they don’t make a decisive move soon.

“Now we have these new developments from Solomon.  I say, let them continue.  They may be enough to alter the balance.  I don’t know.  If the enemy do find out about them, that’s all to the good, in my judgment.  Let the enemy worry that they’ve got in deeper than they’d prepared for.  Let them realize that the price for this adventure may be far greater than they are willing to pay.”

“Bosh,” the vice president retorted.  “We all know this will be finished well before January.  They are waiting for the moment of maximum preparedness on their side, maximum vulnerability on ours.  Then they will strike.  And nothing that General Aldridge is doing or can do will change the outcome.  We need to negotiate now, and hope we escape with our lives.”

President Gardner raised a hand, and everyone fell silent.  “You see how clear my advisers make things for me,” he said.  “Ah, well.”  He turned to the vice president.  “Randolph, make contact with the enemy tomorrow.  We begin negotiations for surrender.”

The vice president bowed, looking satisfied.  “Very well, Your Excellency.”

“But Your Excellency–” Professor Palmer began.

The president glared at him, and he fell silent.  “Solomon,” he said to General Aldridge, “in the meantime, please continue your ‘science experiments,’ as Randolph calls them.  I see no good reason not to continue preparing for the final battle, even if it may not occur.”

The general bowed slightly in turn.  “Thank you, sir.”

The president waved his hand at us.  “All right then, you may all go.”  Everyone got up to leave.  As I was headed for the door the president pointed at me.  “You, stay a moment, if you please.”

I looked at Lieutenant Carmody, who grinned and gave me a little shove back towards the president.

“Sit,” the president ordered when everyone was gone.

I sat down next to him.

“Your name?”

“Larry Barnes, Your Excellency.”

“Master Barnes, would you like a cigar or a glass of brandy?”

“Uh, no thank you, Your Excellency.”

“Odd.  I’d think a pirate boy would have developed a taste for tobacco and spirits.”

“I’m still a little young, Your Excellency.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”  He leaned back in his chair.  “Tell me about China, Master Barnes.  I’ve always had an interest in the place, but I’ve met so few who have actually travelled there.”

Great, I thought.  I’m supposed to lie to the president.  “Well, it’s really . . . different.  Lots of people.  In some ways they’re, uh, pretty advanced.”

“Yes, the electricity, and the–what was it?–the balloons.  What else?”

What else?  I tried to think what else.  “Like, toilets,” I said.  I explained about flush toilets.  That was pretty good.  Then I brought up bicycles, because I’d seen a TV show about how everyone in China rides a bicycle.  I’d seen a few here, but they were really primitive-looking.  Then the president asked me what they ate in China, and I had a good answer for that, too, because we ate Chinese food at home a lot.

President Gardner looked kind of puzzled after a while.  “Well, you do seem to know something about China,” he said.  “It must feel strange to be back here in New England.”

“Pretty strange,” I agreed.  “But I’m getting used to it.”

“Yes.  Good.  Well, I want to thank you for saving my life, Master Barnes.  Very fortuitous that you were here tonight.”

“My pleasure, Your Excellency.”

The president stood, and we shook hands.  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cigar?” he asked.

I was sure.

Outside, General Aldridge had already left, but Lieutenant Carmody, Professor Palmer, and Kevin were waiting for me, eager to know what happened.  “We talked about China,” I said.

“He doesn’t believe our story,” the lieutenant remarked.

“Maybe he’s not so sure now.  I was pretty convincing.”

“Good lad,” the professor said.

“Too late to return to Cambridge, I’m afraid,” the lieutenant said.  “Let’s go to the barracks.  Then back to work in the morning.  The stakes are only getting higher.”

Kevin and I returned to our old room in the attic.  “More interesting than The Gross, huh?” I said, feeling pretty good about my meeting with the president.

“Yeah, but I’d still rather be home.”

I lay down on the thin mattress.  Kevin was right, of course.  But still . . . it wasn’t everyday you save the president’s life, and he offers you brandy and a cigar.  And that sure beat having to deal with Stinky Glover and my stupid sister.

Marlborough Street is now available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble!

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Kindly purchase it for the Kindle or the Nook.  Presumably it’ll show up in other places before long.  It’s only $2.99, and Christmas was expensive this year.

