Precious Cargo

"This shit wagon, this place of utter non-redemption," Herald muttered to Alberto. They squatted on the banks of the Vertigo and watched the rafts float by, steered by Fur People using long poles. On the rafts were crammed animals and vegetation: bobcats, flowering squash bushes, ruby-throated warblers, star nosed moles- you name it. Herald felt angry at the Fur People. He wanted with every fiber in his being to inspect the precious cargo. If he had learned anything at Yahweh's Mammalry Business College, it was to respect the sanctity of nature's abundance. What right did those Fur People have to take mammals from the past into who-knows-what kind of future.
"You're just jealous," Alberto muttered back at him. They'd been watching this parade for hours, all morning. Bashwalup! had wandered down to the banks and called out to a raft. It sounded like, "Herragh chockel kraww doo-doo?" and the Fur Person on the raft had answered back, "Smarrr-gellup gunden crumplin.Ho har-nu gallum carumph galloo. "
"I wonder what that was all about?" Herald and Alberto asked each other.
Medicine Dan called out from under the bush where Sally and her pups lay curled and suckling. "They say they're delivering a shipment of exotics to Lady Angela, for the Replenishment Project."
"Well how the hockey-puck do you know Fur-talk?" shouted back Alberto. Medicine Dan grunted and turned back to the pups, gently adjusting their positions so that none were uncomfortable. Sally adored Medicine Dan with her eyes and sighed.
"I say we follow them, we build a raft and go where they're going," said Herald to Alberto. "If anyone should be involved in this Replenishment Project, it's you and me. Didn't we graduate top of our class, with specialities in small mammal encouragement and habitat detection?"
"Yeah but, what about them," he nodded over at Medicine Dan and the dogs. "They shouldn't be moved, right? Didn't we learn that in 'The first twenty days of life; the newborn mammal environment'?" The two argued back and forth all the while keeping their eyes glued to the increasingly ridiculous procession of rafts.

Lisle von Fixin de Hoolie remembers

Here on the river, here in the future, we rest. The great flood of our time has come and gone, taking family and feathered fowl, and furred mammal alike. The sun unleashed its fury upon us generations past, and we suffered greatly in the falling light. Our grandmothers hid beneath pickup trucks, to little avail. Our uncles sequestered boats from weaker willed individuals and families and we were grateful. Survival of the fittest, indeed. And through that slender thread, here you and I stand, the descendants of survivors, grateful for familial tenacity. We have survived. From one survivor comes the rest of the lineage, the von Fixin de Hoolie family will not die, we will not! Our men, with impromptu weapons in hand, swung and swung again, striking out at anything that challenged their survival. Come rabid dog, come smaller men with larger wives and duller children. You will not triumph over our family. We have lived here on this road for over one hundred years! And so the von Fixin de Hoolie clan survived the hard times. In boat, in defiance, in glory blind to the future. This future, this place here quiet from the teeming masses, this eradicated landscape, this eugenic utopia. We live because we will. Taller, with flashier eyes and hands that react with deep succinctness. We are God's grace, an army of the living who refuse to be conquered.
So spoke Marylou's mother, Lisle von Fixin de Hoolie.

The truth, however painful it may be, will set you free. Think of it, the unthinkable. That which is, this everything about us. Under us.
Marylou felt it, in her blood like a lightening river, pulsing out painfully to one inexorable conclusion. Her father was alive, and in captivity. The pain of imagining. What must he have felt? The cold reality of a sword, held to his throat, or worse. Marylou couldn't think of it. Her father, Hans Sneebum, was a pacifist, through and through. She remembered him in her thirteenth year. They stood together on the banks of the Vertigo, away from the family at the edge of the swiftly moving waters.
"Father, tell me what it is that makes humans the way they are." She stood, tall for her age and not yet grown into her natural grace. Beside her, her father, a man of forty two years with beard and homemade overalls, felt a deep satisfaction. What wondrous spirits, what divine grace, had bestowed upon him this daughter, this jewel of innocent wisdom?
He gave himself time before answering, staring into the shifting reflections. What, indeed? The moon caught each small wave and graced it with a fleeting light. He strove, internally, to reflect a knowingness, an answer to her question.
"We are born into this world in grace, Marylou. On the night you were born, your mother labored so hard. To bring another human into this world, think of it! How amazing. And the instant you were born, your eyes shone like dark stones, and you did not cry. She and I looked into your face, so small and real, out of seeming nothingness." He paused and looked to Marylou, her silhouette silver in the moonlight. She stood still, listening with her every fiber.
"And every day since that day, you have been human." They stood quietly together, each striving to understand this humanness, this corporeal slant.
"I don't know what it is to be human, except to say that it is falling hard away from God, and yet falling towards God at every moment. It is divine folly."
That is how Marylou remembered her father. Standing on the shore, shifting patiently from one barefoot to the other on the worn river stones. He was kind and gentle, and he fell into the Vertigo and the river took him here, to this cruel place in the future, the lair of Lady Angela.

"Are you saying that you have my father?" Marylou's heart pounded, and her words came out wet like blood drops.
"He is safe, and waiting for your arrival." Lady Angela demurred. Her lips twitched almost imperceptibly, and she looked cooly over at George, and then back at Marylou. "He is in our finest facility"
Anger, drumming with every heart beat at her temples and in her throat, caused Marylou to shout with uncontrolled fury. "He has nothing for you! He is a seed peddler!" Marylou's hair sprang out like black fire from beneath the golden circlet. George witnessed, he saw the truth of the moment. The golden circlets! The two women stood face to face. Identical crowns upon such different heads.
"He has you, Marylou. And now I too have you, and we will continue on this journey and you will see your father. But first, you must give me the golden circlet."

Marylou suspects

Marylou had her suspicions. Lady Angela led her and George Conley through the Washup Downs with a cool superiority. It set off alarm bells within Marylou's head.

the dream of the foxes, by guest blogger Jane

The fox spoke until the moon had become a dim white plate at the bottom of the sky. The morning light had already stretched its light blue fingers towards the horizon when he finally sat down on his red haunches and turned to drink from the bowl offered by a lesser fox.

Harmut sat silent, feeling as if she were in a dream. The story that had woven itself through her brain that night was as meaningful and intricate as a dream. She didn’t dare move or speak, for fear that the scene might disappear of a moment. She rocked lightly back and forth, pondering all that the fox had told her in the last hours.

His words, the deep, clear meanings of the tale,

had brought her unkempt mind up to the vale’s

taut edge, and though she knew it deep inside

that all the fox had spoke was bonafide,

she struggled to retain her dreamlike grip.

She grasped at the full meaning of her trip.

“Fox veritas,” the fox assured her thus,

and she believed his story, more or less.

