Chapter the 6th
Looking at the stores along the sidewalk that Michael found was made of cobblestones, he realized that the stores looked quite different than they did from the other side of the street. All of them would have looked a bit odd in Milton even if they were restored buildings in a historical section of town. Close by was a store with a wooden sign hanging before it that read: CAPTAIN KYDD’S DIME STORE. The store’s logo pictured a bearded pirate with a parrot on his shoulder. Next to that was a store called Taverner & Tye’s. Judging from the crowded shop window, they sold everything including kitchen sinks. Michael heard singing coming from the store that sounded like the Carelin Boys’ Choir yet again. Next to Taverner & Tye’s was, apparently, a pub called the Byrd & Tallis. A couple of children walked past, commenting happily that the mastodons they had just seen were the largest in two years. The door to the Byrd & Tallis opened and two pirates dressed for the stage, one with a parrot on his shoulder stepped out, followed by a young man in a medieval-looking costume carrying a harp.
“Master Michael the Paper Deliverer!” roared one of the pirates.
“Paper Deliverer,” the parrot echoed.
Michael froze. There was no way he was going to hand himself over to that hulking man with the red beard. The young man with the harp looked straight at Michael. At least he appeared friendly.
“Michael, don’t be afraid of Captain Polly,” said the harpist to him. “He’s only been sent to announce the king’s business to you.”
“The king’s business?” asked Michael.
“Yes, the king’s business!” roared the pirate.
“Actually, it’s everybody’s business,” said the other pirate, who had a black patch over one eye.
"Where do you want to pick up your papers?" the first pirate asked Michael.
“Pick up the papers,” added the parrot.
"Papers?" asked Michael, who had forgotten his conversation with the dwarf. “What papers?”
“YOU VOLUNTEERED TO DELIVER THE NEXT EDITION OF THE NEWSPAPER!" thundered the pirate.
"Didn't know I was so gracious," Michael replied. "Can't I say or think anything around here without volunteering for something?"
"Not usually,” said the harpist.
"And how do you know there's an edition of the paper for me to deliver?" asked Michael.
"Because something is expected to happen, that's why," Captain Polly explained.
"I see."
But Michael did not see.
"So, where do you want to pick up the papers?" the pirate asked again.
"Where are they?" asked Michael.
"That depends."
“Depends on what?”
“It depends on where you want to pick them up.”
"THEN THE PAPERS ARE AT THE DIME STORE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE GOLDFISH TANK!" Michael yelled so that the whole town could hear him.
The two pirates and the harpist nodded gravely to each other.
"Very well," said the pirate quietly, then he and his companions moved off.
Michael shrugged his shoulders and walked inside the store, wondering if it sold anything besides dimes. In spite of his private surmise, Michael was surprised to see lines of barrels filled with coins. Michael walked up to the nearest one and dug his free hand into the coins. Sure enough, they were all dimes. Just a few barrels down, a couple of girls were rummaging through the dimes as if they were searching for a treasure. One of the girls was small, perhaps only six or seven years old at the most. She had frizzly hair and a face a little too cute for Michael's tastes. The other girl was several years older, rather tall, with dark brown hair combed straight down. Michael started to sift through the dimes in the nearest barrel as if he were interested in them.
"May I help you?"
Michael looked up. The older girl of the two he had just noticed was the one speaking to him. The younger girl looked up at Michael with curiosity.
"Do you work here?" Michael asked her.
"No, we only play here," said the younger of the two girl.
"Then you can't help me, can you?” Michael replied.
"How do you know?" asked the older girl.
Michael shrugged.
"All right, how much does a dime cost?" Michael asked her.
"It depends on the dime you want," the girl replied. "A well-worn dime costs fifty dollars, and a shining new dime costs fifty cents."
"How come?" Michael asked.
"Because the well-worn coins are more experienced."
"Experienced at what?"
"Experienced in the art of exchange."
The younger girl put her hand to her mouth to cover up her giggling. The older girl kept a straight face.
"Whatever that is," Michael muttered. "Actually, I came in here to look at the goldfish. I assume they’re in the goldfish tank. That’s where I said the newspapers are"
“That’s a good place for the newspapers,” said the smaller girl. “They’ll be so soggy, nobody will know what the news is.”
