A PEACEABLE KINGDOM

BY RICHARD BOROVSKY

All rights reserved Richard Borovsky, 2005 Copyright 2007 by Richard Borovsky Cover image: M33, The Triangulum Galaxy courtesy NASA/JPLCaltech

Thanks to Barbara Horn for her generous editorial help, Angel Editing, Stephanee Killen, and to all those who read this novel before publication: David Borovsky, Peter Borovsky, Willow Harth, Bob Jacobson, Ed Janus, Gill Miller, Kathleen Piper and Allyn Roberts. A special thank you as well to Michael Borovsky for his post publication editing.

To artists of every sort

Also by Richard Borovsky Available through Lulu.com

THE SONG THE BIRDS FORGOT THREE OF HEARTS

TABLE OF CONTENTS
NOT A NICE CAT ORLANDO BUBBLES ANDR GOES HOME ORLANDO AND MRS. WELLINGTON ANDR ON THE ROOF ANTON AN INFINITE RESOUECE SPOTS TOLBERT AND ADEN HOUSE RULES ACTS OF LOVE THE GRAVEST BUSINESS AFTER THE FALL ANDR ASPIRES THE MISSING INGREDIENT SO FAR SO GOOD THE TRIAL HOMELAND SECURITY THE VERDICT ANYTHINGS POSSIBLE A PEACEABLE KINGDOM ACTS OF GOD PRENATAL CARE 1 8 14 27 34 52 61 77 90 96 104 117 125 141 157 161 176 191 203 208 225 240 245 253

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NOT A NICE CAT

First things first. My name is Andr. I am a cat, and this is not a childrens story. Second, I believe my verbal skills are equal to or greater than those of the humans Ive observed, and on those grounds, I believe Im qualified to write about your race. As a cat, I am fastidious in my grooming; as a writer, in my use of language. I should probably add here at the beginning that my opinion of humans is not high. This is largely due to the belief, so rampant among you, that your intellect and appetites are sufficient to guide you through the mysteries of lifea shortcoming of greater consequence than any among you realize. Ive served as a pet in the homes of several such humans, and will admit that according to their shallow understandings of my nature, theyve tried to make my stays with them pleasantthis, of course, while regarding me as an animal. This kindness theyve shown to me, however, hinges upon the following facts. First, that cats are smaller than humans, and

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therefore present no imminent danger; second, that we are attractive to you, both by sight and by touch; and third, that you dont find our meat an agreeable food. If, on the other hand, our meat compared, for example, to that of the unfortunate chicken, you wouldnt hesitate to breed, feed, house and slaughter us. And, of courseas a perceptive few of you have realizedif we werent small, but as large as the average human, wed hunt you down to the last, then wed toy with you and bat you around before killing but not necessarily eating you. Then wed do the same to all dogs. I am a domestic shorthair, my coat is black, my eyes green, and if Im giving the impression that Im not a particularly nice cat, I cant object, because I am not. Nice cats, you see, exist only in the imagination of humans. Niceness is a quality we neither possess nor respect. Intelligence, a sense of fair play, stealth, awareness, self-possession, even clairvoyance, these are attributes of the socalled domestic catand we are domestic only insofar as it is convenient for us. Unlike dogs, we are not tame and never will be. We are a proud race, and you are not. But its fortunate you see us as you do. If you realized that we were conscious on a higher level than your own, youd either persecute us to extinction, smother us with obsequious reverence, or ignore the truth by relegating it to the province of superstition. However, as things are, we often go unnoticed and so were free to observe you undisturbed. And I, personally, have done a good deal of observing. I hardly noticed the humans in the house where I was born, since my attention was focused exclusively on my mother and my several siblings. The first three months of my life were spent in a period of feline nurturing and education in which I learned, among other things, that we felines are called cats, whereas humans, dogs, squirrels, birds, insects, etc (with a few notable exceptions) are called animals, and further, that as cats, we are able to see the subtle planes of existence that permeate the physical plane, and participate in the activities of those inner realms. This, as all felines know, is one of the three qualities that distinguish us from the animals. Along with this vision, we have evolved past the lower creatures in our natural gift of multiple mortality (something you have sensed in a childish way), and above all, the power to purr, a

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lofty activity that is to human prayer and canine howling as a glacier is to an icicle. Fortunately, it wasnt until my mother had completed my training that I was carried away. I was taken to live in a house with a family named Frickly, a family consisting of one stupid man, a slightly more sensitive woman, and two stupid childrenone of whom named me Fluffy. The occasion was the childs fourth birthday. His name was Little Ricky, and I was his present. The name, unfortunately, stuck, but not Little Ricky Fricklys impression of me, because on that very day, I made sure the unpleasant little creature learned that certain parts of me werent fluffy at all. After his mother had disinfected the scratches to his face and demonstrated appropriate maternal concern, she took up my defense. You see what happens when you treat Fluffy roughly? she said to the boy. Fluffys a sweet kitten, but if you hurt or frighten him, he has no way to tell you to stop but to scratch. Now why dont you be a good birthday boy and go pet him and tell him youre sorry? But the sniveling little animal did no such thing; he chose to remain next to his mother, clutching her knees. His five-year-old sister, however, a particularly dull-witted and clumsy creature named Fritzi, did approach me. She picked me up and petted me, and though she actually did handle me roughly, I purred in her arms, thus cementing my good standing with the mother and Little Rickys bad reputation. I never answered to that demeaning name, of course, even though my behavior led Little Rickys oaf of a father to repeatedly declare that I was a stupid animal, unable to learn my own name. I avoided this man whenever I could, which wasnt difficult, because sensing my higher functions, the brute was unnerved by my gaze and kept his distance. But if his coarse language, doltish movements, careless table manners and lack of personal hygiene werent enough to disgust me, his dream activities alone would have fired up my disdain. For cats, you see, are able to watch animals dreams, and his were the most lustful, slovenly, greedy, and selfglorifying Ive ever observed. Not even dogs, known for the basest of dreamland activities, can compare with this man on a scale of degradation. I was not compelled to witness Frank Fricklys lustful

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fantasies for long, however, since as a result of another scratching incident, my stay with this family was curtailed. Cats are contemplative beings. When we sit and gaze at the interpenetrating worlds before our eyes, we are not staring off into space as you believe. Cats do not stare, and we certainly do not gaze off into space. Among all animals, only humans and frogs are known to stare off mindlessly. Snakes, it should be noted, are among the few members of the animal kingdom whom we respect for both their innate elegance and heightened level of awareness. Given their aristocratic nature, it isnt surprising that despite our natural differences, snakes are known to respect the contemplative nature of catssomething that cannot be said of humans. Some might suggest that human children, like tadpoles, should be forgiven their lack of understanding, but forgiveness is not among the qualities recognized by members of our race. Since the lives of cats are natural and unsullied, we are innocent and do not err, and are therefore naturally unfamiliar with forgiveness. And even if by some trick of nature we were to become forgiving beings, that leniency would not extend to Fritzi Frickly. The little animal, you see, found it amusing to distract me from my meditative gaze and dress me in her dolls clothing. Once dressed, she forced me into a small chair at a small table, where she played at serving tea while referring to me as Mr. Fluffy Fluffmuffin. Even though the injuries she suffered werent severe, they were alarming enough to convince her mother to take me to the Humane Society. When she handed me over to the baby-talking staff member, she explained that the family was moving to an apartment where cats were not allowed. I dont know why she said this, and if gratitude was within the emotional range of cats, I might be grateful. Since no mention of my aggression was made, Ive lived on with all of my claws attached. This trip to the Humane Society was not my last. I lived with two other families after the Fricklys. My stays with these humans were longer than my first, but the quality of the experience was unimproved, and after each adoption, I eventually found myself back at the same place. Both families had children, each of whom was uniquely disagreeable. The male child of the first family that claimed me at

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the Humane Society turned out to be possessed by a minor demon. It was a disreputable looking gnome-like creature, invisible to the humans, of course. This demon drove the nervous boy, Archie, to a series of destructive and sadistic acts, not the least of which was an attempt to set my tail on fire by fastening a fuse to it and igniting it with a kitchen match. He was aided in this effort by his bully of an older sister, Adrienne. The attempted torching failed, but the children lost control of the fire, causing a serious scorching of the familys dining room. During the year that I lived with him, I had cause to scratch and bite little Archie on numerous occasions, but given his temperament, I was never admonished. Had the little animals parents known what I knew, they might have saved the small fortune they spent on his ineffective psychiatric care by turning the matter over to an exorcist. Furthermore, if the parents had known the proper prayers and incantations, they could have prevented any further infestation by appealing directly to me, since, as certain members of the ancient Egyptian priesthood understood, cats have considerable powers over spectral bugaboos. I dont know what became of Archie. The family moved away and apparently decided to start anew without the distraction of an intelligent being in their home. My second stay at the Humane Society ended when I was chosen by a family with a daughter named Bambi. Bambi was an only child, twelve years old, socially maladjusted, homely and friendless. Of course, to cats, all humans are ugly, most closely resembling apes and certain breeds of flat-faced dogs. There are animals that we do find attractive: snakes in particular, as Ive mentioned, and many birds, but the look of all so-called mammals is naturally repugnant us, and even though humans are by far the ugliest of them all, the unfortunate Bambi stood out among even those. It was she who lavished her affections on me and kept me essentially imprisoned in her poorly ventilated room for another year of my life. I learned a great deal about the human psyche while locked in Bambis room with her, since she spoke unceasingly. She was the one who named me Shawn, after a boy her age with whom she had no chance of romantic involvement, but whose affections she sought by appealing to me. The only time I had to use my claws on her was the one winter night when I believed she was attempting to use me for unnatural purposes. Though Bambi