But can a girl live dumbly on the earth

so long, and never questioning its birth?

And blindly take as fact its history?

He told of floods and foxholes, and of fleeing

aimless to the future, back and forth,

and in between, and everything of worth

resolving and retaining, keepers be

the foxes of the jewels of history.

“von Mona Lisa,” said the fox to her,

“von Air Supply von Beethoven von more”,

And slow the breath took form inside her lung,

and fox linguista sat upon her tongue,

and when she finally slept, she could not say.

She woke alone and felt the freezing day.

She sat upright, shivering. Her thoughts were fragile as dreams, but she regarded the soft impression on the sand, and knew that what she had experienced was true. That the foxes were rescuers of the treasures of history, traveling through foxholes in time. but where were these treasures they had rescued from the flood and before? The Mona Lisa, which no one had seen in centuries? The musical recordings of Air Supply, or the band itself, which had disappeared from the face of the earth without a trace two centuries ago? Why did the foxes rescue these treasures, and where did they hide them? And would they, she wondered sadly, trying without success to warm herself by covering her limbs in the cold sand, rescue her?

Hartmut, by guest blogger Jane

Hartmut was aptly named, for she had the heart of a dog. Not that she had ever seen a real dog, but if you could believe the time travelers, it’s the kind of heart that she supposedly had. Meaning that she loved earnestly, loyally, even viciously, and once she cast her devotion upon the recipient, be it man or creature, she didn’t let up easy.

“Like being hit by a freight train,” her mother often said. But Hartmut had never seen a freight train either, and so the dead metaphors had little effect on her.

Sometimes she wished she could be more like Marylou. Marylou didn’t pine for true romances that never came, didn’t stalk the young men at the mammalry college every time she got a chance to visit the outposts, or require months to unwind herself from the pain she felt right in her heart when they didn’t love her in return, and Marylou certainly didn’t stay up nights crying for their father who had never come back. Marylou simply took action. Whether it was a door that need fixing, a fish that needed catching, or a heart that needed untangling, Marylou simply acted. And that was exactly what Hartmut intended to do now.

Except she hadn’t exactly intended to do it right that second. It was only a thought she was having as she waded into the swirling water. A momentary revelation as she knelt in the Vertigo to rinse out her apron that had been stained with dirt and berries. Something caught her eye, and she slipped, and found herself being washed down the river of time. Now, sitting on a bank she knew not where, Hartmut reflected that this was the recurring story of her life.

She didn’t know where (or when) she was, but where/whenever it was, it was cold. She shivered, wringing out her long blonde braids. She was probably only swept a couple of weeks up the current, she told herself. But even as she thought this, she tasted the dirty Vertigo in her mouth, realizing how much of it she had swallowed, and she knew that it was more lies she was telling herself. A few weeks up wouldn’t have put her in the middle of winter, and she didn’t recognize anything around her. The island looked dead and empty. Besides the dry shrubbery that crowded the rocky shore, she could see nothing but flat sandbars and briney lagoons in every direction. Could she have been caught in the Tallahassee Loop current? If so, she could be just about anywhere.

“Oh, what am I going to do???” she wailed, looking helplessly about her for a sign. Marylou would have had flint for a fire, and for that matter, wouldn’t have been lost in the first place, with her circlet and map.

“And why does she get to have the circlet and map?” she reflected, walking round in little circles to warm up. “What did I ever get?”

She fell to her knees and sobbed into her wet apron. Presently, however, she decided that ready or not, the time for action had indeed come. She searched the gritty shoreline and eventually found a bit of shale stone and a dark flat bit of leaf. Using the shale, she sketched the following message into the leaf:

Washed up the Vertigo! Send help! Wherever this is, it’s cold. Hartmut

Miraculously, she located a glass bottle with a stopper lodged between two boulders, and after rinsing it out, she inserted her message and flung it into the river, not knowing what good it might ever do.

Exhausted, wet and shivering, she crawled beneath the same boulder on a bit of cold but dry sand, and presently cried herself to sleep. She slept the sound sleep of a broken-hearted innocent, her body forming a question mark in the sand. When, hours later, the moon was high in the sky, it was the plaintiff sweet howl of foxes that awoke her.

Slowly, Hartmut peeked her face out from beneath the boulder’s overhang and saw twelve red foxes sitting in a circle on the sand. She thought she was dreaming. Foxes had been extinct since the flood. And yet all turned their pointy faces towards her, and one rose up onto his hind legs.

“Flock,” he said in a gravelly yet sweet voice. “Flock hinder non frightenum.”

And she knew without needing a translator that the wondrous, beautiful foxes, who were real, so very real in the moonlight, had recognized her as one of their own.

Washup City

"Whomever I may have been to you in the past, George, I am Lady Angela now." Truly her robe of blue and white did bestow upon George a sense of her new rank, one of both power and privilege. Marylou noted that Lady Angela's robe was actually a men's bathrobe, but conceded that Lady Angela did have a royal air about her.
"My Lady," he said, bowing deeply on one knee, hat in hand. Lady Angela breathed a sigh of relief and looked to each of her guests in turn, taking in Sally under the bushes. She turned and spoke to Ungah in an unfamiliar language. He in turn approached Sally slowly and began communicating with her through a series of grunts and hand gestures.
"Ungah says this dog is but a few hours from giving birth. Praise be to the mammal lords." Everyone looked to Sally with excitement, and Medicine Dan clapped his hands and did a little jig.
"My companions and I bring barley nougats and pressed mulberry wine in greeting. Let us sit around the fire and partake, and you will tell me who you are, and what you are doing here in Washup." The others obliged happily and all snacked merrily and told of their exhilarating exodus from the Port of Pouteau. Lady Angela took keen interest in the story, having heard of the famed poetry reading at Leroy's. It was legend. Lady Angela had the advantage of being both from the past and the future. She knew exactly who these people were, and knew better than they what their mission in Washup would be. She knew of Marylou's father, indeed, she kept him safely in her own compound, at the center of Washup City.
The Fur People sat with the humans and watched quietly. They were keen observers of character. They noticed how Herald and Alberto stared at them with reverence, curiosity, and friendliness. Medicine Dan however, would not look directly at the Fur People. He busied himself rubbing tobacco on his gums, and drinking heavily from the mulberry wine jugs. This was not his first encounter with the Fur People, and he did not seem to trust them. Marylou and George only had eyes for Lady Angela. Her every gesture engrossed them. She spoke softly and made meaningful eye contact with her startlingly blue eyes.
It was decided that Bashwalup! would stay with Medicine Dan, Herald, and Alberto in order to care for Sally. She was in no condition to go anywhere. Bashwalup! could instruct the men on finding edible roots, the location of the best berry patches, and how to construct a grass hut. They would be fine on this tiny island for the time being, allowing Sally and her soon-to-be born pups a leisurely and safe place to nest. Alberto and Herald immediately began learning Bashwalup!'s language.
"Gargoo means water!" shouted Herald at Medicine Dan, who grunted and turned back to stroking Sally's belly. He didn't want to go anywhere in this new world. All that mattered to him was Sally and the pups.
Lady Angela, Ungah!, George Conley, and Marylou bid farewell to the others and started off through the trees. On the far side of the island they came upon Lady Angela's boat, a golden canoe of sorts, which Ungah! skillfully maneuvered through the waterways, wending their way closer to Washup City.

