THE DAY OF COSMIC TREES
by Andrew Marr, OSB
After the strange events of the past two days, Sharon Van Vann expected the unexpected at the breakfast table. At first glance, though, everything seemed ordinary. Her father was reading the paper and munching on his toast. The news on the radio was reporting the latest traffic jams. Her mother was sprinkling blueberries on a bowl of cereal. Here was the glitch. Her mother was serving the cereal to a boy with light brown skin, dark brown hair, and an oblong face. In short, a gnome. Sharon was even more amazed that her parents had let the gnome into the house so early in the morning and treated him as a friend of the family.
"Good morning," said Sharon, her voice faltering.
"Don't you recognize your friend?" asked her mother.
"Uh -- no."
"My name is Peppercorn," said the gnome as he slurped a spoonful of cereal. "Our friendship started later this morning."
Sharon didn't think she needed this sort of comment so early in the morning, but she didn't think it would help to complain about it. She fixed her own bowl of cereal with blueberries and sat down at the table.
"Where's Gerald?" Sharon asked.
"Sleeping in, I guess," her mother replied.
"Hector Skinflint told reporters this morning that the new president will be announced at nine o'clock this morning," said the radio announcer. "Once inaugurated, the president will put in place the newly programmed and perfected cosmic tree at which time, everything should revert to its proper location. In the meantime, all citizens are advised to stay where they are if at all possible. Movement is allowed with the understanding that it is made at one's own risk. Until order is re-established, no guarantee can be made as to where one may be from one step to the next."
"I guess you get another day off from school," said Mother. "There doesn't seem to be a chance in the world you'll be able to find your school until later this morning at the earliest."
"I think I can cope with that," Sharon replied.
"I hope you will know what to do with yourself," said Father.
"Gerald promised to help me collect dragon eggs this morning," said the gnome. "You can join us."
"Judging by the news this morning, I don't think it will be a good idea for you to go out for a while," warned Sharon's mother.
"My mother says that cosmic trees never get lost," said Peppercorn.
"That's all very well for the Cosmic Tree, but what about you?" Sharon's father asked in return.
"Somebody has to gather dragon eggs," said Peppercorn.
"But you'll get lost if you go out!" Mother exclaimed.
"My mother says that cosmic trees never lose anybody," Peppercorn replied. "Besides, I went out this morning and found you without getting lost."
"Want me to see if Gerald's waking up?" Sharon asked as soon as she had gulped down a piece of cinnamon toast.
"Yes," said Peppercorn.
"What's the hurry?" asked her mother.
But Sharon, her mouth full with cereal and blueberries, was already knocking softly on the door to the guest room where Gerald had spent the night. When she received no answer, she decided to risk opening the door to check up on him. Sharon let out a sharp cry when she found the guestroom was not there. In its place was a broom closet with a beat-up vacuum cleaner, a mop and a pail. Peppercorn and her parents rushed to Sharon's side.
"What could possibly have happened?" asked her father, totally flabbergasted.
"Are you sure his room was here?" asked Peppercorn, in an even voice.
"Yes," said Mother with less than full certainty.
"Then his room has been moved," said Peppercorn.
"What does that mean?" asked Sharon.
"Something has happened to Gerald," said Peppercorn. "We'll have to go out and look for him."
**********
Gerald was jolted out of his early morning torpor by the shifting of his bed across the room. When he opened his eyes, he was further jolted by the strangeness of the room. When he remembered that he was sleeping in the guest room of Sharon's apartment, he relaxed a moment, but before long Gerald was on edge again. The ceiling was high and sunlight streamed through a silk curtained window that towered above the bed. Portraits of distinguished looking men covered the walls. None of these were features of the guest room in the Van Vann's apartment. Only when Gerald saw his school blazer draped over a large chair did he begin to think that the world was starting to look right to him. But this bit of stability also crumpled when Gerald tried to get dressed. It was not his blazer that was laid out for him; it was a suit one or two sizes too big for him. He looked about for his own clothes but found nothing else available to put on. The dresser drawers and the closet were empty. Gerald thought he might put on his bathrobe, but that, too, was gone. His choice narrowed down to walking out of a strange room in his pajamas, or dressing in the suit that didn't fit. He put on the suit and cautiously opened the door to the room.