“And where are these soggy papers in the goldfish tanks?” asked Michael.
“You had best go to the back of the store since that is where they are," said the older girl.
"Thanks a heap."
“That’s a nice-looking book you have,” said the older girl.
Michael had almost forgotten he was still carrying it around.
“Glad you like it.”
“Is it about dragons?” asked the younger girl.
“How did you guess?” asked Michael in return.
“It looks like a book about dragons,” answered the girl.
“It’s about dragon eggs,” Michael replied.
“Oh, good!” cried the girl. “We’ve been hoping for years that a dragon would lay some eggs!”
“Take good care of the book,” the older girl admonished Michael.
“I’ll think about it.”
Michael walked away and passed by countless barrels of dimes until finally the store began to look like a normal store. A few old women rummaged around in bins of socks and T-shirts. Other shelves were filled with model planes, toy swords and baseball gloves. Then Michael came across a row of shelves filled with musical instruments, string instruments and wind instruments of various sizes. Some of them were familiar and others were not. In spite of not ever having wanted to play a violin in his life, Michael could not resist gently picking one up that looked particularly elegant. For a few seconds, he could almost imagine himself sounding good on an instrument like that. When a small boy moved behind him, obviously waiting for a chance to look over the violins, Michael self-consciously put the instrument down and stepped out of the way. The boy moved in and picked up the same violin Michael had looked at. The tattered blue jeans and the baseball cap the boy wore looked incongruous with the violin he was examining.
"Do you like music?" the boy asked Michael.
"Not really," Michael replied. "I'm supposed to be looking for the aquarium because supposedly the newspapers are at the bottom of it."
"That's a good place for newspapers," said the boy, with little hint of sarcasm. "Maybe that'll get the music editor to write a good review about my Water Music Suite."
The boy placed the violin under his chin and raised his bow over the strings.
"I'm glad to have been of service to somebody in my choice of locations," said Michael as he walked away.
He listened to the boy play the violin while he headed towards the back of the store. He was amazingly good for a child, nothing like what Michael had been forced to listen to in school.
Then, without warning, Michael found himself standing before an aquarium filled with tropical fish. Among the fish were golden swordtails and angelfish, as well as others that Michael could not put a name to. It was soothing to watch the fish swim in gentle curves about the aquarium, showing no sign of having a care in the world. Michael followed the route of one small fish that glittered with many colors as it swam to the bottom of the tank where there was a plastic archway. The fish swam through the archway, and then Michael saw, resting along the sandy bottom, a small stack of newspapers.
Michael cursed under his breath and stared at the papers. Then he said aloud,
"The newspapers are on the floor in front of the goldfish tank."
Nothing happened. Michael stomped his foot.
"You can just jump in and get them," suggested a fat woman who shopping nearby.
Michael stared at her, wondering what made her think his plight was her business.
"How can I do that?" he asked her.
"Same way you jump into a swimming pool. Just climb over the edge and jump in. Then you dive down and get the papers." When Michael scratched his head, she added, "Size is merely relative, you know. You can be as small as you are willing to be."
The woman went back to her browsing, showing no sign that it was any concern of hers whether Michael followed her advice or not. Michael paced back and forth in front of the fish tank, wondering what to do. He had a strong impulse just to leave the store and try to find Uncle Martin. But he had the feeling that in Carelin, he would do well to deliver the papers once he was believed to have volunteered for the task and was ordered to do it by the king. So Michael stuffed his book under his shirt, put his hands over the edge of the glass and pulled his feet up. It took all of his strength to make it up that far. He stood on the edge of the tank a moment and looked down while he caught his breath. The swordtails looked much larger and more dangerous. Michael waited until they moved to the other end of the tank and then he dove in.
He swam to the bottom where the papers were. Next to the papers, a bright green bag was resting on the bottom. Michael slid the papers into the bag and slung it over his arm. Everything felt normal except that his motions felt heavier in the water. He continued to breathe normally except that bubbles kept coming out of his nose. He took his book from under his shirt and placed that in the bag as well. If the papers could stand the water, so could the book, Michael reasoned. Then Michael pulled out a paper, curious as to what a newspaper in Carelin was like. The paper was blank.