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was annoying, her parents were far worse. They treated their daughter with an intentional cruelty that any non-human animal would find abhorrent. It was for this reason that one evening after these brutes had verbally abused their daughter, I escaped from her room and managed to urinate liberally on every upholstered chair in the parents living room, on their white sofa, several carpets, the entire contents of their linen closet, and finally, on their own bed with them in it. Then I ran away. The Humane Society is a repellent place. The indignity and discomfort of being imprisoned by large, stupid animals is compounded by the presence of the small, stupid animals among whom we are imprisonednamely, drooling, foul-smelling, endlessly barking dogs. Cats and dogs, you see, dont belong in the same sentence together, let alone the same building. The human habit of pairing cats and dogs reflects the limitations of their understanding, since cats and dogs, though comprised of the same raw materials, are as alike as diamonds and coal: the one a beautiful, indestructible collector of light; the other a fuel only marginally superior to dung. Yet at the Humane Society, the other caged cats and I were forced to endure the company of dogs as long as we were detained. Some cats suffered nervous afflictions due to the ceaseless racket and the sycophantic blubbering whenever prospective owners were present. True, certain cats put on displays of affection when taken from their cages and fondled, but my two undesirable experiences proved the risks of such behavior. So, on my third stay at the Humane Society, I took the advice of an older cat Id met. He passed on to me a mind-control technique that he claimed was often effective when dealing with suggestible humans, and I saw no reason not to try it in choosing my potential caretakers. It seemed to work, for not only did all families with children steer clear of me as if I were diseased, but despite competition, I attracted two fully grown adults who showed every sign of being suitable caretakers for a cat of my temperament. I regret that I had to part company with this cat who was not in the best of health when I saw him last. Cats do feel allegiance with those of like mind, and my regret was marked by my suspicion that Id never again have the opportunity to commune with a being of such refinement and wisdom. Felines, of course, with the

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exception of lions, are solitary by nature. But solitude in the wild or even in the outdoor environs of a city, differs from solitude surrounded by the likes of Ricky and Fritzi Frickly, Demonic Little Archie, and Bambi and her brutish parents; so it was with touch of hope for the bestnot a natural feline emotionas well as my innate confidence that I faced the new life Id chosen for myself. Things, it seemed, were about to take a turn for the better.

RICHARD BOROVSKY

ORLANDO

On some days Orlando didnt want to get out of bed. It wasnt that he hadnt had enough sleephed been going to bed early recently and rarely had trouble falling asleepit was that he preferred his dream world to his waking one, which had become less fulfilling as the years went by. His dream world was no picnic, of course: it was capricious and unpredictable, but it had none of the drudgery of his daily life, and though his dreams could be troubling, he often woke wishing he could return to themthe possibilities seemed endless. When Orlando woke and felt pressed to embark on his daily routine, he often wondered if there was anything inherently more important about getting up, taking a shower, drinking coffee and going to work, than there was in dreaming. He had no family and no real responsibilities beyond his own, and he sometimes reasoned, while still in bed, that if he were to move to a warmer climate and become a homeless man, eating at food pantries and sleeping under a palm tree somewhere, he could still enjoy his dreams and even prolong

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them if he wished. And who would care? What difference would it make? It certainly wouldnt make any difference to Godat least not the one he believed in. But Orlando wasnt brave enough to live like that; hed come close once and it hadnt worked out. Besides, if he were homeless, hed have to associate with more conventional and possibly disreputable homeless people; something he was not prepared to do. But he really didnt take this possibility of abandoning his so-called responsibilities seriously. He only considered it while still in bed and wishing to return to one of his happier or more intriguing dreams. Orlando had turned forty and things hadnt worked out as hed hoped. There was no brilliance to his life, no luster, something he craved. His apartment was small, and the view of the little city park hed enjoyed had been blocked by expansion of the Chinese restaurant around the corner. Orlando liked the restaurant. He ate there twice a week: usually alone for dinner on Tuesdays and Fridays. He also liked the restaurants owner, Mr. Lee, a friendly man with whom he often chatted and laughed, and who, through wise investments in real estate, had the means to convert the parking lot adjacent to The Jade Palace into a parking enclosure with a large second floor banquet room above it. Orlando was happy for Mr. Lee; he encouraged him. He felt he had ties to the restaurant and that Mr. Lees success had been his own. It wasnt until the project was well underway that he realized that the grassy expanse of park hed seen from his kitchen window would be blocked by a windowless brick wall. He had enjoyed sitting in his little kitchen watching passersby: children playing in the park, couples and families strolling there. Hed watched the seasons change in the frame of that window by the table where he drank his morning coffee. There were maple trees there, radiantly green in spring and summer, turning now in the autumn, and soon to be stark against the winter snow cover. And it seemed to Orlando that so much in his life had turned out that way: mixed blessings, in which he seemed always short-changed. Hed given up a scholarship at a school hed hoped to attend in California in favor of a lesser one the Midwest in order to stay at home with his widowed mother who had been in failing health. He nurtured a self-conscious sense of nobility for this act of sacrifice,

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but hadnt counted on his mother lapsing into dementia, no longer recognizing him and rarely speaking for the two and a half years until she died. During college and graduate school, hed had a number of passionate but short-lived flings. When it came to women, he had trouble differentiating between love and lust, and concluded there wasnt much difference. After he finished school, he lived with a woman named Emily for seven years, a woman he cared for deeply and who left him suddenly and unexpectedly, with only a curt and ambiguous explanation. He was still alone. Orlandos most pointed disappointment, however, was that after years of striving, he had not succeeded professionally. Given these experiences, the grayness of the particular day in question, and the now dismal view out his kitchen window, we can understand why he was reluctant to get up. But, as always, he did. Orlandos looks were somewhat contradictory. His face was round with an innocent softness to it, while his features were sharp. His hairline was receding, though handsomely. He wore round rimmed glasses, yet possessed a certain lan. Whether Orlando was a wise man with weaknesses or an average man with some good qualities was yet to be determined. This morning, however, he couldnt bear to sit at the kitchen table and feel that if it werent for his friends success hed still be able to enjoy the view, so he decided, despite the unseasonable chill, to have coffee in the park. After he filled his deep blue traveling cup, he put a three-dayold lemon-poppy-seed muffin in the microwave, believing that heating it up would revive its freshness. Orlando rarely used his microwave. He rarely cooked. When he didnt have dinner at The Jade Dragon, he ate at Miguels, or at the Turkish place, or sometimes had burgers at the Hilltop or ordered out. He put the stale muffin in the microwave for a full minute, and not only did its steamy discharge scald his hand when he reached in and took it out, but it crumbled into several pieces. Despite the misfortune hed suffered in his adult life, or perhaps because of it, Orlando had learned a thing or two about coping with the human condition. He knew enough, for instance, not to let this setback with the muffin disturb him any further than he was already disturbed, and if Andr the cat were to be consulted on this matter, even hed probably concur that for a human, thats saying quite a bit. So it was in an optimistic mood that Orlando left

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his apartment with his coffee and his crumbled muffin wrapped in a paper napkin. Then he walked across to the little neighborhood park where he sat on a bench under one of the maple trees caught in the act but hardly embarrassed to be only half dressed in autumn orange. This was September. Orlando did have a knack for deriving enjoyment from the little niceties of life. When he unscrewed the cap from his coffee mug, he enjoyed watching the billows of steam rise and dissipate into the cool air. This rising steam, he also noticed, resembled the streaks of cloud that surrounded the pale, daytime moon, low in the sky, and it pleased him to notice this. He lingered as he put the cup to his lips to fully inhale the aroma of the freshly brewed coffee, an aroma so pungent that it that cleared his mind and induced serenity. And as Orlando enjoyed these simple things, he remembered reading that appreciation of the moment was the key to happiness in life. This seemed reasonable enough to him. He also recalled his problem with this principle: hed never been able to string more than a few such appreciative moments together, and that being the case, he put it away along with other pithy but impractical spiritual precepts in his mental file labeled To hell with it. Then he noticed the crow. His bench was set back from an old, buckled sidewalk that ran the length of the little park and showed tufts of grass in the seams and cracks that stretched along and across it. The crow stood just across the sidewalk from him. It was a large bird, blue-black and glossy in the muted morning light. Orlando was not particularly attracted to city crows, noisy and aggressive as they often are. But this crow was alone, and Orlando felt that its proximity boded well, though he realized that the bird had most likely approached hoping to be fed. He hadnt heard of feeding crows, however; pigeons, of course, but never crows. As he sipped his hot, fresh brewed coffee (making good coffee was one of his few culinary skills), and watched the bird edge onto the sidewalk across from him, he felt surprisingly benevolent toward the beady-eyed animal. He also noticed that the bird had a slight limp, that its right foot showed signs of an injury. He knew it was popular wisdom that animals can sense fear, but he wondered if they could sense affection as well. The crow stepped closer. Orlando hadnt touched his muffin yet, so after another sip of coffee, he unwrapped it, put a piece in his mouth

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and tossed a morsel to the crow on the sidewalk in front of him. The bird made short work of Orlandos offering, and looked up at him with what seemed anticipation. This pleased Orlando. Of course he couldnt know the animals feelings, but the thought of a hopeful crow made him smile, nonetheless, and he broke off another small piece of muffin and dropped it near his feet to see if the bird would approach even closer. Not only did it approach, but it made a surprising sound for a crow. It clucked, it almost cooed, so when he gave it another piece of his muffin, Orlando was reminded of a silly picture hed once seen on the cover of a Jehovahs Witness magazine: it was The Peaceable Kingdom, where the lion lies down with the lamb, and men and beasts live in harmony. The thought of this quasibiblical tableau amused him, but pleased him as well: he was moved and genuinely happy about the seemingly good-natured crow. Orlando leaned back and looked up at the cloudy sky. He thought that if he were flying high in a plane thered be a dazzling, brilliant blue sky above him, a sky that was indeed there at that very moment, though he and all the other residents of the city were deprived of its influence. That seemed significant to him. Then the crow cooed again. Orlando remembered a dog hed had as a child, an animal whom hed loved and whod been his only confidant through several lonely years when his parents had moved from city to city. Then he looked back at the crow. It had not moved but was picking up and putting down its feet as if walkingor limpingin place. This seemed charming to Orlando and he tossed it another treat. He wondered about getting another pet, something he hadnt considered in years. Then he glanced at his watch: it was ten minutes before he had to leave for work. There wasnt much muffin left. He broke off another piece, dropped it down for the bird and took another taste for himself. He liked the idea of sharing with the crow. He liked the idea that he and the bird tasted the same thing at the same time. The world needed more of that. The Peaceable Kingdom again. Of course, Orlando thought the picture on the magazine cover was ludicrous, but there was no denying that it evoked a worthy sentiment. He wasnt such a snob to deny that. He gave the crow a few more crumbs of his muffin. The bird continued to look up at him in what