Marlborough Street’s summary and first chapter are here.  And here’s the cover, which maybe is OK:

Marlborough Street cover

I have to tell you that Marlborough Street is a pretty strange novel.  It’s partially about the meaning of life (which, incidentally, I explain on the last page), but it’s also about the difference between the Boston Red Sox and the New York Yankees, and what it means to be a psychic.  It’s a suspense/thriller/horror type of thing, but I also tried to make it funny.  It all makes sense to me, but your mileage may vary.

Portal, an online novel: Chapter 12

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Kevin and Larry have come up with a couple of ideas — hot-air balloons and electric fences — that may help the war effort against New Portugal and Canada.  And now things start to change even further for them . . .

Earlier chapters are up there on the menu under “Portal.”

***********************

Chapter 12

Things changed once the meeting with General Aldridge was over.  We all went back to army headquarters, and Lieutenant Carmody and Professor Palmer had a long meeting to figure out what they needed to do.  Kevin and I just hung around in the courtyard, wondering what was going to happen next.

“They wouldn’t just get rid of us now, would they?” Kevin asked.

“No way.  We’re too valuable.”

“Why?  They’ve got what they need from us.”

“But they’ll want more, won’t they?” I pointed out.  “I think we’ll be okay.”

Kevin didn’t look reassured.  Luckily, Peter came along and made us forget about our problems for a while.  “How are your zippers, mates?” he asked us, grinning.

“Don’t have ’em anymore,” I replied.  “It’s hard getting used to these buttons.”

“I bet it is.  The lieutenant is very interested in you lads, you know.”

Peter pronounced the word “loo-tenant.”

“What do you think of Lieutenant Carmody?” Kevin asked.

“Oh, he’s a good enough sort,” Peter replied.  “Plenty ambitious.  I expect he’ll be president one of these days, assuming we still have a president, so you want to stay downwind of him.”

I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but I think I got the idea.  The lieutenant and Professor Palmer came out a little while later, looking serious.  “Lots to be done, lads,” Lieutenant Carmody said.  “You’ll stay the night here and return to Cambridge in the morning.  Be sure to remain quiet about where you come from.  No tales of portals and alternate universes and such.  If it comes up, say you were cabin boys on a pirate ship that visited China.  People will believe anything about China.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Will we be doing anything to help?” Kevin asked.

“Of course you will,” Professor Palmer replied.  “We just have to get organized first.”  He seemed to understand that we were worried.  “If we actually manage to win this dreadful war, lads,” he pointed out, “you’ll be heroes.”

That was a good thought, although it wasn’t clear how we’d be heroes if we were supposed to keep everything secret.  Anyway, we went back to the hot attic room where we had spent the night before meeting Professor Palmer for the first time, and we waited for the professor and the lieutenant to do their business in the city.  Early the next morning we returned to Cambridge with the professor.  In the barn, the chickens and the pigs were hungry and the cow needed milking, and it almost (but not really) felt like we were coming home.

We took over the cricket fields at Harvard for our work.  Lieutenant Carmody was worried about the Canadians pushing into Cambridge unexpectedly, but here we had the space and the privacy we needed, so he decided to take the risk.  Equipment and people started arriving almost immediately, and the professor spent a lot of time talking with the experts he’d brought in to help.  Most of them started out pretty dubious about the whole thing, but his reputation kept them at it.

The balloons turned out to be the most straightforward thing we attempted.  It was easy enough to start with toy models and then get bigger as people started to understand the idea.  One tricky part was figuring out the right way to control heating the air to make the balloons rise.  That was pretty much a matter of trial and error.  Another problem was creating the big wicker baskets, which involved finding willow trees and reeds in the city.  To obtain the silk for the full-size balloons they held a drive to get all the upper-class ladies in the city to hand over their old dresses, telling them they were for bandages.  The results looked kind of strange, but they worked.

The electricity business was harder.  It was a good thing Kevin had been paying attention when Mrs. DiGenova did the electricity unit in the fifth grade–of course, that was the sort of thing Kevin liked.  I remembered about copper being a good conductor, but I had sure forgotten about zinc in batteries, and I had also forgotten how you could transform the energy in, like, waterfalls or even pedaling bikes into electricity.

Luckily, they found Professor Foster–the guy Professor Palmer thought would be drunk in a ditch somewhere.  I don’t know if he was an alcoholic, but he was really strange.  He was very tall, with frizzy brown hair and the palest skin I’d ever seen.  Someone called him a walking mushroom, and that seemed like a pretty good description.  But the big thing was, he loved electricity.  It seemed to him to be the most wonderful, mysterious thing in creation.  Lieutenant Carmody didn’t want us talking to most of the people who were involved in the projects, but he agreed to let Professor Foster meet with us.