Lady Angela

Years ago, Lady Angela was Angela Henson, younger sister of Leroy Henson. The Henson family were notorious for thievery and violence. They regularly robbed from the Post-Diluvial Services wagons, pilfering cheese for their cheese fries, and anything else that could be resold at Leroy's Foos Ball and Poolhall. Angela detested these dastardly deeds; she was cut from a different clothe. Since her early teen years, Angela received celestial directives. They came to her as visions, out on the grass plains. Strange humans wearing golden circlets around their brows, with large animal companions, pleaded with her to go into the future, where her leadership was greatly needed. She did not know what to make of these visions, at first, but as they progressed she came to learn of her place in time. Her place, the visitors told her, was in the future. She had a mission, which could only be realized with the help of the Fur People. She did not share these visions with her family, they could not understand. They only one who could help her, she figured, must be George Conley. He was known throughout Pouteau county as a leading time traveler, with knowledge of other realities. As a poet, he might not find Angela's visions too strange or unbelievable. He himself had a bond with the unseen world. Unfortunately, he was also her brother Leroy's sworn enemy. They were the same age, and had an ongoing rivalry. George, being more good-looking and talented, really irked Leroy.
George Conley didn't have an overriding sense of right and wrong. He generally did what suited him, but his heart was true and any transgressions against others were mostly unintentional. Call him an opportunist, an artist, a casual heart-breaker. Only one thing raised his moral ire, and that was Leroy Henson. George delighted in foiling Leroy's schemes. He let the air out of Leroy's grasoline powered jalopy, dyed all of Leroy's clothing pink with some dye he'd acquired before the Industrial Collapse, and spread rumors all up and down the Vertigo of Leroy's unnatural love of women's underclothing and homemade lipstick. Leroy, in retaliation, attacked George upon sight, using whatever was at hand to cause him bodily harm.

Washup

The crew of the Clarabelle woke to the sound of their boat knocking gently against tree roots. Groggy and googly eyed all at once, they jumped around the boat like monkeys in a cage, with shouts of Land! and Ahoy! and Jumpin' Jehosephat, if that ain't a blue bird! Sally poked her nose out from beneath the bench and sniffed the air. It smelled like flowers and dirt.
Hilly green mounds surrounded them, with waterways winding throughout. Birds twirted from branches heavy with nuts and fruit. Truly, heaven could not have appeared to them more beautiful, or more full of super-natural grace.
Immediately they began securing the boat to the nearest thick root, and all climbed out, with Sally handed over carefully and placed on firm ground. She clutched the earth gratefully, and slunk beneath a blackberry bush, lowering her heavy belly with a moan. All others set about gathering fruit and nuts, while Medicine Dan retrieved his trusted fishing pole from the bottom of the boat and commenced fishing in the plentiful waters.
All had worked up a great appetite, what with the poetry reading and ensuing riot, fleeing suddenly from Leroy and his panty-hose brick weapon, enduring great winds and waves, the swift time current, and the attack of the Herliwigs- it was all just too much. What they needed, more than anything, was food and comfort, and stillness.
By late morning, all were well fed and resting around a comfortable fire. Water-logged boots and wet overalls hung from tree branches. Sally had her own fish brought to her by Medicine Dan; he was especially keen on her health and well-being. She ate four cooked fish, bones and all, and then fell into a deep sleep. All around them, the green mounds clicked with life. Herald and Alberto, die-hard mammalists, scampered off to explore. A new world!
Marylou waded to the other side of the small island and washed her hair with Medicine Dan's By-Your-Leave Hair and Body Wash, afterwards securing her golden circlet tightly round her brow and dressing in her one change of clothing, soft brown ninja lounge wear, made by her sister Troybilt. How she missed them! Her heart ached with the thought of her sisters and mother. What must they all think? How long had she been gone? Felt like a few days to her. As long as she came back to them someday, arriving a few days after her original departure date, every thing would be fine. What she didn't know was that her sister Hartgut had already been taken by the river, and remained persona no finda to her family and all those who heard of her great disappearance into the slathering and spitting grey river, one day after Marylou's departure from home.
Upon her return from bathing, Marylou brought forth the map. Some speculation circulated between the two co-captains, Medicine Dan and Marylou, as to how far they'd gone, but George Conley stepped in and set things straight. He jabbed his finger in between Dan and Marylou's shoulders and pointed at a series of islands and promontories, far down at the bottom of the river map.
"This here is Washup. I know it, I've been here before." A furrow of worry appeared between his eyes. He stepped back and surveyed the hills and water that surrounded them. "You get too far down the river, you end up in Washup. All kinds of people and things get washed up here, hence the name. Yep, all kinds of people." He neglected to mention that he and a companion had years ago found themselves on Washup's shores, and had subsequently radically altered the fate of Vertigo River.
Medicine Dan eyeballed the map. Washup was considerably farther down the river than he'd ever been. Part of the Lower Vertigo River, Washup looked to be about a hundred or more years into the future, he speculated aloud.
Marylou wondered if her father could have been washed this far down the river. If so, no wonder he'd yet to return. When finding oneself one hundred years into the future, how long would it take one to get back home, she pondered. He could have been waylaid by any number of circumstances.
In fact, Hans Sneebum had been captured by time river pirates, rescued by cat people, and made to serve a distant ruler of the Washup swamps, all of which led him to be the prisoner of Lady Angela, (formerly Angela Henson).
The sun slit through the trees at a warm and lazy angle. The variety of birdcalls were suddenly interrupted by a distant hooting, and an answering hoot from far away. It sounded like, "Hooo-dee?" answered by "Hoo-de-hoo-de-hooo!"
Medicine Dan and George Conley had both whipped their heads up high the second they first heard it, Marylou noted. Their eyes followed the interaction, scanning rapidly through dense foliage all around them. It unnerved the recent arrivals, and they walked quickly back to the fire, adding sticks, though the day still glowed brightly.
Herald whispered, "You heard that?" The calls echoed around the hills and off the water, slowly making their way closer to them, closing in on two sides. Everyone stood stock still and opened their eyes wide, as if that might help them hear better.
"Sounds like Fur People!" George whispered urgently. "Just move real slow and do what they want. Fur People are strong, and don't like chitchat." The others stood quietly with eyes downcast, like eminent prisoners of war. Presently, two furry creatures and a human woman stepped from between two trees and approached them.
"I am Lady Angela, and this is Unguh! and Bashwalup! Welcome to Washup. We are so pleased to have visitors from the past." she said this with a slight uplifting gesture of her left hand, perhaps a local greeting of some kind. Both she and the fur creatures wore vests with a most curious insignia.
George Conley looked up slowly from underneath the brim of his railroad hat.
He said, "I fear you do not know me, Angela, when I come", the last line from his latest poem.
Angela had heard that poem about her ever since George had dropped her off in the future.To see George in person again, all these years later, and to hear him say those words to her covered Angela in goosebumps. She stepped back with a look of painful pleasure on her face. The others looked back and forth between the two, their jaws agape. Did George Conley have a sketchy and incredible past even in the future?