It opened on a carpeted hallway that lead to a grand staircase. Gerald listened for sounds of life, fearing that he would be arrested for breaking and entering. He heard a faint clatter of silverware and the smell of breakfast downstairs. Deciding he would tell the truth and angle for pity, Gerald boldly descended the staircase and followed his nose to an opulent dining room where several places were set with delicate china and glittering silverware.
"Ah! So you're the one!" cried a man seated at the table, wolfing down his steak and eggs.
In fact, there were two men at the breakfast table, both of them all too familiar to Gerald from the morning before, as they were the ones who had arrested him for undisclosed reasons. Again, one of the men wore a tuxedo and the other a grubby sweat shirt and blue jeans. They both closed in on Gerald and caught him in a vice-like grip before he could even think of bolting.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to break in--I just woke up here against my will!" Gerald stammered.
"No need to apologize, Mister President," said the man in the tuxedo. "Just have a seat and the maid will bring out your breakfast while we brief you on the crises facing the nation this morning."
"He is smaller than the suit we found for him," said the man in the sweat shirt as he pressed Gerald into one of the chairs.
"Can't be helped," said the man in the tuxedo. "He's still every inch a president."
The room suddenly tilted. The milk pitcher fell over. The two men cried out and gripped the table. Gerald grabbed at a chair, but gaining no support, he fell to the floor, right in the path of the milk streaming over the edge of the table. A maid, uniform and all, walked briskly into the room.
"There, there now, the world is being a bit temperamental this morning," said the maid with motherly sympathy.
She wiped the milk off of Gerald's face and suit with a damp rag and then brought a mortified Gerald to his feet.
"Is that one of the crises facing me this morning?" Gerald asked with a pointed stare at the two men who were back to wolfing down their breakfast as if nothing had happened.
"You could say that," answered the man in the sweat shirt with his mouth full.
"It is intertwined with several of the crises needing immediate and interrelated attention," said the man in the tuxedo, his mouth also full.
The maid re-entered with a large plate of steak and eggs and placed it in front of Gerald. The man in the tuxedo poured a large glass of orange juice, and the man in the sweat shirt poured Gerald a cup of steaming coffee.
"What's this about being president?" Gerald asked, his head spinning.
"Why, you're the new president!" exclaimed the man in the sweat shirt.
"But, who voted for me?" Gerald asked.
"I don't know," said the man in the tuxedo, "it's all done by secret ballot and lottery, you know. With the cosmic tree in abeyance, anybody could be president. It might as well be you."
"And it is you," added the man in the sweat shirt.
Gerald took several bites of his steak and eggs before they got cold and tried to take in what he was hearing.
"I still don't understand it," said Gerald.
"Neither do we," said the man in the sweat shirt, "but the situation is too urgent to dwell on such things."
"We have to get our cosmic tree reassembled this morning before the whole social and political fabric falls apart," said the man in the tuxedo.
"But I thought we planted the tree yesterday," Gerald protested. "It's supposed to be grown by now."
Both men shook their heads gravely.
"Not that I've heard of," said the man in the sweat shirt. "Heard no rumors whatever of a cosmic tree being replanted, let alone actually growing overnight."
"If there is a cosmic tree holding this world together," said the man in the tuxedo, "It's doing a most reprehensibly incompetent job of it. Just take a look for yourself."
The man in the tuxedo drew open the curtains of a picture window. The sight was enough to make Gerald seasick. One moment, a cluster of gas stations appeared at an odd angle. The next moment, a group of fountains in a park zoomed in at an even odder angle. Yet a moment later, a stack of parking garages tilted at yet another angle so that over a dozen cars fell out.
"See what we mean?" asked the man in the sweat shirt as he humanely closed the curtain.
Gerald nodded. He took another half-hearted bite of his breakfast and washed it down with coffee that was so bitter, he made a face. Gerald felt that the cosmic tree he had helped plant had let him down. He had a vague memory of having promised one of his new friends that he would gather dragon eggs. Perhaps it was just as well that he would never find his friend now. What use were dragon eggs if the cosmic tree wasn't holding anything together?