We described batteries to him and he seemed to catch on immediately.  “Yes, yes, an array of capacitors!” he shouted.  “Leyden jars connected in parallel!”

I had no idea what he was talking about.  He brought Professor Palmer, Lieutenant Carmody, Kevin, and me to his laboratory, which was located in a shed behind his house in Cambridge.  It was a dusty place filled with pieces of metal, wires, and bottles of chemicals.  He showed us a jar lined with foil.  At the top of the jar was a ball connected to a shaft.  “Do you see?” he said.  “You use the ball of sulphur to rotate the shaft like so–”

“–and the electrical charge builds up in the foil,” Kevin said.

“Exactly!” Professor Foster exclaimed.  “What a brilliant boy!”  He turned to the lieutenant.  “Would you like to touch the foil?”

Lieutenant Carmody didn’t appear eager to do it, but he reached his hand into the jar and, sure enough, got a shock.

“You see, the current moved from the foil to your hand,” the professor explained.

“I built one of these in my basement,” Kevin said while the lieutenant rubbed his hand.

“Remarkable!  Stupendous!”

“Can we kill people with this?” the lieutenant asked.

That shut everyone up for a minute.

“Lightning kills,” Professor Foster said finally, in a much lower tone.  “We cannot capture the power of lightning.”

“But these boys–”

“All I know about is the electric fence,” I said.  “The electricity runs along the wires and just gives you a shock if you touch it.”  But I really wasn’t so sure about that.  I thought about the electric fence in Jurassic Park and how powerful it was.  Could they do something like that here?

“An electric fence would be a sight better than Aldridge’s foolish mounds of earth and pointed sticks,” Professor Palmer pointed out to the lieutenant.

“It all depends on the charge we can build up, store in the battery–what an evocative name!–then transmit along the wire,” Professor Foster said.  He absently turned the shaft in the jar.  “Copper and zinc,” he muttered, “copper and zinc . . . There are practical difficulties, I suppose.”

“We have six weeks,” the lieutenant said.  “Eight at the outside.  Any longer than that, and your work will be useless.”

This seemed to fluster him completely.  “Oh, my.  I don’t see how . . . well, perhaps . . . ”

The lieutenant looked at Professor Palmer.

“I will work with Bartholomew,” the professor said.  “If it can be done, we will do it.”

Lieutenant Carmody nodded, satisfied.  “Let’s get started, then.”

Professor Palmer explained to us about his friend later, when we were back home for the night.  “Electricity has never been taken seriously, I fear.  I have seen those jars used as an entertainment at parties–young ladies think it quite daring to put their hands inside and receive a shock.  So Bartholomew’s interest in electricity has always seemed bizarre, almost amusing, to most people.  To have it become part of the effort to win the war–well, it’s a bit much for him to take in.”

He set up the chess board to play Kevin.  I sat down at the piano and started playing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”.

“Do you think we we’ll be able to win the war?” Kevin asked.

“I’m not a soldier, thank God,” the professor replied.  “I have no idea what it will take to win militarily.  But I do know that we cannot win if we lack the will–if we believe the cause is hopeless and victory impossible.  That is the current situation, thanks to our president’s ineptitude.  Right now it is just a matter of counting out the days to our defeat and hoping it will be as painless as possible.  But defeat is never entirely painless.  Speaking of defeat, I would be paying particular attention to your rook, if I were you.”

“But that could be changing, right?” Kevin asked.  “I mean, the attitude.”

“Let us hope so.  Let us hope.”

#

“Larry, do you notice how we’re saying ‘we’ now?” Kevin asked me that night in our room.

“Huh?”

“When we talk about this place–about New England.  Used to be we’d say, ‘Are you going to win?’  Now it’s, ‘Are we going to win?'”

I thought about that.  “You’re right,” I said.  “We’re part of it now.”

“Not that I’m not thinking about home, you know?” he went on.  “It’s just–we’re here.  This is it.”

“When the war is over,” I said, “all we have to do is go back to Glanbury and find the portal.”

“Yeah.  If we survive.  If we’re not, like, sold into slavery or something.”

“We’ll survive.  We’ll win.  We’ll get back there.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Home.  I realized I hadn’t been thinking about it as much lately.  My fights with Cassie, my annoyance with Matthew and Mom and Stinky Glover . . . all that stuff was starting to seem kind of far away now.  We had a war to win.  And in the meantime, I was getting used to going to the privy, to lighting candles and oil lamps, to living without TV, even to eating watery porridge and salt pork.