Down the river

Marylou had no intention of going into the future, none of them did. Not far into the future. A few weeks or months, sure. Marylou, Medicine Dan, and George did that all the time, in their own way. Only ones who weren't accustomed to time travel of any length sat in the back of the boat, Herald and Alberto. They were land men. As for Sally, who knows.
That night, just as they approached the island, the Clarabelle was caught up in a swift time current and shuttled rapidly down the river, into an uncertain future.
"I plum lost it, I lost control!" cried Medicine Dan. The force of the time current was simply too strong and the crew found themselves resigned to hold tight. The stars reflecting in the black water winked on and off. Everything shone black and silver in the moonlight.
"Ole Vertigo's got us and we're going somewhere fast, in a slow sort of way. Nothing to do about it." George Conley advised. He'd done this before, been washed all the way down to 2324, and he didn't much like to talk about it. Gone a whole year, though to him it felt more like a century. He had a momento from that time, something he kept in his front pocket. Only Leroy had ever seen it directly and George wouldn't talk about that either. "Suffice to say, me and Leroy don't mix," is all he'd say.
"Herliwigs. Dag blast you, Herald. I hope to heck none of the rest of you's been dreaming. Marylou?" In fact, Marylou had dreamt something most unusual, earlier on in this interminable night. She told the others reluctantly. In her dream, one ancient tribe of people had summoned up the spirit of their enemy- a dark god. He materialized into a man, and upon his arrival, Marylou's tribe honored him by presenting Marylou as his bride. The next day, the powerful man/god would battle her tribe. Though he was the enemy, Marylou found herself falling in love with this man, who seemed not very different from the men of her tribe. She gave him all her love, and in the morning she watched him ride into battle greatly outnumbered. He fought bravely, cutting one man clean in two, and died a noble death. She mourned his demise.
Marylou told her dream to the boat occupants and they listened closely. The men could see the battle in their mind's eye. Each imagined himself as the dark god. In their minds they weighed the fortune of having all of a woman's love against the tribulations of battle, and being on the wrong side of a battle. A quiet fell over the boat, and everyone dozed until dawn.

Nighttime Interlude,by guest blogger Jane

Harold Walken awoke with a yell stuck in his throat. He had been having a nightmare about making a deal with a mischievous spirit of the forest and sky. It was nighttime in his dream, and he was under a full sky of moving lights and constellations, much like the sky he was gazing up at right now. In the dream, he was in a thick woods, but at the present moment he was afloat in Medicine Dan’s boat, surrounded by his new friends in this sudden twist of fate. Harold felt that most of life hinged on just such moments and often said so. He felt like saying so now but all the occupants of the boat were fast asleep.

.

He peered at them in the thin light of the moon. The girl, gangly and capable-looking, with a golden circlet on her brow that glinted like the dark water, slept seated with her arms crossed snugly across her chest. Alberto was next to her; he had also fallen asleep sitting down, but had tipped over and was now half lying and half sitting in an L shape, his head knocking gently against the side of the boat. The Book of Knowledge lay spine open between them. Then there was George Conley flat on his back down at the end of the boat, using an old coiled rope as a pillow. Sally the dog had disappeared beneath the brown blanket under the wooden bench beneath the sleepers.

Only Medicine Dan remained awake. He stood with his back to the party, one spotted hand on the time steerer, swaying back and forth with the movement of the boat.

Harold didn’t know how long he’d fallen asleep for. First there’d been the storm, he recalled to himself, which he reckoned lasted a good hour, but it was hard to tell on the river. Might’ve been a week in River Time. Then they’d all had some grasoline, and George had recited his poem again, this time with some additional hand gestures and what-not, and then the last thing Harold remembered was a lot of hullabaloo between Marylou and Medicine Dan about which side of the island to land on. They had taken over as co-captains, since Marylou had both the circlet and the map.

“Hard stuff, ain’ it” grumbled Medicine Dan, turning his head sideways at Harold. He gestured at the empty grasoline bottles in a heap.

“Nah, I was havin’ a dream,” said Harold. “Nightmare.” He rubbed his chin and cracked his neck.

“Something about making a deal with some kind of spirit er ‘nother. Spirit of the forest and sky, as it were.”

It was coming back to him now. He made a deal, he told Dan, and all the children became a constellation and had to circle the sky for a year, pulled along by the spirit like mules on a rope while he stood below and watched from the forest floor.

Medicine Dan whipped his head around at Harold, staring at him in pure alarm.

“That weren’t no dream!” he barked, startling Marylou out of her sleep.

“You,” he pointed, digging his lip snuff out of his pocket. “Bring yer map. Where are we now?”

He looked up from the map Marylou handed him, eyed Harold again.

“What is it?” Marylou asked, hugging her arms yet tightly around herself in the chill air.

Medicine Dan was silent for a moment as he studied the wrinkled map. Finally he spoke.

“Who are ye?” he uttered ominously, advancing towards the alarmed Harold. “What have ye done to us? Herliigs mean anything to ye? Sold us out to the sky spirit, did ye? Herlipigs!!”

With this he rushed at Harold’s neck with open hands, ready to strangle him or throw him into the Vertigo, it appeared to George Conley, who awoke at that very moment and rushed to try to help Harold.

The scuffling and cursing and yelping and screams of “stop! Don’t upset Sally!” that ensued woke Alberto, who could make no more sense of the scene than the participants who had been awake and witnessed the whole thing. Sally was moaning under the bench.

When finally the group had untangled each other and were restraining or being restrained, Marylou turned to Medicine Dan.

“What were you trying to do? Kill us all?” she demanded.