"Don't let it get you down," said the man in the sweat shirt. "You really can't count on trees to do the job that's needed in our complicated day and age."
"But the tree looked so real when it sprouted in the darkness," said Gerald, surprised at the lump in his throat.
"You really can't count on reality, you know," said the man in the tuxedo. "That's one of the crises we have to deal with forthwith. I don't know what world you were in yesterday, but I assure you that this morning we've got you in the real world where things just aren't holding together until we make them hold together. Don't worry about it. We already ordered, in your name, a programmed cosmic tree that a computer genius is working on. It should be here any minute."
The doorbell rang and the maid ran to answer it. Before Gerald could consume more than one more bite of breakfast, a woman barreled into the dining room To Gerald's dismay, she was none other than the police chief-judge who had put him in jail two days before. This morning, she had all her medals back, pinned to her dress, and she was wearing her white wig with a bun tied in the back. The soldiers who accompanied her, likewise, were decorated with their medals. The police chief-judge dragged a gangly adolescent boy by the ear. He was dressed in torn blue jeans and had spiked hair. Against his chest he held an armful of floppy disks.
"Do we have a president yet?" the police chief-judge asked, not standing on any ceremony.
"Why, Master Gerald Kaylen has been selected and elected!" announced the man in the tuxedo.
"Oh? You is it?"
Gerald tried to puff up his shoulders, but inside he was shrinking to the point of dissolution. He extended his hand but the police chief-judge was gripping a ruler that she pointed into Gerald's face.
"I assure you that President Kaylen will prove to be the one to guide us through this crisis," the man in the sweat shirt promised the police chief-judge.
"Well, if one juvenile delinquent can repent and become an asset to the state, why not two?" replied the police chief-judge, the severity in her face softening just a little.
"Our Master Programmer, whom we bring you, Mister President," said one of the soldiers, "was assigned twenty years of community service for hacking government computers."
"He is the one who has programmed the centralized governmental cosmic tree that will put everything to rights," added a second soldier.
"He goes by his nickname: the Floppy Phenom," added a third.
"Glad to meet you," said Gerald, holding out his hand.
The Floppy Phenom nodded his head slightly, but did not extend a hand to take Gerald's.
"Is the program ready to run?" asked the man in the sweat shirt.
The boy opened his mouth to answer the question, but the police chief-judge answered for him.
"Of course the program is ready to run. As soon as the president gives his speech, we can launch the new cosmic tree."
"Then there is not a second to lose!" exclaimed the man in the sweat shirt.
"Or everything will be lost!" cried the man in the tuxedo.
"The presidential vehicle will be at the door in ten seconds," said a soldier.
"And time is ticking away," said a second soldier.
"What speech is this?" Gerald asked.
"Don't worry," said the man in the sweat shirt as he whisked Gerald over the front door. "The script will be printed out by the time you get to the presidential television studio."
"It will be the most important and indissoluble speech of the century," added the man in the tuxedo.
When the maid opened the door, Gerald tottered and was only kept from falling when the man in the sweat shirt grabbed him by the seat of his pants.
"As I said," said the man in the tuxedo, "it's been a hard morning."
"I guess so," said Gerald as he turned pale.
For it appeared that the presidential residence was suspended in the air by a giant hook on a crane. The crane was resting on the dome of a large building, and the domed building was itself tilted at an odd angle.
"As I said," said the man in tuxedo. "Things are a bit unstable this morning. But you're a bright fellow, and the country is behind you. You'll have everything set to rights in no time."
A rumbling sound heralded the arrival of a roller-coaster ride shaped like a dragon. The dragon's eyes were a bright red. Sitting in the driver's seat was the man in the brown waistcoat whom Gerald had met in prison two days earlier.
"All aboard for the presidential television studio for a most important announcement," said the chauffeur. "I should be there in six minutes and twenty-three seconds."
Before Gerald could think, let alone give his assent, he was stuffed into one of the seats with the Floppy Phenom crushed against his ribs.
"But this dragon has red eyes!" Gerald yelled when he found his voice.
"Only the best for the president!" exclaimed the man in the tuxedo from the car in front of him.