Home.

I fell asleep on my lumpy mattress, and my dreams were strange and confused.

#

After a few weeks General Aldridge came to Cambridge to check on our progress.  The hot-air balloons were going well.  We had a small prototype that was tethered to the cricket field by a fifty-foot rope.  It looked kind of goofy, stitched together out of all those different-colored dresses, but it worked.  The general peered up at it as it floated above him.  “People can fly in that contraption?” he asked.

“After a fashion,” Lieutenant Carmody replied.

The general laughed.  “If that doesn’t scare the Portuguese, nothing will.”

As Lieutenant Carmody had expected, we had been less successful with the stuff we were trying to do with gunpowder.  Nobody had a solution for the moisture problem, least of all Kevin and me.  General Aldridge talked with the munitions guys, and then said, “No sense wasting time.  Pack up and return to your units.”

Then there was electricity.  Professor Foster had moved his equipment from his shed to a larger building near the cricket fields.  He was so excited to be explaining his work that he was practically bouncing off the walls.  “The electrical fluid moves along the wire,” he said, showing the apparatus he had set up.  “The side that gains fluid acquires a vitreous charge.  The side that loses fluid acquires a resinous charge.  According to my calculations, the force between the charge varies inversely as the square of the distance.  So it follows that–”

“Touch the wire,” Lieutenant Carmody said.

General Aldridge looked at him.  “What?”

“Touch the wire, sir,” the lieutenant repeated.

The general hesitated, then reached out and grabbed the wire.  “Drat, that smarts!” he shouted, jumping back and glaring at the lieutenant.

Professor Foster clapped his hands in glee.  “You see?” he said.  “You see?  A fundamental force of the universe, under our control.  Isn’t it marvelous?”

That started a barrage of questions from the general.  How much electricity could you store?  How far would it travel along the wire?  What happened if the wire broke?  Professor Foster answered as well as he could.

“That’s good,” General Aldridge said finally.  “That’s very good.  Lieutenant, we need to talk about deployment.”

“Yes, sir.”

We all walked out of the building.  I was pretty happy.  Professor Foster looked like he was about to levitate with joy.

Outside, a soldier in a fancy red-and-gold uniform was waiting on a large black horse.  He was wearing a big hat with an even bigger white plume on top.  When he saw us he dismounted, stuck the hat under his left arm, and saluted the general.  “Message, sir,” he said.  “The honor of a reply is requested.”

General Aldridge didn’t look happy.  Neither did the lieutenant.  The soldier took a letter out of his pocket and handed it to the general.  He broke the seal, opened it, and studied it for a moment before handing it back.  “All right,” he muttered.

The soldier hesitated.  “Is that your answer, sir?”

“Of course it is, you dimwit,” the general exploded.  “Now begone!”

The soldier hastily got back onto his horse and rode off.

“Er, bad news?” Professor Foster asked.

General Aldridge glared at him for a moment, and then shrugged.  “Depends on one’s point of view, I suppose,” he said.  “My presence is required at Coolidge Palace.”

“Well, uh, that doesn’t sound–”

“Gardner knows,” Professor Palmer said.

General Aldridge nodded.  “Yes, apparently he knows.”

“But surely he can’t complain about–”

“You’re invited as well,” the general said.  “And the boys.  He knows about the boys.  He wants all work stopped until he’s met them.”  He looked at us.  “You’re in luck, lads,” he said.  “You’re about to meet His Excellency, the President of the United States of New England.”

Write or die?

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Would you risk your life to write a book?

Here‘s an oldish Radiolab podcast where Oliver Sacks describes the threat he made against himself in 1968 to get past his writer’s block and write his first book: Either I write this book in the next ten days, or I commit suicide.

I guess this gives a new depth of meaning to the word “deadline.” Turns out Sacks met the deadline and produce a book called Migraine that is still in print.  So, good for him.

This story raises two questions for me:

First, does this sort of bargain with yourself really work?  The podcast gives another example of someone who used a self-threat to quit smoking (If I ever smoke another cigarette, I’m going to contribute $5000 to the Ku Klux Klan).  But I’m inclined to think most people’s wills aren’t that malleable, or we’d have plenty more successful diets and quit-smoking campaigns.  The self-threats that worked make for good stories, though. (I could imagine a bad novel where the would-be author hires a hit man to kill him unless he produces an acceptable manuscript in the allotted time.  Hmm.)