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more and more appeared to be a truly hopeful posture, so after another sip of his coffee, Orlando broke the last fragment of muffin in half and shared it with his animal friend. But the bird continued to stare up at him. Orlando smiled, shrugged and turned up his hands. Its all gone, he said, opening up the paper napkin and showing it to the bird. There was only a moments hesitation before the crow attacked. With a violent flapping, it was up on Orlandos lap furiously thrusting its beak at his open plastic coffee mug, splashing the hot contents across his legs. Orlando shouted out, dropped the cup and swung wildly at the bird, yet still it beat its wings, hissing and grasping at his pants with its sharp claws. Even as he leapt to his feet, the crow lunged at his face. When Orlando knocked it to the sidewalk, he felt the strength of its beating wings under his hand, and enraged then rather than alarmed, he kicked the bird hard enough to send it flapping awkwardly back onto the grass. The crow recovered immediately and with a few powerful flaps rose off the ground and circled around to one of the nearby maples. Never again! Orlando shouted at the crow in his rage. Never again! Do you understand? Even in the intense heat of the moment, Orlando wondered at this bizarre exhortation. Then the bird cawed at him from the tree, loud and harsh, and several more of its kind joined and jeered cruelly at him as he retreated from the park, his pants soaked and torn, his sense of the peaceful interconnectedness of things shattered. And indeed, judging from Orlandos experience with the crow, things werent all that well in the Peaceable Kingdom, where at the moment the serpents probably werent playing hearts with the doves, the ass was probably getting its ass soundly kicked, and the lion, alone under a tree, was most likely picking fleece out of its teeth. Orlando went home, deeply shaken. Before he sullenly changed his ripped pants and then barely made the bus to work, he seriously considered calling in sick and returning to the hopeful world of sleep. This might have made all the difference.

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BUBBLES

In the beginning there were bubbles. How big? Bigger than his `head, but not big enough to engulf him completely, not quite. Most often there were two or three, always in motion, like luminous, overlapping moons, containing his little body and permeating it there in his crib. These were his awareness, these bubbles, and they were filled with a brighter, richer and more cogent immediacy than we can think or imagine. They were charged with resonances of a most profound sort, with wordless wonder, with the simplicity of infinity. If we were to attempt to name them, the names would be to the reality of the bubbles like maps of an unknown and unknowable world. We might look at them and draw certain conclusions, but to what end? We might call one bubble comfort, or another surprise, another joy; but the comfort that luminous bubble contained might be the serenity of endlessness; the surprise the miracle of transfiguration, the joy the ecstasy the suns lovebut only in name, like the tracing of a shoreline on a planet galaxies

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away. It would make as much sense to say that the bubbles were full of radiant blue meaning, or a great vibrancy G major, or a confluence of sweetnesses. Yet that was where he lived for months and months, there in the uncharted world before names or language of any kind. It wasnt a world without pain, for when the luminous bubbles first touched, when they first overlapped, or just as they separated, he knew pain and unhappiness. It felt to him as if the sharpness of the initial collision and breaking apart cut into his otherwise immaculate awareness: the dagger points and razor edges of vanishing interstices were for him what wed call hunger or pain or want. But most often the laws of spatial geometry were kind to him as they are to us all: just as the moon appears more often softly rounded than razor-sharp. The space in which he lived, however, and indeed in which we all once lived, is unlike the space we currently occupy, crowded and clogged with the brickwork and residue of language. His nursery, for instance, may as well have been thousands of feet high and across, because the things in the roomthe baubles that swung above him, the bars of his crib beside him, the stuffed duck next to himwere things in themselves with nothing attached: no names, no purpose, no history, and therefore inhabited a vast uncluttered space, an immensity through which the luminous bubbles of his consciousness drifted in upon him. Around him, of course, and coloring and colored by these luminous bubbles, were his parents; connected to him directly through the plasma of love and that alone. They lived in a dream world of their own, and their views neither enriched nor deluded the infant: their world did not exist for him. Love, howevertheirs and the love of the sun, perhaps, and the planetswas palpable to him; it was the medium in which he operated, and in which his parents also moved, to their own limited extent. Thus his needs were met, and, correspondingly, theirs as well. For their part, they lavished affection on him and often referred to him as a miracle. They understood this only marginally, however, and looked down on him as if through the wrong end of a telescope. But of course they did their best, struggling as they were with the human condition. His parents encountered no struggles with one aspect of the human condition, however: they were both unusually attractive people, and they passed their good looks on to their infant son.

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Even shortly after delivery, the baby had an expansive, composed look about him, and there was every reason to believe that hed grow up to be a fine-looking man. He had his mothers beautiful features: wide-set eyes, high cheek bones; his hair was a tender brown and his complexion creamy. And he showed signs of his fathers height, long limbs and long, slender fingers and toes. By the time he and his mother were released from the hospital, their pediatrician speculated the child could be a model, that his was a face that millions might appreciate gracing baby-food labels. Given certain tendencies he brought to his future life, though, one wonders if his was a face that millions would wish to see. In any case, he was not only miraculous as all infants are, but beautiful as well. It was not until months had passed, and then only out of the cumbersome necessities imposed by incarnation itself, that the babys parents drew him closer to their own discernment of the world. This was accomplished by the frequent repetition of a certain sound. The word Toby was voiced countless times by both his mother and father, and this blunt thing, this leaden, deadening object eventually permeated the luminosity of his bubble world and began to make him the fallen angel that he, like the rest of us, was eventually to become. But only gradually did he begin to recognize this word and its purported meaning; just as he only gradually forgot the luminous bubbles that had so immaculately informed his infancy. His parents were decent people, though of course, they had their own particular limitations. Tobys father, Tobias, a tall, dark-haired, handsome man, thought very highly of himselfhighly enough to feel that his son should bear his name. He was a prominent, respected man. A well-to-do tax attorney, he rubbed shoulders with others of his ilk, and more often than not saw to it that his own desires were satisfied both personally and professionally. Tobys mother, Angela, also thought highly of her husband, highly enough to wholeheartedly agree to name the boy after him. Swept off her feet just before graduating from college, she gladly gave up her career plans to marry this already successful young attorney, so what better model could her son have than Tobias Wellington Senior? It was true that early in his life Tobias had strayed from the path of virtue, but given his upbringing, this wasnt wholly unexpected. Son of wealthy, blue blood parents,

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he was brought up with servants and resources to satisfy his every whim. That he would turn to petty larcenyshoplifting, to be exactto defy convention and add a little zing to his life was typical of a spoiled childs acting out; and it was to his parents credit that they let him spend the night after his arrest in jail, albeit a comfortable suburban one. Angela, however, was too easily pleased. Shed been treated shabbily as a little girl, and beautiful and perceptive though she was, she was doubtful of her own worth and feared losing the love and admiration of others. She was never one to cross her husband and rarely offered anything but compliments to her friends and acquaintances. In fact, her aversion to speaking critically was so pronounced that she was at times unconscionably supportive. Of course, she was considered a charming woman by all who knew her, and particularly insightful in matters personal, social and even political. Her lack of discrimination in no way distorted her love for her child, however, nor did her husbands sense that he could do no wrong. Tobias and Angela Wellington devoted a great deal of time and loving attention to their little son, as they had to his older brother, Adam, then a handsome five-year-old and already largely acclimatized to the human condition. On weekends and on warm evenings in September and October, Tobias walked with his wife close to their home near Chicagos Lincoln Parka sprawling park following five miles of Lake Michigans shoreline on the citys north side. There, Angela pushed infant Toby in his buggy with Adam tagging along. Both parents dressed casually on these excursions, though Angela never left the house without make-up, thus accentuating her full lips, her honey-pecan hair and matching eyes. The two exchanged small talk as Toby gazed upward at the luminous bubbles that were his mindor to put it biblically, Toby, being as a little child gazed upward into the Kingdom of Heaven, to which he still held his membership card. The parents talked of dinner parties, fund raisers, the health of their friends, the latest dietary fads, the Chicago Symphony, Adams kindergarten, vacation plans, and little Tobys inexorable progress toward toddler-hood something they keenly anticipated. The fact was, despite their appreciation of their little miracle they couldnt wait for him to start talking. Even if theyd been able to know that he dwelt in (or at

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least in the suburbs of) the Kingdom of Heaven, like all parents, theyd have wanted him to exit those premises without delay and begin to cope with the world in terms they themselves could understand. Once that time arrived, of course, they began to long for the days when little Toby still lay in his crib and slept for hours like a uncooked sausage, plump, pink and ready to please. Five years later, the previously harmless little Toby stood in front of the toilet in his bathroom and twisted the head of one of his turtles around for the third, fourth and fifth time, until eventually the creature stopped waving its little feet. Toby then gave the head one more twist, dropped the dead turtle into the toilet, flushed it, and ran out of the bathroom, through his bedroom and into the long hall that led to the kitchen, suddenly in tears. Mommy! Mommy! he cried. Freddy Greenback died! at which he flung his arms around his mothers aproned waist and continued to sob. Oh, no! said Angela. Thats awful, dear! Let me see. But Toby wouldnt let go. He was floating on his back, so I flushed him down the toilet like Daddy did before, he said before he was willing to release his grip and lead his mother back to his room. An earlier pet turtle of Tobys had (apparently) died a natural death, and Tobias had extracted it from its tank and flushed it down the toilet as Toby watched, enthralled. Are you sure he was dead, dear? Angela asked as they stood in the boys room looking into the tank where his second turtle sat silently on a rock. He was floating like this, Mommy, he said, picking up the other turtle and placing it in the shallow water on its back. It immediately righted itself and crawled back onto its rock. Angela put her arm around her little boy. Im sorry Mr. Freddy died Freddy Greenback! Toby interrupted, annoyed at his mothers ignorance. Yes, Angela answered, sweetly. Im sorry Freddy Greenback died. But you know turtles dont live long like people do... Of course I know that, Toby thought. Im not stupid.