"This dragon has found every space and time I've needed to find since I met up with it!" yelled the chauffeur, his face turning red, "and I will not have it insulted by a boy who, two days previous to this one, got himself lost by thumbing his nose at such a venerable and trustworthy dragon.!"
With that, Gerald and his party were off on a roller-coaster ride through a scramble of buildings and houses. Never had Gerald been so glad that he had not had the chance to finish his breakfast.
*********
"Please can I go?" Sharon pleaded, although she wasn't really sure it was a good idea to go out into a mixed-up world. On the other hand, she didn't like the idea of staying home and listening to the radio announcer telling her over and over again that the world was mixed up and she shouldn't go anywhere.
"Peppercorn," said father, "do you promise to bring my daughter back safe and sound?"
"Gnome's honor, Sir," Peppercorn replied with a raised right arm.
"Can gnomes be trusted?"
If Peppercorn was offended by the question, he did not show it.
"Elves and dwarves think not, but my mother says that a gnome must always be trustworthy. My father used to say the same when he was alive."
"Please can I go?" Sharon asked.
"I guess so," said Mother. "But don't get lost!"
"We won't."
But when Peppercorn opened the door, the sidewalk outside was moving as like a merry-go-round. When Sharon looked at Peppercorn apprehensively, he took Sharon by the wrist, and they jumped down together. After a short drop, they landed on a rocky shore under a cloudy sky. The ocean surf thundered in Sharon's ears and she clutched her arms against the chill breeze. There was no sign of human habitation or wildlife in sight. Her apartment building was gone.
"We're lost already, aren't we?" said Sharon.
Peppercorn frowned, but he didn't say anything.
"What do we do?" Sharon asked. "Look for Gerald? Look for dragon eggs?"
"We look right where we are," the gnome replied with a slight smile, "and see what we can find."
Peppercorn walked slowly over the rocks, looking carefully into the crevices. Sharon did the same. She thought she might find some shells or even a crab, but nothing turned up but rocks and surf. She also thought that dragon eggs would look a lot like the pebbles on the shore, which would not make finding them any easier.
"What do we do if we don't find anything?" Sharon asked.
"We look somewhere else," Peppercorn replied.
Sharon began to admire the gnome's concentration and she decided to follow his example. To her surprise, she found a solitary twig sticking up through some rocks. A few green buds were growing on the twig in contrast to the barren terrain all round it. Sharon tried to pull it up, but couldn't. Peppercorn bounded over and helped her. He pulled as hard as he could, but he also failed to pull the stick out from the rocks.
"How can a stick like that be so hard to pick up?" asked Sharon.
"It might be connected to something else," said Peppercorn. "Help me pull one more time."
The two children pulled as hard as they could, but still, the stick did not budge.
"Should we try another direction?" Sharon suggested.
"Yes," the gnome replied, his lips tight with concentration.
Sharon and Peppercorn moved around the stick and pulled in the opposite direction. It still took quite an effort, but this time, a lighthouse popped up out of the rocks some twenty or thirty feet away. Peppercorn wrinkled his face.
"What's that?" the gnome asked.
"You don't know?"
"No. That's why I asked you. You don't know, either?"
"It's a lighthouse," Sharon replied. "At night, it lights up the shore so sailors don't run their boats into the rocks."
"Sounds like a good idea," said Peppercorn.
Sharon stepped cautiously to the door. It was warped and half rotted.
"Think we should go in?" Sharon asked.
"I think it is to be recommended," replied Peppercorn. "After all, we pulled it up by a twig of the Cosmic Tree. It can't be all bad."
Sharon hesitated while Peppercorn stepped forward, grabbed the door knob, and opened it with a loud screech of the hinges. There was the murmuring sound of a radio or a television from inside. Peppercorn nodded and walked in. Sharon stepped cautiously behind him. Inside the lighthouse, three strange-looking children huddled around an ancient television with an old man. The old man wore a pointed cap with ragged gold stars pasted to it. There was a girl with frizzly hair who was working on a laptop computer, a fair-haired boy with a thin face, and a dark-haired girl with her chin jutting out. Sharon recognized the old man for his prominence in the planting of the cosmic tree the day before.