Second — let’s assume this sort of thing does work, at least for some people.  Is writing a book worth the risk that Sacks evidently thought he was taking?  Nowadays I’d say it isn’t.  The very idea is absurd.  On the other hand . . . before I managed to get a book published (er, Forbidden Sanctuary), a whole lot of my self-image was tied up in whether I could legitimately think of myself as an “author” rather than as just another wannabe with a stupid hobby that dribbled away his nights and weekends.  I don’t think I could have threatened myself the way Sacks did, but I’m not unsympathetic.  Sacks was 35 in 1968 and already a successful neurologist.  But something similar must have been driving him to get a book out and become an author.  He thought it was worth the risk, and the world is a better place because he was successful.

Portal, an online novel: Chapter 11

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Kevin and Larry have moved into Professor Palmer’s house in Cambridge.  And now they are part of the war effort against the Canadians and the New Portuguese — if only they can come up with a way to help…

*******************

Chapter 11

Professor Palmer was pretty gruff, and he got angry with us a lot, especially in the first couple of days.  He expected us to do our share of chores, and we weren’t very good at them.  At home I’d  have to clean my room and wash the car and stuff like that, but I sure didn’t have to sweep up horse poop or empty chamber pots or feed garbage to pigs.  I mowed lawns at home, but with a power mower, not a scythe–I didn’t even know what a scythe was; Mom would have had a stroke if she’d seen me with one of them in my hands.

“Your utter incompetence is proof of something,” the professor said, shaking his head at us as Kevin and I tried to put a saddle onto Susie, his friendly old horse.

But we kind of got used to his style after a while.  He was never mean to us; he just hadn’t dealt much with kids, especially incompetent kids.  And we got better at our chores, at least some of them.

Life at the professor’s house was actually pretty pleasant, except for our homesickness, and the occasional distant sound of gunfire, which reminded us that before very long this was going to end and we’d have to move back into the crowded city for the final siege.  Some things took getting used to, though.

The smells, for one.  Not just the barnyard smells–the chickens and the pigs and Susie–and the smell of the privy behind the house.  But the people smells.  Taking a bath was a big deal in this world.  Washing clothes was also a big deal–and Kevin and I only had one set of clothes to wash.  So we all kind of stank, at least until I got used to it.

The isolation was another big difference.  We didn’t have a clue what was going on with the war, and there really wasn’t any way to find out, unless we rode into Boston.  Were the Canadians heading into Cambridge?  Was England going to save us?  Professor Palmer didn’t seem too bothered about the lack of news, but it really bugged Kevin and me.

Part of the isolation was the silence.  When the gunfire stopped, there wasn’t much sound at all–just birds twittering, the wind rustling leaves, hens clucking in the barnyard.  No traffic noise, no airplanes, not even the hum of a refrigerator.  It was kind of spooky.

And of course there wasn’t much to do.  We couldn’t talk to the professor or do chores all the time, so we had to entertain ourselves.  The professor had plenty of books, and we tried reading them.  We skipped the philosophy stuff, but some of the novels were okay, although they always had lots of words we didn’t understand and scenes that didn’t make any sense because we didn’t know enough about this world’s history or geography or whatever.  Kevin liked to play chess with the professor, who was delighted to have an opponent.

I actually ended up spending a lot of time playing the piano, which Professor Palmer also enjoyed.  His piano had a tinnier sound than I was used to, and not as many keys, but the basic instrument was the same.  The professor didn’t know any of the songs I knew, so it was cool when I came up with something that he liked.  One of his favorites was “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

He had some sheet music, and I managed to learn a few of the songs from his world, too.  There was one we all liked with a sad melody and strange words:

 

Wanly I wandered

Through the world far and wide

Seeking some solace

For dreams that had died

 

Long did I linger

In an alien land

Till tears finally left me

As I stood on the strand . . .

 

I played that song so often that it felt like it was part of my fingers.

Anyway, our job was to try to figure out how we could help New England win the war.  So we talked a lot about weapons.  They knew about rifles and gunpowder in this world, obviously, and they used cannons.  But they didn’t have anything more sophisticated than that.  We tried to think of stuff from our world they might be able to use–something short of nuclear bombs and that sort of thing.  I came up with hand grenades, and the professor made some notes as I described them.  Kevin remembered about landmines, although neither of us was exactly sure how they worked.  The professor winced and made a lot more notes.  It was obvious that he wasn’t enjoying this.  “Demanding that young boys think about such things,” he sighed.  “It is deeply depressing.”