"What?" Michael cried out.
A flurry of bubbles rose out of his mouth.
"What what?" answered a voice.
An angelfish, now much taller than Michael himself, floated over to him, looking very wise and knowing.
"The newspapers I'm supposed to deliver are blank," complained Michael.
"That is not an abiding state," answered the angelfish.
"Maybe so, but how can I deliver blank papers?"
"Same way you deliver unblank papers, of course. When something worth reading about happens, the articles will appear and those who have the paper will read them."
"Sounds screwy," said Michael.
"Better than printing stories before they are worth reading about," the angelfish rejoined.
But Michael was beginning to worry about something more serious than the blankness of the papers. He looked back up to the surface of the water and wondered how he was going to get out of the tank.
“Is there a problem?” asked the angelfish.
“Yea, how do I get out of here?”
“You can walk to the other end of this tank and go through the archway. Be sure to give newspapers out to everybody on your route as you pass."
"And how do I know who is on my route and who isn't?"
"If you deliver a paper at a house, the people who live there are on your route. If you don't deliver a paper, then they aren't."
"Hmm. Since you were so helpful with that question, I will ask you another," said Michael. "Can you tell me where Perifell Lane is?"
"It will be the second street you come to."
"Thank you."
Two swordtails swam down, one on each side of Michael and eyed him menacingly. Michael looked back to the angelfish, hoping for protection, but it was already swimming away. The swordtails loomed closer and opened their mouths. Instinctively, Michael pulled out two papers and stuffed one in each of their mouths. Satisfied, they swam off and Michael walked through the archway. It looked slimy with all the seaweed growing on it and it turned out to be a longer and darker to walk than Michael expected. As he walked, Michael stopped making bubbles when he breathed out and then the next thing he knew, he was kicking up dry dust with his feet. He looked around and found himself on a street lined with freshly painted houses. Michael was dripping from his excursion into the fish tank. The newspapers were soaked and so was the book on dragons he had bought at the general store outside Carelin. Michael swore, but then tried to shrug off his concern for the book and the papers. He never cared about the Milton Gazette; why should he care about a blank newspaper in Carelin? The sun was starting to set. A cool breeze made him shiver.
The houses, built with wood frames looked as if they belonged in small town America. Behind him, Michael saw a town square with a large fountain in the middle of it. Michael wanted to have a closer look at the fountain, but since he had the newspapers, he decided he should take care of them first. Feeling a bit embarrassed over the wet condition of the papers, Michael carried the paper to the front porch of the nearest house and placed it carefully inside the door. Surprised at this act of courtesy, he continued on his route. He arbitrarily dropped off papers at some houses and not at others. If he missed anybody on his route, that somebody could call and complain about it, Michael reasoned. He kept a watch for Perifell Lane, but he did not find it, not even after he had gone about four blocks. At the end of the third block, an old man opened the door to take the paper from him.
"It's so nice to have a paper boy," said the old man. "It’s been a long time since we've had a paper. Something must be coming up. Who knows, maybe the king will do something interesting for once."
“What else does the king do besides order people like me to deliver the newspaper?”
“Oh, any number of things,” the man replied. “He might be studying the constellations in the sky or he might be checking out the trains to see if they are running on time. But then this paper might end up having an article on somebody else. It might even have an article about something you are going to do, since you're the one delivering the papers."
"Uh-huh. Sorry it's so wet. I found the papers in a fish tank."
Michael expected the man to express incredulity and anger, but the comment did not faze him.
"That's okay. I can spread out the pages and they'll dry in good time. You must be new here."
"Uh—yes. Just got here. I'm looking for my Uncle Martin's house. Do you know where that is? I mean—Can you tell me how to get there? It's supposed to be on Perifell Lane."
"I suppose I can tell you. Keep on delivering the papers and you will come to where you want to go. Go through the park, and once you've done that, you will find your Uncle Martin's house."
"The angelfish said it was back a block from here," grumbled Michael.
"Yes," said the old man, "from a certain point of view, that is so. Between any two streets, there are an infinite number of streets."
"Oh, I see," said Michael, although he did not see. He was beginning to think that he should have been more careful about dreaming up a town where all the streets kept rearranging themselves.