“Tweren’t me tryin’ to kill us,” he replied. “It’s the herliwigs. I’ve heard of ‘em, sure. But I never did navigate this part of the river before. From now on, everyone stays awake! And let’s just hope nobody else here was havin’ any dreams just now!”

The group sat in confused silence for a moment. Then Alberto cleared his throat with a little a-hem, and as one and all turned to look at him, he indicated the Book of Knowledge in his lap with a nod of his chin, and began to read.

Herliwig: (pronounced Hurleewig), also known as Herlea, is one of two air spirits that inhabit a particular river in the Western Hemisphere known as Vertigo. The Herliwig has traditionally been associated with dreams and nightmares. Traditionally when travelers fall asleep and dream while traversing certain passages of the Vertigo, the dreams or nightmares are granted by the Herliwig spirits. In classical art, the Herliwig is depicted as a thin tall woman with human legs but fish fins for arms .

No one moved.

“All right then,” Medicine Dan untwisted himself from George Conley’s grip. “Marylou, you double check that map and hope to tarnation I’m wrong on this. And as for the rest of yez, let’s have it. What were ye dreamin’ just now?”

Away

Marylou raced down to the pier, unsure of what had just happened. There was good natured chaos all around. People were shouting "What a bust-up!" and "Angela!" She felt a rising sense of exaltation. What was it about George Conley? His poetry unsettled her. It is so easy to weave a hook into a brain, she thought to herself. Is that what he had done to her? She spotted Medicine Dan, selling something from off his boat to a rag-tag crowd.
"Medicine Dan's Grass Spirits!" he called out in a theatrical voice. "Cures what ails you. One hundred percent pure grasoline, for vehicle and body. Rub it on your head, get a full head of hair. Soak your feet, no more bunions! Runs most combustion engines, good to drink too! It's Medicine Dan's Grass Spirits, come and get it!"
Marylou sidled on up to Medicine Dan and saw that he had a crate of bottles, of various colors and sizes. She looked at the label; what a beautiful picture! Marylou felt that this trip to Pouteau had really opened her up to a whole new world of personal expression. She helped Medicine Dan take Mexi-dollars and some trade for his bottles of spirit. After the crowd dispersed, there still remained two men, one holding a dog. They approached Marylou and Medicine Dan casually.
"We're all out for now, boys," Dan said.
"I'm Alberto and this here is Herald. And Sally, our dog." They stood carefully in the sunlight, waiting for the next move.
"May I pet her?" Marylou asked. "I've never touched a real dog before." Sally allowed herself to be petted, closing her brown eyes. "I've got a cat." She didn't mention that he was a talking cat. That was her secret. The men watched Marylou with the dog, eyeing her golden circlet. Her dark curls sprang wildly all around her head, the effect being quite angelic.
"Yeah, she's about due, 'bout to have pups."
"That right?" Medicine Dan was suddenly all ears, and he hustled on over to the dog and felt of her belly. "Where you boys staying?" Dan asked.
"No place yet." They appraised Dan's boat in sidelong glances. Just then, George Conley approached in a hurry.
"Boat for hire?" he called out, hopping on aboard. Behind him in the distance could be seen Leroy, swinging his pantyhose brick around his head like lasso.
"Dern blast you, Conley! I told your Daddy! Get back here!" Leroy spat and swaggered drunkenly toward the boat. He wasn't taking much care aiming his homemade weapon. The others looked at each other and clambered onto the boat.
"All aboard, East Side Express." Medicine Dan called out, and with that he started up the engine and they motored slowly away from the pier just in time. The two men settled into the back of the boat with Sally resting comfortably on an old brown blanket. George Conley sat and calmly began cleaning his fingernails with a knife. "Have a seat, little lady," he said to Marylou. She'd been standing dumbfounded by this recent turn of events.
"I left my boat back there!" she said, looking back at the rapidly diminishing shoreline. She sat down and felt in her pockets. "At least I still have my map." She took it out and smoothed it over her lap.
"What was all that back there, George Conley?" asked Medicine Dan.
"Well, I'm a Baptist so I couldn't say, " George averted. His teeth seemed to glisten even in the shade of his railroad hat. He winked at Marylou, who looked back down at her map. She straightened her back and pursed her lips, trying to seem both uninterested and engaging.
"My boot, you are." Medicine Dan grunted. The river pulled at the boat, wishing to carry it far into the future. Dan held fast to wheel, making slight adjustments to the anti-time device. The weather was turning nasty. Wind blew hard down the Vertigo, that was a fact. Getting across was no cakewalk, but Medicine Dan held strong. Heavy grey clouds unrolled from the southwest and the boat tossed its occupants into each other. They gripped the sides of the boat. Sally moaned.
"What's that map you got there, little lady?" George asked, looking over Marylou's shoulder.
She glared at him and said, "My name is Marylou." Herald and Alberto followed this exchange with great interest. "This is a map of the Vertigo River, passed down the von Fixin de Hoolie clan since before the flood. See here's where we are," the others leaned in to look, " and here's the far side of the river, a place I've never been. And see this island here? How about we go there, Medicine Dan? It might be a good place for Sally to have her pups. See, it's just up the river about two weeks land time, maybe a few hours Vertigo time. Can we try to find it?"
After some passing around of the map, it was decided among the passengers that they would try to find the island. All settled in comfortably, passing around the last bottle of Medicine Dan' s Grass Spirits and enjoying the ride.

Vertigo Time, Tuesday edition

A Missing Persons Report was filed at the Office of River Inquiries on Monday evening by one Eloise von Fixin de Hoolie of Vertigo Dock 2, Western Side. Hartmut von Fixin de Hoolie disappeared on the afternoon of Sunday May 9, 2214, while attempting to send a bottle upstream. Mrs. E. von Fixin de Hoolie also filed a Missing Persons Report on her husband Hans Sneebum on February 2, 2210. Hans Sneebum has not currently been recovered.

Vertigo Time, Monday edition

Upper Vertigo River, 10 May 2214, Real Vertigo Time

At least five people required volunteer emergency medical assistance on Sunday evening after a stampede ensued following a poetry reading at Leroy’s Foosball and Pool Hall in the Upper Vertigo Area, zone 5.

Several French-speaking witnesses, who asked to not be identified, described the incident as seen from a river boat parked at Sequoyah 3 nearby. Although no translators could be located, the French party re-enacted the bedlam in detailed pantomime.

“Vive la galopede,” one witness noted.

Requiring eleven sutures was the presenter, George Conley. It is speculated that the reason for the stampede involved the appearance of proprietor/owner of Leroy’s, Leroy Henson, who had previously registered his legal intentions to commit bodily harm upon any descendent of Rose Conley who entered his establishment for the next eight years.