Kevin and I didn’t really mind.  We didn’t want to make the professor feel bad, but this was kind of interesting.  “It’s all about winning the war,” Kevin pointed out.  “Like the lieutenant said.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” the professor said, shaking his head.  “At such a cost, though.”

Lieutenant Carmody showed up after a few days, on horseback instead of being driven by Peter.  “You boys are looking well,” he said when he saw us.  “And professor, how are you getting along with these lads?”

“They’re excellent company,” the professor replied.  “Our task, however, is not a pleasant one.”

“I’m not aware of anyone who thinks that war is pleasant,” the lieutenant said.  “But tell me what you’ve come up with.”

We sat by the barn as we had before, and Professor Palmer talked about landmines and such.  Lieutenant Carmody didn’t look especially impressed.  “These devices have been tried already,” he said.  “The French in particular have worked on them: fougasses, they’re called.  They’ve never been effective.  The problem is keeping the gunpowder dry–once it gets moist, the fougasse won’t explode.  How does your world deal with that problem?” he asked us.

We didn’t have a clue.  “I don’t think they’re even made from gunpowder anymore,” Kevin said.  “They probably have dynamite in them or something.”

“And what is ‘dynamite’?”

There was that question again.  Yet another word that was so familiar to us and totally strange to them.  But, as usual, the concept behind the word wasn’t quite familiar enough.  Neither of us could tell the lieutenant what exactly dynamite was.

“All right,” he said after we’d talked about weapons for a while longer.  “I need more, I’m afraid.  Professor, perhaps you’ve been focusing too much on the obvious.  Let’s try again.  But time runs short.  The Portuguese have reached the fortifications south of the city, and for all intents and purposes the siege has begun.”

“How much longer do we have, William?” the professor asked.

“I don’t know.  I’ll return in a few days, and we’ll discuss the situation then.  Keep working.”

Professor Palmer didn’t look happy after the lieutenant had left.  “William’s right, of course,” he muttered.  “Perhaps we must simplify.  Get back to first principles.”

“You mean like gravity?” Kevin asked.

I half-expected the professor to say, And what is gravity?  But it turned out Sir Isaac Newton had lived in this world, and they knew about gravity and the laws of motion and all that stuff.  “Perhaps gravity,” he replied.  “Or something equally basic.  I don’t know.  Perhaps we should just talk.”

He seemed kind of discouraged.  I think his heart really wasn’t in it.  But then that night Kevin came up with something, just

sitting in front of the big kitchen fireplace and watching the smoke go up the chimney.

“Hot-air balloons!” he exclaimed.

Professor Palmer looked at him, and then asked the usual question.  “And what is a hot-air balloon?”

“My parents gave me a ride in one once as a birthday present,” Kevin said.  Not the kind of present my mother would ever have given me.  “Hot air rises–you know that, right?  Because heating the air makes it expand and become lighter.  As it expands, it can push things up.”  He crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it onto the fire.  A few of the ashes rose up the chimney along with the smoke.  “So with hot-air balloons,” he went on, “you have this huge, like, spherical cloth, and there’s a flame underneath it so you can heat the air inside the sphere.  And there’s this big wicker basket attached where people can stand, and it rises with the balloon.  If you want the make the balloon go higher or lower, you adjust the flame.  It’s really cool.”

The professor looked puzzled.  “Cool?  How can the flame be cool?”

Kevin shook his head and explained what cool meant.

“Well then, yes,” the professor said, “I agree that it is really ‘cool.'”  He stroked his beard, then started peppering Kevin with questions.  “Can you steer a balloon?”

“A little bit.  You have to catch air currents going one way or another.  Someone went around the world in a balloon, I think.”

“What is the balloon made out of?”

“I’m not sure.  Nylon or something–you probably don’t have any of that.”

“Silk!” I put in, happy to be able to contribute.  “In the old days they used silk.  I remember seeing a show about balloons on the History Channel.  The North used them in the Civil War to check out enemy positions.  They were attached to the ground with a long rope so they wouldn’t float away.”

Professor Palmer took a pencil and started sketching what a balloon looked like.  “There are clearly some practical issues here,” he said, “but yes, this is interesting.  We’ll see what William has to say.”

So that was pretty good.  And another idea came the next afternoon, as we sat on the front porch during a thunderstorm.  We started talking about electricity.  There hadn’t been a Benjamin Franklin in this world, but they did understand lightning; they just hadn’t made much use of what they knew about electricity.  We had already talked about electrical power and electric lights, but we hadn’t talked about the basics.  Now we started describing some of the experiments we did in science class, and that got Professor Palmer scribbling furiously.  “Yes, of course,” he said.  “Storing and controlling it.  What were the words again?”