"Best wishes with your deliveries," said the friendly old man as he closed the door.
Michael shrugged and continued with his route. One thing for sure, Carelin seemed to have nicer customers than Milton, Pennsylvania. In gratitude for the nice way the old man spoke, Michael carefully delivered the papers inside the screen doors of his customers as he passed. As the old man had said he would, Michael came to a park. A diagonal walk cut across it and Michael decided to take that. Several boys were playing baseball on the grass. One of them was the boy Michael saw in the dime store examining the violins. Some smaller children were crawling about on the jungle gym and a boy and a girl were playing on the swing set.
"Push me!" cried a girl as Michael walked past.
Michael grimaced, but the girl had such pretty pig tails, and she smiled so sweetly that he put down his newspaper sack and gave her a push.
"Higher!" she cried.
So Michael pushed her again.
"Higher!" she cried again.
Michael pushed.
“HIGHER!” the girl shrieked all the louder.
Tired of the silly game, Michael pushed with all his might, hoping she would fly off and break her neck. To his surprise, Michael lost sight of her. To his greater surprise, the swing came back down, empty.
Michael looked up into the rose-colored sky, but he did not see her flying away up there, either. Michael looked at the boy sitting on the swing next to where the girl had been, fearing he would get some wild accusation from him. But the boy with light freckles on his face appeared satisfied with what had happened. Perhaps the girl was a sister of his and he wanted to get rid of her.
Can you push me, too?" asked the boy.
"Not in your life," said Michael. "You want to disappear, too?"
"Yes."
"Then get lost on your own in your own time," Michael grumbled.
"It is my own time," the boy protested, "and I'm lost unless you push me."
"Then be as lost as you want to be," Michael answered back over his shoulder as he picked up his sack and shuffled off.
“Would you like it nobody helped you when you wanted to get lost? Would you like it—“
Michael turned around and flung a newspaper at the boy. His aim was better than he thought and the paper hit the boy square on the mouth. That shut him up.
Further along in the park, Michael saw a curious tree with golden fruits hanging from it. In the twilight they had a soft glow about them. He stopped to look and he saw that the tree trunk was composed of several thick vines twisted around each other. Michael carefully fingered one of the fruits. It was soft but firm and perfectly smooth, almost a cross between an apple and an orange.
"Don't pick that fruit!" cried a child.
"Not again," Michael grumbled when he saw the same boy who had asked him to push him on the swing come running over to him. So Michael made a point of not letting go of the fruit.
"I said don't pick that!" the boy cried again.
Michael pulled hard at the fruit until it snapped off the branch.
"You're too late, Pickleface. I've picked it already."
"Then unpick it."
"How can I do that, most wise master of unpickery?"
"By—by—“
"By going back in time and not picking it?" Michael asked.
"Yea," said the boy. "That’s one way to do it."
"And who says you can go around telling people which fruits to pick and which ones not to pick?"
That question seemed to stymie the boy for a few seconds. Then he regain his confidence and put on a haughty face.
“First of all, anyone can tell you not to pick that fruit."
"Then I can tell myself to pick it and unpick it as I please since I am Anyone."
Michael went on his way, trying to ignore Pickleface, but the boy persisted in tagging along after him.
“Second of all,” said the boy, “I am born of a special dynasty.”
“Bully for you. Do you mean you’re the Crown Prince or something?”
“Yea, that’s what it means.”
“You’ll be the crowned prince in a minute if you aren’t careful. The crowned king ordered me to deliver these papers and he didn’t offer me any money for it. Therefore, this piece of fruit is my just payment for services rendered.”
Michael stepped up his pace, but he still could not shake off Pickleface.
"If you’re going to keep that fruit, the least you can do is take good care of it," said the boy, his breath getting short.
"How?"
"Keep it warm for one thing,” the boy answered, appearing to relish the chance to give orders to somebody. “And don't play games with it, for another."
"Thanks a lot for your advice, Pickleface. Got to go now. See you later."
“Don’t worry, you will,” said the boy as he finally let Michael get away from him.
Michael tossed his fruit into the paper sack and realized that there was only one blank newspaper left. Up ahead, at the edge of the park, Michael saw a wooden sign that read: Perifell Lane.