Night at Leroy's (by guest blogger Jane)

Everyone who was anyone within a day’s journey of Leroy’s Foosball and Pool Hall had brought a homemade candle stub or a grasoline lantern. The place was lit up like a St. Agnes the Substitute pre-Seed carnival, and it wasn’t even February on this side of the Vertigo. Marylou crawled out of her makeshift tent just as the sun was setting, and was dazzled by the Main Street festivities already underway.

Both sides of the dusty thoroughfare were lined with travelers and locals from at least three circular miles out. It seemed everyone was making their way to Leroy’s, so Marylou fell into step with two grandmothers and a dirty toddler being pulled along in a wheeled contraption. Halfway there she spotted Medicine Dan emerging from the Moonshine Trade Shack and Hair Cuttery, so she stepped into the road and hailed him as an orange truck with two men and what looked like a large mammal nearly ran her over. They honked good-naturedly but didn’t slow down.

“What’s all the commotion?” asked Marylou.

Medicine Dan wiped a fingerful of lip snuff off a small piece of wood and then carefully covered it in a white handkerchief and replaced it in his back pocket. He rubbed the brackish mixture into his lower gum, then gave a satisfied grunt.

“George Conley’s a’readin’ a new poem tonight,” he said knowingly.

Marylou was struck dumb by her own good fortune. To have landed in Pouteau on the very day George Conley would be here was too much for her to have hoped for. Everyone knew of George Conley. He was the most eligible bachelor in all of the seven stops along the Vertigo that Marylou knew of, and his poems were immediately memorized and recited by all whenever he chose to bestow them upon the public. He was the closest thing to a celebrity that they had in these parts.

He was handsome, sure. Marylou chewed her own gums and considered this development. He was also known to be the foremost time traveler in all of Vertigo County proper. It was even rumored he had been as far back as the industrial collapse. He was also a bonafide romancer, and wore boots with real metal tips with his faded overalls.

As Marylou and Medicine Dan approached the doorway, she smelled the unmistakable smell of cheese fries and lentil beer. She felt heady and dreamlike. She adjusted her circlet and gripped Medicine Dan’s elbow. Despite the crowd that was packed as tight as gar fish inside the small building, Medicine Dan was able to proceed straight to the front of the line, and Marylou wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip by her. George Conley was nothing to sneeze at, and besides, she reasoned, he might just know something about my father. Medicine Dan either didn’t notice or didn’t mind, and together they walked straight to the front of Leroy’s and took a seat on two carved out wooden stumps.

It seemed they were just in time. Thunderous applause erupted as George Conley himself stepped to the front of the makeshift stage and nodded to the crowd. He was bare-chested beneath his pale blue overalls, worn thin at the knees. He wore a railroad hat, and from where Marylou sat, it looked real.

Where had he gotten it? Marylou asked herself. Had he actually been back to the time of motors? She felt more convinced than ever that this was the man who could lead her to her father.

Beside them, the two men who had nearly run her over with the orange truck settled into two chairs with a table. She glanced over quickly, but even the mammal being cradled by one of the men, and which appeared to her now to be some kind of dog-like creature, could not hold her attention. She was riveted by the man in the overalls in front of her, who was now clearing his throat as the room quietened.

George Conley was a legend. Nobody knew where he came from, and many said that he was actually from the past. Others said he was from the future. Simply put, no one had seen his equal. He was larger than the average Real Time person, and his teeth shone white like an old-time photo.

A hush fell at last over the itchy crowd at last, and George Conley cleared his throat. In a quiet, almost whispered voice, he began.

It is so easy to weave a hook into a brain, he began.

The crowd erupted into stamping and clapping for five full minutes. George Conley did not break his concentration. He waited for it to get quiet, and continued.

It is no harder than the tapping of the sun into a working man’s forearms;

And I hook the unresisting, resting in the sun, insane,

I am nothing if not a ghost in Angela.

Angela had a dream about a fish

And it was I who embedded the hook into her soft brain.

She had nothing to say about it,

She rolled in the twisted bedding.

Angela is a different girl during the day

Than who she is when she is asleep.

I want to come into your room when are asleep, Angela.

I want to embed a fish hook into your brain.

Angela, do not squirm so, do not let your rigid limbs remain so rigid.

Angela, I am coming into your room to turn you into a fish.

You are under a sun as serious, as red, as commanding,

As you twist in your cold bed.

You turn yourself into a fish,

And you are deep.

I encourage you in this;

It is how I imagine you when you are asleep.

Can you not hear me tapping a reminder in code

Into your skin?

On your deep brain’s drum,

I etch.

I fear you do not know me, Angela, when I come.

The crowd was silent when George Conley finished. Marylou’s circlet had nearly slipped off as she listened, rapt. The poem would no doubt be repeated a hundred times by morning. Most everyone had acquired near perfect memories in the post-internet revolution.

A sharp crack suddenly broke the silence as the door to Leroy’s flew open wide. Leroy himself stood silhouetted in the doorway. His wide hips and ample gut filled the entire frame, and even the two strangers with the dog started.

“I’m giving everyone two minutes to get the hockey block out of my joint,” he belted, swinging a brick in a woman’s stocking. “Then I’m not bothering to take names.”

George Conley turned and scattered towards the door behind him, Marylou and Medicine Dan close on his heels. A stampede was ensuing behind him.

“Meet me at the boat,” cried Medicine Dan, as the throng separated them. Marylou, fearing being trampled, darted to the side of the building and flattened herself against the wall. People continued to stream out in every direction at full speed. It was pandemonium.

Medicine Dan

Medicine Dan was an old man, aged prematurely through excessive time travel. He ran the ferry from the Port of Pouteau to the other side of the river. His boat had a powerful outboard motor, and an anti-time device affixed to the controls. It looked like a jerry-rigged toaster with a clock face soldered on. The trip across the river seemed to take about an hour, but upon arrival at the far shore one could expect to have gained or lost up to a week's time. Medicine Dan spent a lot of time on the river, spent it like money thrown into the wind. You could never know when or where to find him. To get across the river, it was best to camp out on the pier and wait. He accepted barter for his services, and welcomed gossip. For these reasons, Medicine Dan was the go-to man when one needed information, or hard to find commodities like moonshine or tobacco. Due to the irregularities of both of their schedules, Marylou and Medicine Dan had never crossed paths, although each had heard tell of the other. That is, until Marylou ran into him at the Market. She recognized him from his distinctive suit and grey beard, and he noticed her golden circlet.

"You Marylou?" he asked gruffly, squinting at her.