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So well just have to go back to that pet store and get a new one! she went on cheerfully. What do you think of that? Toby didnt answer. His mother concluded he might be too upset to consider a replacement for Freddy Greenback, so she asked him if he wanted some applesauce and cookies, and he followed her back into the kitchen. Just before Toby first twisted the turtles head around, he had an old, familiar feeling. It was like something hed felt in his earliest days. Hed felt it at times when the luminous bubbles first touched and first broke apart: that sharp, precision that he felt as pain lying in his criba wracking stomach ache or a sharp, hollow hunger but this old, familiar feeling wasnt quite that; it was something else. It was a special pain Toby felt in his jaw, just below his right ear, and at other times behind his right shoulder blade. It wasnt like a stomach ache, not exactly, because this pain, well Toby liked it. Clearly it was painful; if it went too far he cried, but even as an infant hed learned to prolong this sensation before it became overwhelming. It became a great source of pleasure for him, though pleasure isnt quite the right worda great source of intensity, perhaps. He hadnt felt this pleasant ache since he was two, however, even though hed tried to bring it on. But there was something in that dagger-sharp, satisfying feeling that arose again when Toby thought of harming his pet turtle, something that made the idea seductive to him, irresistible. But that wasnt the only thing that little Toby couldnt resist; something else was equally alluring to him. It hadnt happened the first time he picked up a crayon, however. The first time he picked up a crayon, his mother had put a coloring book on the dining-room table in front of hima coloring book filled with pictures of zoo animals. Being so young, he wasnt particularly adept at staying within the lines. And he didnt improve much the second time, or the third, or the twelfth, for that matter. But one day (just prior to the Freddy Greenback incident) his mother couldnt find the coloring book and tried to draw an elephant for her son to color. She made her drawing on a piece of her linen-textured, light blue Angela Wellington stationery. Toby took only a moment to look at his mothers crude attempt at drawing before he picked up an ultramarine blue crayon, another piece of stationery, and swiftly

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created an astonishingly accurate rendering of the elephant hed seen in the book. Hed been swept away, captured. He had no interest in coloring it in, none at all; rather, he went on to draw a lion, a giraffe, a crocodile and several monkeys in dark blue crayon on powder blue paper with inexplicable skill. He had just turned five. It wasnt that he hadnt had any practiceor preparation might be a better word because during the months when infant Toby was absorbed in the profundities of the spheres, he was paying attention in his own unique way. There was much to absorb in the Kingdom of Heaven, of course, and for reasons possibly genetic or possibly astrological (which may be identical), different individuals are attracted to different aspects of the world of archetypes. So are different geniuses. Toby, for one, was enthralled by the shapes described by the interpenetration of these clustering spheres. As the luminous bubbles swelled, shrank, approached, receded and rotated around him, linesoften a complexity of lineswere drawn by the several points at which they intersected. These lines created forms and figures. They were invisible, of course, existing only in the unseen tracings left behind by the bubbles interactions, but the multiple luminous spheres moving in and around him in every possible way drew a vast multitude of simple and complex figures and impressed themselves on Tobys consciousness. Other infants (future writers?) might have been enthralled by the indefinable contents of the bubbles, some (painters or composers) by the blending and absorption of their colors or tones, but Toby watched the lines alone, the lines of this kinetic spatial geometry, this heavenly geometryand for his own exceptional reasons, he memorized them. They became second nature to him. And these particular lines, it turned out, happened to be those from which life on Earth is also drawn. It wasnt long before Toby made his preferences clear. His mother was the more aesthetically sensitive of his parents; early in her life she had learned to take refuge in art, music and literature. She had majored in art history in college, and before losing her head over Tobias, had hoped to pursue it further. Her talents lay in the appreciation of art, however, not its creation, so one can guess at her reaction to her sons gift. Not only did she lavish praise on him, but put an array of supplies at the five-year-olds disposal. But Toby

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didnt look twice at the water colors and temperas she bought for him. Nor the pastels, nor the box of sixty-four crayons, nor the box of thirty-six colored pencils. It was only the blackest of pencils he took up, but only until Angela presented him with a pen and a bottle of India ink, which was to be the medium for his entire artistic career. But you cant erase it, dear, his mother warned him after he completed his first drawing in ink, a picture of her own face. Toby looked down at the drawing, and then up at his mother, quizzically. It occurred to her than that he might not know what erase meant, so she took a pencil and made a line on a scrap of paper and instructively erased it. I know about that, he said, feeling much the same annoyance he felt when she explained to him that turtles dont live as long as people do. But erasers are there in case you make a mistake, dear, she went on. When you do a drawing with a pencil you can fix your mistakes. You cant do that with inkat least I dont think you can I suppose you can blot out But she trailed off as she noticed Toby looking intently at his portrait. Wheres the mistake? he asked. The drawing hed made of Angela wasnt an exact rendering of her face, but it certainly wasnt a childish attempt at that. It was a realistic drawing with an expressionistic flair, and where the lines did not conform to the contours of Angelas eyes, chin, cheekbones, ears or hair, they were unique, intriguing, elegant. Oh, I think thats lovely, Toby, she said. Well show Daddy as soon as he gets home. I dont see any mistakes. I was just And she trailed off again. Toby didnt say a thing. He didnt believe he made mistakes; he never would. There followed a series of remarkable drawings of animals, all created in memory from the line drawings in his coloring book. Each was not only expertly and uniquely rendered, but also artfully placed on the page. It was apparent to both Angela and Tobias that they had a prodigy in the house. There was no explanation of the boys talent. It wasnt apparent to them, however, that they also had a problem in the house. When the second turtle died soon after the first, they believed that there must have been something in the water or that little creatures had fallen

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prey to some obscure amphibian diseaseturtle rot, perhaps. This time, Toby left the turtle floating in its tank, taking care, of course, to rotate the head back to a realistic position. When Toby was still going through his Angelic phase (the Ethereal Fractions as opposed to the Terrible Twos), he developed more than his attraction to pain and his unique ability to observe the lines of life, however. Some might say he stood in a unique relationship to one particular heavenly body, that there was a strong astrological influence in his life. Specifically, those holding such beliefs might suggest that it was the Sun in particular that most potently influenced Toby, and that the other members of the Solar Family served to focus and amplify this force; amplified it to such an extent that the effect might seen unbalanced, as if Toby had a large, ungainly head. Furthermore, those of astrological persuasion would likely agree that the result of this solar power-punch was to instill an imperial, uncompromising, undying self-confidence in the gifted but narrowly focused child Further compounding these tendencies, little Toby received nothing but praise from his parents, particularly his mother, and soon outside sources as well, for it wasnt long before Angela took her sons drawings downtown to the School of Fine Arts, the educational arm of the citys venerable Art Institute. The registrar was skeptical of Angelas claim that the child whod made the ink drawings she saw was only five. Just turned five, his mother added. On July 24th. The registrar, who at first glance, envied Angelas good looks and wardrobe, secretly rolled her eyes and suggested that Toby be enrolled in an intermediate rather than beginners drawing class. Angela reacted pridefully to this, relishing the idea of leading her little boy into a class full of ten-year-olds and watching him outdo them all, which is in fact what happened. Things hadnt started well, however. Toby reacted badly when he learned he was expected to draw with one of the soft black pencils the teacher handed out. In fact, he began to cry when told to put away the pen and India ink hed brought along. The instructor, Mr. Floyd, a man frustrated with his own lackluster artistic career, had been annoyed to learn that a five-year-old had been admitted to his intermediate class on the recommendation of the registrar, a bossy woman with no credentials in the field. A child that age

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should have been enrolled in the beginners class, one Orlando didnt teach, and when the child began to show signs of an impending tantrum, Orlando was ready to send him out into the hall where the his mother was waiting. But Mr. Floyd had found Angela Wellington disarmingly attractive; in fact, much about her reminded him of a former lover whod left him, and it was the prospect of incurring the disapproval of one so similar in appearance that dissuaded Mr. Floyd from summarily expelling the child and granting him his unreasonable wish. Some might conclude that a karmic resonance of some sort had come into play here on Tobys behalf and some might not, but by whatever operative mechanism, it was time for little Toby to show his stuff, and show it he did. The class had been told to do a drawing from memory, and Toby drew a portrait of a lion hed seen photographed in a copy of the National Geographic at home. The male lion had his teeth bared in an aggressive posture. This picture, like all the others hed done, had an expressionistic flair to it and it captured enough of the lions menace to have frightened many children his age. The lion was unforgettable. Its lines themselves were the signature of genius. And beyond that, Toby added something new to this picture: hed added several jagged horizontal lines which captured the essence of a mountainous horizon, along with what seemed a perfect circle of a Sun. When Mr. Floyd saw it, he was so suddenly and deeply moved that he couldnt restrain his tears. He wanted to ask the child if he could have the picture, but did not. He sensed something in the boys demeanor that was at odds with his pretty fair-haired looks, something that made him believe the child would react aggressively to that request, not unlike the lion he so dramatically portrayed. Do you sign your work, Toby? Mr. Floyd asked. I dont know how to write yet, the boy said. You can just use your initials. A very great draughtsman named Albrecht Durer often did that. Toby looked interested. Here, Ill show you, his instructor went on, and on a separate piece of paper he wrote TW and the year, careful to form the letters and numbers without any discernable style or idiosyncrasy. You can copy that, if you like. Here, he said, indicating the lower right corner of the 9 x 12 inch piece of paper on which Toby had inked his lion.