“Batteries?” Kevin said.  “Generators?”

“Yes, yes.  And the electricity runs along wires . . . ”

“I don’t know how they work,” I said, “but I think there are electric fences–to keep animals in.  The cow or whatever touches the fence and gets a shock, and that teaches him to stay away from the fence.”

“Electric fences,” the professor said.  “Remarkable.  If they keep animals in, would they keep soldiers out?”

“I don’t see why not.  But you need to generate the power.”

“Yes, of course.”

More writing, as the rain came pouring down.  I thought of the people in the camp, with only the shelter of their wagons.  We’ve been very lucky, I thought.  I wondered if our luck would hold.  Maybe Lieutenant Carmody would send us back to the camp when he’d gotten whatever he could out of us.  Or maybe the Portuguese and Canadians would attack tomorrow, and then what?  Even if New England somehow won the war, what would happen to us next month, next year, if we couldn’t find the portal, and we ended up stuck here forever?

A couple of days later Lieutenant Carmody returned, looking preoccupied and worried.  This time we sat around the dining room table, and Professor Palmer brought out his notes and drawings.  As usual, the lieutenant listened carefully, then asked a lot of tough questions.  I couldn’t tell if he was happy with what we had come up with or disgusted with the time he had wasted on us.  After a while he simply nodded and said, “Right.  Let’s go back to Boston.”

“Why the devil do we have to go to Boston?” the professor asked.

“To talk to General Aldridge.  He’s at the fortifications in Brighton.  Along the River Road past the new refugee camp.”

“Does that mean you like our ideas?” I asked.

“That means General Aldridge won’t chew my head off for wasting his time on them.  Now let’s go, if you please.  There’s a war on, as one of our more discerning senior officers likes to point out.”

Professor Palmer didn’t act pleased, though.  “I don’t see why Aldridge can’t come here,” he grumbled.  Secretly, though, I think he was kind of relieved.  He went and changed into a white shirt and a long gray coat, and then we went outside, hitched up Susie to his carriage, and headed off to Boston, with Lieutenant Carmody leading the way on his horse.  The professor’s carriage wasn’t as fancy as the one Peter drove; it was open and smaller, and a whole lot bouncier as we went over the bumps and ruts of the Massachusetts Road.  But it was kind of fun to be going somewhere for a change.

Like the lieutenant said, there was another camp now along the Charles, just past the bridge.  We saw hundreds of people there as we passed by.  “Poor wretches,” the professor muttered.  “Things get worse by the day.”

Eventually the river bent away from us to the right, and that’s where the fortifications started.  Looking at them got the professor muttering some more.  “How do they expect to keep the enemy out with earthworks and palisades?”

They really didn’t appear all that impressive.  Maybe I’d seen too many movies, but it seemed like any good-sized army should have been able to overrun those pointed stakes and piles of dirt.  After a while we reached an area where the fortifications were still being constructed, and I spotted General Aldridge talking to a bunch of other officers.  He looked even sloppier than he had the other time I’d seen him.  He hadn’t shaved in a while, and a small unlit cigar was clenched between his teeth, just like it had been the first time we met him.

We pulled up next to him and got out of the carriage.  “What a colossal waste of time, Solomon,” Professor Palmer said to him.  “Why don’t we invite the Canadians over, hand them the keys to the city, and be done with it?”

“Good afternoon to you too, Alexander,” General Aldridge replied.  He looked at us.  “Runs, er, struck in,” he said to Kevin.

“Runs batted in,” Kevin corrected him.

The general nodded.  “Of course.  Certainly.  How could I forget?”  Then he turned to Lieutenant Carmody.  “Well, Lieutenant, I suppose you have your reasons for subjecting me to this paragon of courtesy?” he asked, gesturing at the professor.

“Sir, can you spare a few moments?” the lieutenant replied.

The general waved the other officers away and had an orderly produce a few chairs for us.  When we had sat down, the lieutenant continued.  “They have a couple of ideas, sir, that it would be well for us to consider.”  And he started talking about some of the things we had come up with–mostly the balloons and the electric fences.  Professor Palmer and Kevin and I jumped in with comments and corrections while the general listened in silence.