"Marylou von Fixin de Hoolie," she said, "And you must be Medicine Dan. I've been hoping to meet you one of these days. I'm looking for someone in the future, my dad Hans Sneebum."

"How far you reckon he went?" Medicine Dan was no stranger to the future. He had contacts all the way from last week to the next century. 

"That's the thing we don't know," she sighed. "He got washed down the river about four years ago." She shifted her feet and looked plaintively into his wrinkled face. 

"Tell me this. What's the most likely thing he'd get up to? Did he have a reputation for something n'ruther?" Medicine Dan, a consummate tale-teller, needed a hook. Something to pass around, fish for information.

"Well, he was a card-carrying member of the Icelandic Doomsday Seed Traders Club...He collected seeds of all kinds, especially heirloom vegetables. I guess he'd be looking for seeds wherever he landed. That, and he had the bluest eyes you'd ever see."

"Gotcha."

"What do you know of the future, Medicine Dan?" 

"Well, 'bout twenty five years from now, Scrappers get kinda mean. Times are tough, no place for a lady. After that, there's a renaissance, and things get damn near bucolic. Hey, maybe your Daddy has something to do with that! Did he have any seeds with him when he got carried off?"

"My dad never went anywhere without pockets full of seeds...." Marylou thought for a moment. "What is it you want, Medicine Dan?"

The old man looked at Marylou carefully. He was so used to people asking him for things, he was taken aback for a moment. "More than anything I'd like a dog. Someone to replace Clarabelle, my beloved mule, may she rest."

After this fateful encounter, Marylou set off for Leroy's Foos Ball and Pool Hall. She liked to go there on her trips to town to play a game of foos ball, and have a plate of their famous cheese fries. Little did she know who and what waited for her there. 

Leroy's Foos Ball and Pool Hall

Alberto drove the pick-up truck, powered by switch-grass gasoline. They called it grasoline. He and Herald were headed for a place called Leroy's Foos Ball and Pool Hall, a dive in the Port of Pouteau. “It's there that I first heard about the golden circlet,” he told Herald. “Seems there's this girl who can travel up and down the Vertigo. I'm dead-set on finding out more.” They'd been making their way up the Mex-American Plains, documenting small mammals and looking for the elusive prairie dog. “They say she comes to town every month or so. (the girl, not the prairie dog) Here's what I say- we stake it out. Make ourselves useful, wait for her. And then...”, Alberto slowed the truck to look at a brown lump beside the dirt road. “Hot damn, if that ain't a dog!” Herald looked up from the book he'd been reading, The Book of Knowledge, volume seven, copyright 1923. The two men jumped stealthily from the orange truck and approached the dog.
It was a mutt, brown and matted, curled up on itself but still alive. Herald tenderly examined it, looking for wounds, while Alberto scanned the horizon for signs of other dogs.
“It's a female, malnourished, no outward signs of injury...Pregnant.” Herald stroked it's rough fur and exalted in the feeling. “A large mammal.” So used to small mammals like mice and rats that a full sized canine thrilled him deeply. It'd been a long time since he'd seen a dog. Generally, there wasn't enough wildlife to support larger creatures on the plains.
“No sign of her pack,” said Alberto, returning with the emergency care pack. He gave the dog some water, which she roused herself to drink. “This girl needs some peanut butter,” he said and put a generous dollop on both his and Herald's hands for the dog to lick off. The peanut butter was a rare commodity, more valuable than gold. In fact, “Worth its weight in peanut butter,” was a well-known axiom here in the Scrap Age. They gathered up the dog carefully, putting her with them in the cab of the orange truck, and continued on their way.

Marylou and the Golden Circlet

It was time to go to the Port of Pouteau, and Marylou did not want to go overland. The journey would be too long, and too full of unknown variables to make the trip by foot, and so she would take her boat. Traveling by river had its own dangers to be sure. The current was very strong, and a regular person would be swept away into the future, at the mercy of fate. But Marylou had three things that enabled her to go anywhere in time along the river. The first was a golden circlet, passed down through the family for generations. The second was a map, and the third, a boat. Her father hadn't had any of these things on the day the river carried him away.
It was a simple boat, a glorified rowboat really. She climbed in early on a February morning, placing her map and sword carefully in the bow, along with things for trade. On her head she wore the golden circlet. Hartmut and Troybilt came down to the shore to see her off. The fog hung over the swift grey water, and the sky crept to life above them. They bid her farewell, wrapping themselves tightly in their patchwork shawls. Marylou sat straight, her strong arms rowing, her brow softly glowing.
“Bring back something sweet!” shouted Hartmut, but Marylou did not hear. The river had already taken her.
It wasn't long before she reached the Port of Pouteau. She docked her boat on the pier and pulled off her jacket. The sun had long burned away any mist. It beat purposefully, grass growing weather. Marylou went directly to the Market, the place to trade goods. She had with her a few interesting things that her two younger sisters had pulled out of the river, things from who knows what time. A men's hat, a pocketbook full of pens and sodden cough drops, and best of all, a large pair of black rubber boots. They would bring a high price.

Eloise

Eloise von Fixin de Hoolie would not leave the river. She was waiting for her man to return, the father of her six daughters. He'd been swept down the river four years ago, and had never made it back. His name was Hans Sneebum, and Eloise loved him very much, but she wouldn't marry him. She didn't want to lose her family name.
“I told him that if any of our children were boys, they could have his last name. How was I to know that I'd only have girls. And so many of them!” With each year of his absence, Eloise turned more in on herself, like an Advent calendar in reverse. Small windows closing, hiding small treasures. “If only I'd given him one child with his name, then he'd have something to come back for.” Eloise lamented.
“If he doesn't think we're worth his time, then screw him,” Marylou said. Eloise looked aghast and turned away. “That's an ego thing, names. Who the hell wants to be called Sneebum anyway? How about you, Effluvia, you want to be Effluvia Sneebum?” Effluvia was the youngest daughter, eight years old. She nodded her head, black curls bobbing. “I'd be a Sneebum if Dad would come back,” she said.
“Anyway, we don't know how far down the river he went, he could be anywhere in the future.” That was the thing about the Vertigo River. The further down you went, the farther into the future you found yourself. Likewise, going up the river would bring you back in time, and if you kept going up the river, you'd find yourself surrounded by water, back in the time of the flood. The Port of Pouteau was only half an hour down the river, a few months in the future.  

When Marylou went there, she had to plan ahead, bring a sweater even if it was still summertime, for example. Maybe that was the other reason that Mother wouldn't let them leave, Marylou mused to herself. They were fixed there in time and space, and how else would he ever find them if they left? She didn't hold out much hope for his return. Still, on her next trip down to Pouteau to pick up supplies she'd ask strangers if they'd seen him, a man with dark hair and blue eyes, washed clean away from his own time.