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No, the boy said after a moment. Here. Then in his own unique line, he copied his initials and the date, not where Mr. Floyd had suggested, but in the upper right hand corner of the picture, in the sky. Though the signature was only an arrangement of letters and numbers, it seemed organic, naturalistic, like a bird like a crow, reallyand it riveted the composition with a stunning resonance of tension it had lacked before. Toby glanced up at his teacher wordlessly, but with an unflinching sting of arrogance in his eyes, and Orlando Floyd, mindful of the first crow hed seen that day, could find nothing at all to say in response. Somethings wrong with Mr. Zootie, Toby said to Mrs. Star, his kindergarten teacher. Indeed, something was wrong with the classs pet hamster, Mr. Zootie. Mr. Zootie, apparently, was dead. He lay motionless next to his wheel in the wood shavings at the bottom of his cage. Oh, my! said Mrs. Star, after prodding Mr. Zootie with a pencil a few times to confirm her suspicions. Children, she called out then, Please put away your things and come and sit in our circle. And then aside to Toby, whom shed enclosed in her puffy arm: Let me tell them, dear. Disappointed, Toby wriggled away and sat down on the carpet, a little distance from the others. Something very sad happened, Mrs. Star began. Toby just discovered that our little friend, Mr. Zootie, has died. My grandpa died, said Katie Klausmeyer. He thought I was my mother. Oh, Im sorry about that, Katie, said Mrs. Star. I remember how sad I was when my grandpa died. But just as she was about to go on, Toby broke in. Hamsters dont live as long as people do, he said smugly. Mrs. Star paused for a moment. Thats right, Toby, but we didnt expect Mr. Zootie to die so soon, and its right that we all feel sad about it. Toby scowled at this, but that was nothing new. A number of questions followed. Yes, they could look at Mr. Zootie, Mrs. Star

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explained, but no, they could not touch him. And no, she did not know why hed died. Someone suggested they take the little animal to a vet to discover the cause of death, and Mrs. Star said that was an excellent idea, but shed have to see if it would be possible. Instructive as it might be, she suspected it wasnt; the school was under budget constraints and she didnt know if she could find a vet to volunteer his services. Which from a certain point of view Tobyswas just as well, because had a necropsy been performed, it would have been discovered that little Mr. Zootie not only suffocated but had also suffered a broken neck. Its doubtful, though, that anyone other than an animal pathologist would have taken the trouble to discover that the hamsters neck had been broken by the pressure it took to close off its airway, but it that seemed to be the way it happened. Later that day, the class laid Mr. Zootie to rest in a hole they dug in a far, grassy corner of the playground. Several of the children cried. Toby did not. Toby didnt like kindergarten. He didnt like the children, he didnt like Mrs. Star, but what he disliked most of all was that he was not permitted to draw with pen and ink there. So Toby refused to draw at all. When the other children did, when they drew with crayons and painted with temperas at their easels, Toby looked at picture books and imagined Mrs. Star punishing him for being able to draw as well as he did. You didnt draw that picture! she shouted at him. Your mother drew that! You are a cheater! A dirty little cheater! And her cruel accusations continued on as she took him into the bathroom where she pinched him black and blue. At times the little boy got so carried away with his fantasy that he shed tears of indignation and rage. If I let him use a pen and India ink, the teacher explained to Tobys mother, Id have to let all the children use it. And even with smocks she shook her head. Thered be ink stains on clothing and complaints. And frankly, Mrs. Wellington, I dont quite why this is so important to Toby. He does have a reluctance to participate in class activities Angela had no wish to listen to anything resembling criticism of her son, and before Mrs. Star had gone any further, shed heard enough. It wasnt that she blamed Mrs. Star; the woman simply didnt understand what a gifted boy her Toby was. But matters were soon clarified for Mrs. Star, because the day after

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Mr. Zooties demise, Toby brought one of his pen and ink drawings to school. It was a portrait of Mr. Zootie, and it was clearly the work of a remarkable young talent. With an alternation of inked-in and empty areas, the animals coat shown with an anatomic precision; the wood chips around it were rendered with apparently effortless curling flicks of the pen. There was something about the way the animal was portrayed that gave the sense of an exact representation, though many of the lines were free from constraint, almost abstract. As was becoming evident in more and more of young Tobys drawings, there was an uncanny sense of inevitability to the inked lines. No mistakes. Like everyone who first saw the five-and-a half-year-olds extraordinary drawings, Mrs. Star was astonished. She didnt know a line drawing could have such presence. She felt like she was hearing young Mozart play the piano. When the class was gathered in their circle on the floor, she presented the drawing to them, adding that Toby had made a beautiful drawing of Mr. Zootie sleeping in his cage. Hes not sleeping. Toby said, sounding offended. Hes dead. Its a drawing of a dead animal. Marietta Star had been teaching kindergarten for thirty-five years, and at that moment she realized that Toby had killed Mr. Zootie. She didnt say anything, of course; she couldnt, really, she had no proof. But shed never known a child like Toby, and as it turned out, she was one among the very few who ever guessed the extent of the young geniuss eccentricities.

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ANDR GOES HOME

Once the baby-talking keeper had transferred me into the exhibition pen, the two adult humans Id chosen petted me but showed the signs of reticence typical of those unaccustomed to cats. In short, I frightened them, which seemed excellent basis on which to form a relationship. They admired my beauty, I understood that, but like the keeper, they spoke to me in baby-talk, which only served to compound their cloddishness. Since humans dont believe they can actually communicate with dumb animals, your words are empty and directionless, and to us, it sounds as if youre speaking to yourselves in the garbled parlance of the feeble-minded or insane which is not that far from the truth. These people did handle me with respect, however, and the male carried me to the front office of the Humane Society in a comfortable yet dignified way. The female laughed when told that my name was Shawn. Oh, that wont do, she said to the male, apparently her mate, before turning to me and saying, Will it?

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Thats up to you, said the eerily thin, bossy female employee who was shuffling papers on the counter. Most of them dont respond to names, but if this cat answers to Shawn, I suggest you keep it. Though the male who was still holding me did not speak, and actually smiled, the scarlet flash he emitted in the direction of the bony woman behind the counter made it clear that he did not care for her advice. Now you understand our neutering policy she went on. Yes, he answered then. Well take care of that within thirty days. Any animal other than a human, even a frog, could discern from his tone of voice, his momentary frown, his blink his slight downward glance to the right that he was lying; but the female behind the counter could not, and relied on his meaningless signature for assurance of his intention to mutilate me. Perhaps on some level, however, she did sense an imbalance, because she retaliated. Do you have a carrying case? she asked, emitting a display of colors indicating that she was looking for a fight. We require cats to be restrained in cars, so if you dont have a carrier, youll have to go purchase one and come back for Shawn, or you can buy one of ours. The male hesitated long enough to make this officious woman feel she had the advantage. Then he told her that of course theyd brought a carrier. The carrier was out in the car, he explained, and handed me over to his companion female before he left to retrieve it. The scarecrow woman offered to hold me as soon as he was out the door. I took that opportunity to hiss at her and saw by the colors of her reaction that her anger was laden with humiliation. This, by my standards, is fair play. The carrier in which I was then caged was free of organic scents, so I concluded that it was new and had been purchased on my behalf. I found nothing unpleasant about the cage itself (other than its purpose) but the ride in the car was predictably unpleasant. Being the most surefooted and graceful of all quadrupeds, it should come as no surprise that felines dislike any instability in the foundation on which we so deftly move. Felines require no assistance to move swiftly across the earth, and the clumsy

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mechanical means on which bipeds depend for this activity is naturally abhorrent to us. Fortunately, the automobile ride didnt last long, and after passing through two doors, being carried up two short carpeted flights of stairs and then through another door, I had arrived at my new home. I cannot fully describe my alarm, however, at the sight that greeted me even before I was released from my carrier: pressed up against its wire-cage door was the eager face of a child. Surprise, Toby! the female shouted. We got you a cat! Now thats better than another turtle, isnt it? It was only after approximately an hour that I crept out from under the sofa in the living room of the Wellingtons eight-room apartment. The female had thrust a dish of high quality tuna in my direction and I could not resist it. She then coerced me into the apartments kitchen where she put the dish down next to a bowl of clear water. Dont bother him while he eats, the female instructed the child, who was hovering nearby. Animals can turn vicious if you disturb them while theyre eating. Of course, the balefully uninformed woman was referring of dogs, not cats, and much as I despise such comparisons, I appreciate being undisturbed while eating, so I hissed at the child, as much to see his reaction as to insure my own tranquility. But without hesitation, the child hissed back. This impressed me. I wont go so far as to say that the child won my heart at this moment, but there was something akin to feline contempt in his hiss, something Id never seen in a human before, so I left my meal momentarily, approached the boy and rubbed the densely furred side of my head against his ankle. Then I returned to my dinner. Later that evening, I discovered there was yet another child in the house, older than the first one I met. At first this was alarming, but I soon found that he was as disinterested in me as I was in him. I was relieved to find no more surprises awaiting me, and over the next several days I observed life in the Wellingtons home and came to the following conclusions. First, that the male and female parents were typically human, though superior to some regarding their children: which is to say, though shortsighted, they werent cruel to them. They