"I see that you have brought a new member of our class, Master Peppercorn," said the old man. "May I have the honor of an introduction to this fine young lady?"
"Mister Schlussel," said Peppercorn, "I introduce to you Sharon Van Vann, friend of Gerald Kaylen. Sharon, I introduce to you Mister Schlussel, our dunce teacher."
Peppercorn then introduced Sharon to the other children. The girl with dark hair was a dwarf named Bakhra, the fair-haired boy was an elf named Lynndenbaum, and the girl with the laptop computer called herself Fiona.
"Where's Gerald?" asked Lynndenbaum.
"We don't know," said Sharon. "His room disappeared."
To Sharon's surprise, nobody laughed.
"And Gerald disappeared as well?" asked Mr. Schlussel.
"That seems to be the case," answered Peppercorn.
"Sounds serious," said Mr. Schlussel.
"S-h-h! The president's on!" cried Fiona.
"Can't miss the president!" the old man agreed.
He waved Sharon and Peppercorn over to the television. To Sharon's shock and dismay, the president displayed in the small black-and-white frame was none other than Gerald Kaylen!
"The Grand President apologizes for--"
"Grand President?" questioned Lynndenbaum.
"What's so grand about him?" asked Bakhra.
"S-h-h-h!"
"--Order will soon be restored to this country. At the close of this speech, our perfectly programmed Cosmic Tree will go into effect--"
"COSMIC TREE!" the children cried out in chorus.
"What does he know about cosmic trees?" asked Bakhra.
"Every being whose reality has been officially certified is included," Gerald continued. "Henceforth, we are safe from the disorder and disorganization and the infiltration of legendary beings whose non-existence threw the whole world into chaos--"
The rest of the sentence was drowned out by catcalls from the children. Mr. Schlussel rocked back and forth in his rocking chair. The children looked at one another and at Mr. Schlussel apprehensively.
"Is it possible that we are classified as legendary beings?" asked Lynndenbaum.
"It is possible," said a worried Mr. Schlussel as he rocked back and forth in his chair.
"And now for the presidential ceremonial punching of the Return Button on the Supercomputer that will launch the perfectly programmed cosmic tree!" announced a man wearing tuxedo.
"This ought to be something when it isn't even the real cosmic tree," said Lynndenbaum
To the strains of a brass band, Gerald was escorted by a group of soldiers to a keyboard large enough to be a six-manual organ, where an adolescent was seated.
"TEN-NINE-EIGHT-SEVEN-SIX-FIVE-FOUR-THREE-TWO-ONE!"
Gerald hit the Return button. The lighthouse started to rock gently. Mr. Schlussel and the children looked at each other apprehensively.
"It - feels like we're at sea," said Lynndenbaum.
"That is my inference from the motion I am feeling at this microsecond," replied Peppercorn, with no expression in his voice.
Fiona tapped frantically on the keyboard of her laptop and pushed the Return button.
"What's it say?" asked Bakhra.
"Nothing," Fiona answered in a faint voice. "We aren't anywhere."
"I thought we were in a lighthouse on a rocky shore," said Sharon.
"Look out the window," Lynndenbaum suggested.
The window was now round, like a port hole. Looking out, Sharon saw water all round her. The lighthouse was now a boat in the middle of it.
"I was always wondering what if would feel like not to exist," mused Peppercorn.
"How does it feel?" Lynndenbaum asked him.
"The same as before."
"What are we going to do?" asked Bakhra.
"String him up!" "Send a million viruses into his programmed tree!" "Shoot him in the nose with a cherry pit gun!" were among the outbursts.
"Gerald's our friend," said Peppercorn, his face expressionless. "I think something happened to him."
"Someone put soda pop into his brain!" "Someone unscrewed his head!" "I'll bet his brain got sent to the North Pole!"
Mr. Schlussel chuckled.
"I admire your spirit. However, if we are going to do something constructive, we should dive underwater and ask the Ancient Salmon for advice."
To noisy acclamation from the children, Mr. Schlussel pulled himself out of his rocking chair and walked over to a ship's steering wheel. When he pulled some levers, the lighthouse dove under the water like a submarine.