Marylou takes a walk on the plains

As the oldest of six sisters. Marylou had certain responsibilities. She kept the boat in good repair, and organized expeditions up and down the Vertigo River with the next oldest sisters, Hartgutt and Troybilt. They were still teenagers, young in a sense, and yet they were all post-diluvial. Every one was. The great flood was over a hundred years gone, but still felt daily. For fifty years the lands were full of water, only people on the mounds had survived. That was the legend, and Marylou had heard it many times before from her mother.
“So what, who cares?” she asked, kicking at dried stalks of grass on her way up to the high plains above their home in the cliffs. She didn't care for talk at all. It didn't matter to her how long her family had been here on this land. It may as well have been forever. She knew nothing else, and neither did her mother or her mother's mother. The point was, they'd been here a long time, since way before the flood, and it was time that Marylou got out.
Everyone had their place out here. She was in charge of the boat and trading, Mother the cooking, Hartgutt and Troybilt the garden and fishing, and the younger three sisters fetched water, and cleaned the house. That was the order of things. She'd been going up and down this river for four years on her own, though never very far.
She'd walked out half a day and back again on the plains. Up on the plains, she walked fast. Partly it was just her nature. But out here, you never could tell what might be coming your way. She scanned the land, dried up mud and tall grasses. Her brow was just as straight as the horizon. She was wearing an outfit that her sister Troybilt had sewn for her from bits of cloth. Everything was handmade, there was no such thing as store-bought anymore. Well, you could buy clothes at the Pouteau Outpost, but those clothes were handmade too, just made by somebody they didn't know.
She was out for a walk, she just had to walk lately. Everything at home was so annoying. A mud house full of women, what a recipe. Also, it was part of her job to keep a look out and see what all was going on. Mostly not much.
“That's the problem,” she said to her companion, a talking cat named Javier. His long fur was orange, and his tail bushy, allowing for him to stand on hind-legs when the situation called for it. He accompanied Marylou most everywhere, running on all fours to catch up.
“Slow up a minute,” Javier said as he suddenly stopped and began licking his hindquarters. “What exactly is the problem?” he asked solicitously, and then resumed cleaning himself thoroughly.
“That nothing ever happens around here. Case in point, you're licking your bottom.”
“My darling child,” Javier said indignantly, getting to his feet. “Even the most seemingly mundane act, like licking one's own bottom, can attain profound significance when one is fully present.” And with that, he threw himself onto his back and began taking a dust bath.

So Long, by Hertmutt von Fixin de Hoolie

Vertigo River

Ever since the Fall of Industry, the Vertigo River was cleaning itself up. Along its banks, formerly the resting place of abandoned cars, kitchen appliances, and plastic bottles, now grew grass- tall pokey grass. The scavengers took the scrap long ago, picked clean the mud. A few years back the scavengers celebrated the three-hundred year anniversary that officially marked the end of the way things were, and the beginning of a new era. The so-called Scrap Age was born from the defunct factories of yesteryear. Ingenuity and thriftiness ruled, and the von Fixin de Hoolie household along the Vertigo River exemplified these noble attributes.
It's not that they kept a very clean house. How clean can a house made of dirt be, after all? They'd burrowed out a series of interconnected rooms in the tall banks of the Vertigo, packing the walls and floors very tightly with their hands and feet. No, it was their lack of stuff that was the saving grace of the von Fixin de Hoolie clan. They had a few things; Marylou had a knife, for example. She kept it in a pouch tied at her waist. It was rusty, but still sharp. Not bad for cutting root vegetables, or menacing would-be scavengers.
Marylou herself was impervious to pain and the cold and heartache. She liked it that way. In the winter she waded bare-foot through the water, at night she stood in the cold wind and felt the multitude of stars pressing down on her head like a crown of jewels. “Who gives a crap?” she thought to herself. She lived with her mother and five sisters, and the river was her highway and her home.

Alberto speaks of Animal World

Herald had heard rumors, everyone had heard them. They said there was a world full of animals. Not just rats and squirrels, such as they carefully cultivated at Yahweh's Mammalry Business College. Alberto Barcena Lopez, Herald's roommate, knew all about it.
"They've got owls, wolves, bobcats. I mean, they've got stuff we've never even heard of before." Alberto and Herald were having lunch on the school grounds. They'd just spent the morning with the other students, caring for a rescued mouse and her newborn brood.
"They got weasels?" asked Herald. He held Alberto in high esteem. He was a driver from the south, licensed.
"Forget weasels, man, they've got golden eagles and bears!" These were animals that the two young men had only heard of, having gone long extinct in their world.
"And not only that. I know of a way in." Alberto assumed a dreamy look, gazing out over the fields. His blue eyes were exactly the color of the faded blue sky. He smiled slightly and turned to Herald. "You ever heard of the golden circlet?"

Herald Walken

Herald Walken was born in 2224, one of three children of Saars Walken, a quiet Northern-born cat breeder living in South Mex-America. Herald was tall, a “gentle giant,” as the Old World Chronicler writer P.K. Plunke described him, “in constant danger of hitting his head on ceiling fans and door frames.” He left school at fourteen. He had marks on his cheeks from adolescent acne, which he rubbed fish and geranium oil into every night.
At fifteen, he made a visit to Animal World Junction, keeping an eye out for a “well-cared for building,” as he later recalled. He picked 98 Mammal Place, where he started at the first door and made his way down the halls, asking at every office “Need a tall fellow?” By the end of the morning, he had reached the offices of a small squirrel and water rat trading company. There were no openings. He returned to the traders the next morning. He lied that he was asked to come back, and bluffed himself into a job assisting the baby rat caretaker, for one hundred fifty Mexi-dollars a month. He used his height to lift down the cages from the tallest shelves. The trading company was called Goldfinch Serge.
From that point, Herald's rise was inexorable. Early on, he was asked to carry a package down the cracked pavement road of Main Street to the Serge's family cottage. The door was opened by Grady Serge, the grandson of the trading company's founder, and Serge took a shine to him. Walken was soon promoted to the storeroom, which he promptly reorganized. Serge sent him to Yahweh's Mammalry Business College in the riverside district, to learn how to “poop and pee” the babies.
By 2229, the company had bought Walken a wagon and a place at the Southern District Trading Post, a biannual event held at Eagle Rock. By 2230, he was part owner. By 2232, he was lead coordinator for all swamplands rat hunts and squirrel recovery operations in rural towns throughout the South. For the next ten years, until he sought refuge in Animal World, Herald Walken was the face of Goldfinch Serge, turning it from a floundering rodent trading outpost into the premier large rodent conservatory and brokerage house in all of Mex-America.