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continued to feed me human grade canned fish along with desirable table scraps, though they persisted in babbling at me in a mindless baby-talk that served no purpose other than to degrade their already minimal intelligence. Their knowledge of feline life was typical. They explained to their younger son, for example, that cats spend 80% of their lives asleep, or snoozing away at the boys mother put it. Though strictly speaking this is true, the conclusions humans draw from this are typically erroneous, particularly if the symbolic, arcane meaning of asleep, un-self-awareness, is considered. In this light, most of you spend 100% of your lives asleep. Cats, on the other hand, when up and aboutperhaps 20% of their livesare luminously self-aware, and when inactive with our eyes shut, relax our conscious activities for hardly more than a few hours per day. For unlike your kind, cats have the innate ability to act volitionally in the territory where dreams take place, commonly known as the Astral Plane, one of the several that interpenetrate the physical world, ordinarily unseen by humans. Cats are very busy on the Astral Plane, where, as on the Physical Plane they fulfill the role of predator, ridding the inner landscape of psychic pests while fulfilling their love of the hunt. If cats were to neglect these duties and simply sleep away four-fifths of our lives as you suppose we do, a night without nightmares would be as great a rarity for your race as a day without your mechanized cruelty to the other beasts with which you share the planet. Secondly, I concluded that the older child in the house seemed to reflect his parents humanity in every way, while the younger one younger was a cut above them all. It was unfortunate the Wellingtons attempted to pass their ignorance on to their younger son, but fortunate that he paid little attention to them. This was evident to me from the start. Unlike Ricky and Fritzi Frickly and the others Ive known, including the long suffering Bambi, this child showed few signs of response to his parents. He seemed indifferent to them. This isnt to say he didnt have passions, because at certain times, both awake and asleep, he displayed an intensity of spirit Id never before seen in a human. Though the boy often dreamed inconsequentially and innocuously enough while asleep, there were times when he was transported to a realm beyond any Ive known: a luminous place where he interacted with great turning forms, with orbits or paths

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cut by circular bodies the likes of which Id never seen. In these dreams he seemed to swim with, or follow these mysterious shapes, but to what end I could not discern. What was clear, however, was the intensity of his feeling during these dreams; he seemed passionately devoted to this activity, just as he was to his waking adventures on paper. Its the opinion of most humans that cats, along with animals, have no understanding of art. Some among you have suggested that non-humans dont have sufficient brain power to understand how a two-dimensional figure can represent a threedimensional one; that a cat cant figure out that a picture of a dog represents the obsequious animal itself. This, like most conclusions drawn about anything but your own appetites, is false. A cat understands a picture of a dog, and I daresay even a dog understands a picture of a cat. But since neither picture smells, moves or threatens in any way, neither the cat nor dog cares. Cats understand art; they simply have no use for it, since unlike you race, nothing in our nature stands between us and the beauty and wonders of the natural world. It should come as no surprise that I understand that Toby Wellington was an artist. He was the first and only creative human Ive encountered, but if his temperament is any indication, I might conclude that these are a superior strain of humanity. When Toby was busy with his ink and paper, a dazzling electric blue light emanated from his chest, head and hand with which he drew. This Aura of Creativity was not only beautiful in itself but had a soothing effect on me: I basked in it, in the way that some of you are comforted by resting your heads next to a purring cat. It also gave me a certain gratification that Toby allowed no one but me in his room when he drew, and along with his own snarling rebuffs, I enjoyed hissing appropriately whenever his mother, father or brother happened to blunder in. Shortly after my first tuna dinner at the Wellingtons, Tobys parents asked him to sit down with them in the living room where I had again hidden myself under the sofa. What would you like to name your new kitty? the mother asked the boy, expectantly. Doesnt he already have a name?

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Yes, dear. The people who he used to live with named him Shawn, but I think we can do better, dont you? At this point I crawled out. Didnt they like him? Toby asked, looking down at me. Oh, Im sure they loved him, dear, but sometimes people cant keep pets. Sometimes pets do smelly things. Isnt that what that box is for? The boy asked. Yes, yes it is. I didnt mean that he did anything like that, but As I later learned, this woman had a habit of talking herself into corners, but it hardly mattered since the boy rarely paid attention to her. Freddy Black-tail, he announced. Thatll be his name. It merits mentioning here that despite this childs apparent streak of genius and his agreeably aloof nature, he was, with typical human consistency, a stupid boy. Having been called Fluffy, Mr. Fluffmuffin, and Shawn, I was not about to let myself be subjected to Freddy Black-tail or anything like it, so just as Toby finished uttering his asinine suggestion, I not only hissed sharply at him, but reared up as I did so. I felt this would drive my point home. All three Wellingtons fell silent. I think the kitty understands, the mother ventured after a moment, moving her chair back a little. Maybe he doesnt like that name, dear. Do you have any other ideas? Andr the Alligator? the boy said tentatively. Now it should be evident that felines are wise enough to know the importance of hiding their intelligence from humans, who would no doubt try to use it for their advantage were they to suspect it. But there are times when feline dignity must assert itself, so again I hissed at the child. I later learned, by the way, that Andre the Alligator was the name of an ill-tempered puppet playing the part of the villain in a story that Toby watched on television. Television, by the way, like art, is understood but of no interest to cats. The hiss brought looks of surprise and concern to the parents faces. I think we may have brought a nasty animal home, the father suggested, his brow furrowed. No, said Toby, showing uncharacteristic insight. Maybe he doesnt want to be called an alligator.

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The mother smiled and patted her sons sandy brown head. See, dear? she said to her husband. Toby understands. What about just Andr? she asked the boy. Andr? Toby said. And then again to me. Andr? And I couldnt resist; theyd already seen more than they deserved, but I ventured one more gesture. I purred loudly, walked over and rubbed myself against the boys ankle. Now that cant be a coincidence, the mother said to her husband. But he shook his head, told his wife not to be silly, and suggested now that that was settled it was time for Toby to go to bed. Here, Andr, Toby said as he walked off toward his bedroom; and feeling a taste of triumph myself, I followed him away, wondering if a child, even one who had it in him to hiss, had any hope to grow into anything beyond mediocrity living in a house with a man like that.

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ORLANDO AND MRS. WELLINGTON

After his intermediate drawing class was over, Orlando Floyd, his heart racing, escorted his youngest student out into the hall where Angela Wellington was eagerly waiting. Orlandos heart was racing for two reasons. First, hed just seen the work of an exceptional young artist; and second, in the course of an hour, hed managed to fall in love with the artists mother. The fact that Mrs. Wellington was lovely and looked so much like his dear Emily might have fueled a serious case of the hots, but to have met a beautiful woman whose son might be the next Albrecht Durer was enough to enflame Orlando not only below the belt, but above the collar and in all areas between. Angela was smiling an I-told-you-so smile as her sons teacher approached. Mrs. Wellington, I think we should talk, Orlando began in the most professional tone as he could muster. This felt artificial to him, and all mustering aside, he felt like an actor, and not a

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particularly good one. Orlando had never wanted to be a teacher. He was a draughtsman himself, and a fine painter, he believed, and was willing to live on bread and red wine alone, or even bread and water if he could be free to pursue his art. But Orlando couldnt sell enough paintings to buy flour and yeast, let alone rent a room with an oven. Then after years of struggle and menial jobs, he was offered a good position on the faculty of a fine school. Hed worked there for over ten years, and still he had to feign professionalism. I drew a lion, Mommy, Toby said, as Orlando led Angela back into the classroom and to Tobys drawing board. Its the best in the class, he announced, showing the drawing to his mother. Toby hadnt seen any of the other students work, though most of them had seen his and had reacted with shock and superlatives. Oh, its a beautiful lion, dear, Angela Wellington said. But Im sure there were lots of other lovely drawings in Mr. Floyds class, at which she looked from her son to his teacher with an indulgent smile. Being in infatuated as he was, Orlandos heart leapt simply because Angela remembered his name, but he continued on in his pedagogical guise. Next week well begin drawing from life, he said, and depending on how he does with that, I might suggest Toby be enrolled on one of my more advanced classes. And he was happy with the way he said that. He could have said one of the more advanced classes, but he liked the respectful way the striking woman nodded at him (and more pressingly, he liked the way her peach colored blouse did its best to contain her breasts.) Toby tells me he draws quite a bit at home, Orlando continued. Oh, he does, Angela said, putting her arm around her pretty son. But you wont let us watch, will you, Toby? Again she smiled indulgently. Temperamental artist she said to Orlando then, cheerfully. Many artists crave privacy, Mrs. Wellington. And Toby is very much an artist. Its a privilege to have him in my class. Even as he said this, Orlando realized he was trying to curry a five-yearolds favor as well as his mothers. This left him somewhat disgusted with himself, since he didnt think he liked the little boy very much. Or maybe the child frightened hima possibility that

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didnt help his self-esteem either. Orlando did have an agenda, however.. So after Tobys next class, he went on, maybe we can talk. On the phone, or if youre downtown I do have some ideas Id like to suggest to you. This was very pleasing for Angela to hear. Though shed had a background in the arts, all the friends she and her husband had made were lawyers and business people or wives or husbands thereof. She looked forward to speaking to someone on the faculty of an esteemed art academy, someone to whom she could display her knowledge. Shed have to dig out some of her art history books, she thoughtor she could even say something now. And she was about to, about how much she admired the engravings of Albrecht Durer, when Toby began to tug on her arm. All right, dear, she said. Say goodbye to Mr. Floyd. Without looking at him, Toby murmured a disinterested goodbye, but Orlandos heart leapt again when Angela asked him about his office hours. He hadnt expected her to ask so soon, but when he told her that he was free every day from two to four, the thought hed been sidestepping for over an hour finally swept down on him like an Alberta clipper and cooled him off most cruelly: this lady almost certainly had a husband, and from the looks of her, a rich one. When Angela leftor actually when she was pulled from the room by her impatient sonshe did smile at Orlando. This helped a little. But being the man that he was, we shouldnt be surprised to learn that he promptly managed to delete the image of a husband of any kind from his imagination and rekindle his fire as easily as he smiled at himself in the mirror. Once everyone had cleared out of his classroom, Orlando surreptitiously took Tobys drawing back into the bowels of the graphics department, and using a new high-tech copier, reproduced the picture with brilliant clarity. Doing this without the artists signed permission was against school policy, but Orlando secretly scorned school policy, along with the schools staid administration, who, in a convoluted way, he sometimes blamed for his lack of success. If they hadnt offered him his job, he reasoned when particularly depressed, he might have struggled on as a starving artist and finally broken through. It sometimes even seemed to him that they relished the fact that he, too, could not succeed beyond