“Balloons,” he murmured when we were done.  He made it sound like a word in a foreign language–which, I guess, it sort of was.  “Electricity.  And we have no idea if any of this will work?”

“The ideas have a sound theoretical basis,” the professor replied.  “As for their practical application, that is a question of time and resources.”

“We have precious little of either,” the general pointed out.

“Then we should start preparing for the surrender ceremony instead,” Professor Palmer said.  “President Gardner is very good at ceremonies.  I’m sure it will be memorable.”

That got a laugh out of General Aldridge.  “What is it that you need?” he asked.

“Silk, and lots of it,” the professor replied.  “Copper wire–even more of that.  Experienced carpenters, machinists, seamstresses, and blacksmiths.  Munitions experts.  Sir Henry Bolles.  James Carlton–I believe he’s staying at the Somerset Club.  Professor Harold Foster–he’s probably drunk in a ditch somewhere, but no one knows more about electricity.  We will need open land.  And we will need to be left alone.”

The general lifted an eyebrow.  “Are you sure that’s all?” he asked.  “How about some gold ingots?  Perhaps a shipload of molasses?  A deserted island in the West Indies?”

“Most amusing,” the professor replied.  “It may in fact not be all.  But it is a start.”

The general took the cigar out of his mouth and looked at Lieutenant Carmody.  “Well?”

“The landmines and grenades and the like–I’m dubious that we can accomplish much with them,” he replied.  “I’m intrigued by the reconnaissance potential of these balloons.  As for the electric fences, they would of course have some tactical value, depending on how powerful they can be made.  But there’s more, sir.”

“What’s that?”

“Surprise.  Terror.  Dismay.  Some of the soldiers who saw that lad’s watch thought it was the work of the devil.  What will our enemies think if they see flying devices used against them?  They may think: If we can do these things, what other wonders do we have in store?  What will that do to their morale, their will to defeat us?”

The general nodded slowly.  “Yes, it’s always good to have the devil on your side,” he said.  “It will be difficult to keep this secret from the president, I fear.”

“Undoubtedly.  He need not make the connection with the boys, though, if that’s your concern.”

“I suppose.”  General Aldridge sat there for a moment, staring into space.  Then suddenly he flung his cigar onto the ground and stood up.  “Lieutenant, get them what they need,” he ordered.  “Let’s make this happen, and the president be damned.”

Lieutenant Carmody leaped to his feet.  “Yes, sir.”

The general looked at the professor and the two of us and shook his head.  “An odd crew to entrust with the future of our nation.  But beggars can’t be choosers.  Fare you well.”

He turned and walked back to the fortifications.

“Well, then,” the lieutenant said to us.  “I believe we have some work to do.”

The Next Big Thing — What I’m Working On Now

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There’s apparently an author meme infecting the Internet wherein you’re supposed to talk about what you’re currently working on, and link to others doing the same.  I hate this meme. I hate talking about what I’m working on.  Actually, I also hate talking about stuff I’ve already worked on.  But if I didn’t do that, this blog would be empty except for posts about Mitt Romney.  So here goes.  For a much better example of how to do this, check out Jeff Carver’s site.  If you’re participating in the meme, feel free to leave a link in comments.

1) What is the title of your next book?

I dunno.  And if I told you, I would probably be wrong.

2) Where did the idea come from for the book?

I had an image.  I’ve written a few pages of notes about the novel, and that image is the first sentence in the notes.  That first sentence is now crossed out.  So I wonder if this tells us something.

3) What genre does your book fall under?

It is your standard post-apocalypse private eye novel, with a main character who is deeply interested in nineteenth-century British poetry.

4) What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

The idea that there would be a movie rendition of this book is so ridiculous that I won’t even contemplate it.  Could you please come up with better questions?

5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Walter Sands investigates the disappearance of the charismatic leader of a local church; as usual, he fails, and he succeeds, and he wonders what life is all about.  (This is the third in a series.)

6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Self-published.

7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

I’m about fifteen percent into the first draft.  Early days.

8) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

See the response to question 3.  If there are other books in this “genre,” I’m not aware of them.

9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?

I have been thinking a lot about religion.  So I started to wonder about religious beliefs in the world I had created for Dover Beach.  I said a little about this in its sequel, The Distance Beacons.  I decided I had something more to say.

10) What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?

I think there will be a boat ride!  And maybe, if you’re good, a visit to New York City!  Unfortunately, Manhattan will have a rat problem.  Also, there will be some references to nineteenth-century British poetry.  If that doesn’t pique your interest, I don’t know what will.