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academia. Back in his classroom, Orlando slipped the copy of Tobys drawing into his large portfolio. Then he left the building without saying goodbye to the registrar, and, having completely forgotten his unpleasant encounter with the crow that morning, took the bus home. It was a Friday afternoon. On Monday through Thursday of the next week, Orlandos desire to remain asleep in bed left him entirely, and he stayed in his office from two to four every afternoon waiting for Angela Wellington to either call or knock on his door. Each day at two, he felt new optimism, but the disappointment that followed on each successive afternoon increased until when he left for home late Thursday, he had himself convinced that the woman and her brilliant son thought so little of him that they wouldnt bother to show up for class the next day. Considering his history of disappointment, we can forgive Orlando such pessimism. After all, like the rest of us, he wished for a life more satisfying than our current state allows. And despite having read a bit about the spiritual traditions that have helped humans cope with this problem, he hadnt found any answers that satisfied him for long. He understood enough to realize that if he were to devote himself to any of the ancient practices or the modern hybrids, he might find fulfillment and even enlightenment; but frankly, it seemed to him that it shouldnt take such a commitment. He felt that if he couldnt be happy with what he was born with: his humanity, the goodness of his heart, and his desire to rise above suffering, then to hell with it, hed be miserable and take solace in the nobility he felt by bearing the injustice of it all. In fact, Orlando never complained, rather he looked on the administration of the cosmos as incompetent; hed never agreed to the oppressive conditions under which he lived, and so thought himself superior to them. Orlando trusted his instincts, the whole gamut from the carnal to the sublime, and he believed only in a God who could beam down on him joyfully, just as he was. Much of Orlandos attitude toward God and other metaphysical matters had rubbed of from his old friend from art school, Parker Blum. Like Orlando, Parker had not gone on to be an artist, nor had Orlandos two other art school friends, Olivia Piper and Glen Steinberg. Olivia had become successful in

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advertising design, Glen had gone to law school, but Parker continued to sell marijuana, work at menial jobs and study the various spiritual traditions in an eclectic if not haphazard way. For a while Parker was a Buddhist, for a while a Sufi, then a apprentice astrologer; for a while he was a student of Zen, then the Kabala, then the I Ching, then the Tarot; then he was a Theosophist, then a student of Gurdjieff, then of Rudolph Steiner, then Krishnamurti, then Sri Aurobindo, and on and on. Orlando still had dinner with Parker every month or so at the Jade Palace, where Orlando always paid the bill and listened to Parkers latest take on the meaning of all things. Though Orlando had lost his taste for marijuana in his late twenties after waking to find drawings hed thought brilliant the night before flat and meaningless the next morning, he had not lost his interest in Parkers belief that all acts were acts of God, and continued to take matters of the spirit seriously if irreverently. It may have been considered an act of God, or then again it may not, but when Orlando woke on Friday, it seemed that in his sleep, hed been covertly transported two-hundred miles south where it felt like summer. The week had been oppressively gloomy and unseasonably cold, and the morning promised a reprieve. The day began so beautifully, in fact, that it prompted him to take his coffee to the park bench again. It was only as he crossed the street, his blue cup in hand, that he remembered the crow attack. His thoughts all week had been fixed on Angela Wellington. In these fantasies: a) she was widowed or divorced; b) she did not love her husband and was ready to leave him; or c) she fell so passionately in love with Orlando that her husband simply knew what was good for him and gave upand most of his scenarios were more or less preposterous variations of the latter. And in all these, of course, he participated in imaginary conversations with his beloved which revealed a compatibility unparalleled in the history of romance. He hadnt thought of the crow all week. But as Orlando approached the park bench on this bright morning, at least a dozen crows rose up from utility poles, rooftops and trees, jarring his ears with their hoarse racket that seemed directed personally at him as they circled and all landed on or near the maple tree closest to the bench. But today he had no muffin. Again, his coffee was excellent. He always bought the finest, and ground it at home with an electric grinder he kept

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immaculately clean and polished. This week hed tried an even stronger dark-roast blend, and he wasnt disappointed. This coffee was so good, in fact, so potent and aromatic, that for a moment he forgot that Toby Wellingtons second visit to his classroom was just hours away. He also momentarily forgot the pack of crowsuntil he looked up, that is, and saw that one particular bird had separated itself from the group and was approaching him across the grass on footand the bird was limping. Orlandos heart lurched (as opposed to leapt), since he had no doubt that it was the same bird that had attacked a week before returning for a rematch. His first thought was to run; his second to flip the top off his cup and hurl the steaming contents at the crow, but he sat there silently instead, his honor and his coffee secure, and waited to see how closely the arrogant black bird would approach. The crow stepped on the buckled sidewalk and moved its feet up and down in a little lame dance that in retrospect seemed far more ominous than cute. It also looked up at Orlando in a way that no longer seemed promising in anything but the most menacing way. In a defiant gesture then, Orlando sipped his coffee and smacked his lips as if the bird could understand that expression of self-satisfaction. But the crow simply held its ground and stared. Its look was indeed penetrating for a creature with such beady eyes. Orlando felt a little silly, even ashamed about trying to stare down a crow. No matter how unpleasant his last experience had been, this was, after all, an innocent animal toward which he felt such antagonismyet still, he wasnt so culturally brainwashed to ignore the possibility that animals can embody powerful forces and bear omens. So, though somewhat ambivalent, he sat, sipped and stared. The other crows, those on the ground under the maple tree and those alighted in it, seemed to be playing the part of the chorus in this drama: they all looked over at Orlando and their own protagonist, clucking, cawing in doleful commentary and occasionally flapping their lustrous black wings. Orlando looked behind him across the street to see if Mr. Lee was looking out the door of the Jade Palace, or if there were any other witnesses to this mystery play, but saw no one. It was when he turned back to the principle crow, standing there motionless on the sidewalk but still staring up at him that Orlando fully sensed the menace of its look. It arose from somewhere deep in the shadow

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world of nature, from the world of nightmares, or thunder, or the Moonwhich shown pale in the daytime sky near its zenith. Orlando felt the birds look in his skeleton. He shuddered, and without hesitation, he got up, his coffee only half finished, and retreated in the direction of the bus shelter just across the street. But the crows, or the Moon, or the thunder, or the nightmare had a different idea. The birds first rose up and swooped down like a black storm in front of Orlando in what seemed a willful attempt to prevent him from crossing the street. Despite himself, he shouted, this time through his teeth, I said NEVER AGAIN! Enraged, he snapped the top off his travel cup and flung its contents in the direction of the barrage of crows. This seemed to dissuade them, but only insofar as they settled on the roof of the bus shelter and the trees around it, where they continued to beat their wings wildlyand purposefully, he was certain of thatwhile harassing him with an unremitting, belligerent chorus of caws. If it werent for the protection of the shelter, hed have had to run home again, and it was still possible that the angry birds might enter the little structure itself. But then his bus came into sight, and as it pulled up the crows scattered and Orlando recalled a list hed recently read in a trivia column in a newspaper, a list of the names of groups of animals. It included the familiar: pride of lions and a troop of baboons; but also the esoteric, particularly regarding birds: an exaltation of larks, a parliament of owls, a charm of hummingbirds, and what seemed so chilling at that moment, a murder of crows. After Tobys class that afternoon, Angela asked him to wait in the student exhibition gallery while she talked to his teacher for a few minutes. Ive always hoped to teach him to love art as I do, Angela said in Orlandos office, intending to make her sympathies clear. (Her presence, of course, had obliterated all memory of Orlandos early morning encounter with the murder of crows.) I mean to appreciate the world of art, she continued. Hes got no problem with his own. But every time Ive tried to walk with him through

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the museum, hes showed no interest at all. It was like I was walking him through a cemetery. He might be a little young yet, Orlando replied, trying to keep his eyes off lovely Mrs. Wellingtons breasts. But if youre interested, I can suggest some things that might spark his interest. We have a fine collection of drawings here that arent on public display, and Id be glad to Really! Angela said. Id like to see those too. Orlandos heart was pounding. He could hardly respond to this without betraying his glee, and he might have become a little reckless. So he suggested, you and Mr. Wellington are art lovers? Its no surprise Toby so talented. Oh, no. For all his good qualities, Tobias is artless, Im afraid. So is Tobys older brother, Adam, although hes academically gifted, and an excellent athlete, too, like his father. Here Angela paused, smiling. My husband loves Tobys drawings, and he supports him in every way, but the art appreciation in the family is left to me. I studied art in college, so Ive tried to But I already told you that, didnt I? she said, warmly now. Orlando nodded, unsure whether he hid the tangle of ambivalent feelings that seized his solar plexus at that moment. The artless part was just right; but the bit about the husbands other good qualities made him sick. But the worst of all, however, the severe body blow, was that a husband even existed, and one whom she was willing to speak well of. Orlando had a difficult time concentrating through the rest of his conversation with Angela, wife of TobiasTobias the Olympian, no less. Yet he couldnt fully express his joy when he learned that she admired the engravings of Albrecht Durer and also those of Martin Schoengauer as well, a lesser know artist; nor could he fully conceal his grimace when she explained that her husband would spare no expense on Tobys educationa grimace prompted both by the idea that her husband was rich and generous and that he might consider taking Toby to a teacher of more renown. Orlando also worried that when he took her and Toby back into the School of Fine Arts closed collections, that brute, jock of a husband might choose to bull his way in there as well. But then, as if to broadcast the mixed message loud and clear, when brown-haired, Venus-hipped Angela Wellington arranged to meet Orlando the next Monday afternoon

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regarding her sons instruction, she gently touched Orlandos forearm in an wholly unnecessary way, while at he same time smiling at him as if she herself might be infected by that same, drug resistant hots virus that flourished in his bloodstream. Despite the mixed message, when Orlando took the bus home that day, he was grinning like a cat at a canary convention, concerned that if he didnt restrain his smile other passengers might clear the seats around him. There is hardly a time more thrilling than when the first promise of love is confirmed, even if the confirmation is less than resounding. Orlando disembarked from the bus with a spring in his step, and after changing clothes at home, continued springing around the corner to The Jade Dragon, his usual dinner spot on Friday evenings. Ignoring the smile still plastered on Orlandos face, Mr. Lee greeted him with a look of concern. Mr. Froyd, he said. You are arright? Orlando couldnt guess at the source of his concern. (But as always, in the invisible dialogue bubble above his head, he said, Thats DOCTOR Freud, Mr. Lee, DOCTOR Freud.) Im fine, Orlando answered out loud. Dont I look all right? Now, Mr. Lee said. Not this morning. I saw what happened to you. Now Orlandos look darkened. You saw those crows? he asked. Portentous, Mr. Lee replied, nodding. Says my grandfather. Crows always omens. By this time Mr. Lee had escorted Orlando to his customary table by the window, a spot from which he could see the bench across the street in the park. What sort of omens? Orlando asked. Sometimes good omens, sometimes bad, Mr. Froyd. (Thats DOCTOR!) Ha ha! Grandfather a mysterious man, maybe a little crazy. So? So what am I to think? Crows always portentous, he repeated. Symbols of divinity for Chinese. You got a mess of divinity in your face! Ha ha! You okay? They didnt hurt me, if thats what youre asking. They frightened me, though. I didnt realize you saw me.

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Yes. I was concerned. You look fine now. Im very happy to see you looking so well. Soup tonight? Hot and sour. Mr. Lee nodded. And the usual? Orlando nodded. Hows your daughter? he asked, hoping to clear away the specter of the crows that had bruised his good spirits. Mr. Lee always loved reporting on his daughters success as a financial advisor in New York, and he did just that, at some length, refreshing the atmosphere around Orlandos table considerably, but not entirely. Orlando watched his host walk off to the kitchen. A mess of divinity in his face, he thought, shaking his head and trying to reestablish the image of Angela Wellington soft brown curls, wideset brown eyes and voluminous breasts. He spent a dreamy weekend: sleeping late, walking in the neighborhood, reading, and cleaning his small apartment as if Angela Wellington were to soon knock on his door and stay long enough to require use of the shower. He also looked furtively at the copies of Tobys drawings hed smuggled home: the dramatic drawing of the lion and the exquisite still lifethe basket of fruit, candlesticks and stack of bookshed penned at his second lesson. On Monday, he was up with the sun and paced his rooms for over an hour before it was time to prepare himself for the coming day and his meeting with Angela in the afternoon. The encounter proved to be an anti-climax at first, however; Angela, it seemed, had only minutes to spare. They spoke only briefly of nurturing Tobys talent, but before she left, she not only touched Orlando again, but mentioned that she was downtown most Mondays for lunch at her club. Toby also spent a dreamy weekend. His mother had promised to convert the spare bedroom into a studio for him. He already had a drawing table set up in there, but it seemed hed drawn enough to satisfy himself at his lesson on Friday, and so chose to play alone in his bedroom and at his retreat in the buildings basement on both Saturday and Sunday. But he didnt play so much as dream. Hed had a twinge of that pain in his back and under his ear again, and he spent hours lost in reveries, several of which had a distinctly dark tone. He had been annoyed that his brother hadnt paid enough

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attention to his mothers accounts of success at the School of Fine Arts, and so imagined suffering persecution at Adams hands until the tables eventually turned and Toby was able to hurt Adam in a succession of waysmost of which involved crushing injuries of various sorts: ankles slammed in doors, jaws hammered with bricks, and eye sockets with hammers. But boys will be boys. When Toby grew tired of harming his brother, however, he turned to Orlando Floyd, whom he also felt did not appreciate him enough. But once Toby had created a scenario in which Orlando had called him a dirty little cheater, an accusation apparently close to Tobys heart, the boy did not choose revenge, but rather to remain in a prolonged state of self-pity. This was a state in which he felt perfectly justifiedperhaps because in a way known only in his soul, his life was more worthy of pity than most. After school on Monday, Toby did return to the spare room; and over the next several days, he casually drew nearly everything in the room: the windows, the door, the radiators, the bookcases, the pictures hanging on the walls, the trunks packed with clothes, the lamps, the light switches on the walls, the sewing machine and the loveseat. He drew each object in ink on a separate piece of paper, being careful to place the drawing on the page in an intriguing way. As usual, only his cat was in the room with him as drew, and Toby never left the room until each of these drawings was dry and stacked away. When his mother asked him what hed been doing, he said, Nothing. Its fair to say that at that stage of his artistic life, Toby had nothing to learn. He continued to draw with the same exceptional skill; his strain of creativity was rare in that his mode of expression was wholly spontaneous. There was no planning involved; Toby transferred the crystalline image he had in his mind onto the page, much the way certain composers simply write down the music theyve heard rather than sculpt it out of an unrefined, rough musical idea. In Orlandos drawing classes, of course, Toby drew from life as well as from memory, but in his life drawings he worked the same way: he hardly looked at his subject more than oncebe it still life or human form before he had internalized it,

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and from that repository, his hand simply transferred the image to paper, using those exclusively elegant lines he had memorized in his bubble days. The sense that Toby had of himself as he drew was as much like that of an athlete as an artist: it was imperative that the thought was not allowed to interfere with the childs flawless instincts. And it never did. First, because there was no room: when he was drawing, the boys consciousness was brimming full of attention and observation, and perhaps most intently, full of delight; and second, because Orlando Floyd wouldnt let anything intrude. His mother had made good on her promise to convert the spare bedroom into a studio. Not much conversion was necessary. The rooms two high windows faced north, so once the curtains were removed, the light was excellent. All the furniture was removed to basement storage, with the exception of Tobys drawing table, a utility table, his chair, and a loveseat that folded out into a single bed. Angela also purchased a large cabinet with long, wide, shallow drawers to store completed drawings. Toby worked under ideal conditions at home; when he closed his studio door, he wasnt interrupted. Whether Toby drew things hed seen in the past or things before his eyes, his early drawings had a sameness of excellence about them. Toby always drew in ink on 9 x 12 inch white paper, and he always limited his compositions to one subject: one animal, one figure (or two if they were posed together), one still life alone, or a landscape with one focal point. He always added backgrounds to his subjects, and at times, like with his early drawing of the lion, these were integral to the composition, but at this time in his life he was a one trick ponybut quite a trick for a pony still in single digits. At first, Orlando simply stood back and observed, but it wasnt long before he felt hed seen the child demonstrate his full range of skills, and once he determined what the boy was capable of at this early age, he didnt suggest that he undertake more complex compositions or challenge him with new mediums of expression.. He had the insight to see that the work Toby was creating was perfect within its own parameters, that it followed its own rules without mistakes. Orlando knew that and also that the young artist needed to be protected to ensure his natural development, and he made sure that Angela did too; he made it clear that he wished to

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help her nurture and protect her sons gift. Angela wasnt aware that it needed protecting, but she was delighted. Orlandos sincere interest pleased her greatly, as did the regular conversations she now had with him most Monday afternoons, conversations ranging in subject from Toby himself, to the history of art, the education of children, to subjects more personal and closer to home. In one such exchange, the two discovered that theyd been brought up in the same neighborhood in Chicago. This, along with other personal revelations and observations, eventually compounded the middle-aged art teachers initial case of the hots into a sustained, everlasting burn. First it was her cheekbones and wide set brown eyes, then nape of her neck, then the glimpse of cleavage over a scoop-necked blouse, then the very fact of her hips, then her perfume, then the moist secret he knew she was preserving there under her skirt, then it was the wisps of hair that came undone about her neck, then that she was such a sweet-little-bit plump, that she seemed never quite contained by her stylish, expensive clothes, but more and more frequently it was that darkness beneath her skirt that enflamed Orlando, and it is a credit to his integrity that he maintained a clear perspective on Tobys talents while drooling so persistently over his mother. Hell be fine here until summer, Orlando said to Angela once the end of the first term came around, a week before Christmas. Angela, wearing a pale blue silk dress, was sitting in a red directors chair across from a table that served Orlando as both desk and drawing board. Orlando had just poured her a cup of coffee and sat down with one of his own. It doesnt matter what Toby draws, he said, just that he doesand the materials not that different in the advanced class. Thats fine, Angela answered, a little distractedly. Why do you think artists are such peculiar people? Are they? Well, so Ive heard. I suppose I havent known any, except for my sonand you. And Im?

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Oh no, Im sorry. Maybe I used the wrong word unusual, or eccentric might be better. Because you do have a secret life, dont you, Orlando? He didnt answer. The first name basis was something new to them, and he was still dazzled by it. Im not asking you what it is, she explained, making a slightly bitter face after tasting the coffee. Im just saying you have one, and youre an artist. I dont and Im notand Toby certainly does. Are you sure? Orlando asked. Doesnt everyone have a secret life? Secrets, maybe, but not a life they tell no one about. I think artists need that, even though they may deny it exists. Orlando smiled. Did you learn that studying art history? And is there something wrong with the coffee? No, she smiled, trying another sip and making the same face. Im not used to it black. And yes, maybe I gained a little evidence in school, but just hearsay evidence. Mostly the idea just came to me. And you trust things that just come to you? Orlando asked. Angela answered a little timidly. Is that wrong? Oh, no, Orlando answered, charmed. I think the most important things are those the just come to you. I do too, but why do you suppose that is? Orlando stood up, walked around his desk and approached her. But he wasnt sure what hed do next. I really dont have much respect for authority, he said. Now thats something many artists have in common. Thats brave, Angela answered. Not really. It would be brave to take a stand against authority, but thats not something Im likely to do. Its just in my secret life that Im brave. See, I told you so. Orlando was close enough to caress her, and there wasnt much else he could do, standing right there, so he simply took her cup of coffee away. Dont feel you have to drink this, he said, feeling as if hed been caught in a lie.

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Dont you take my coffee away! Angela protested, smiling. This time when she reached out and touched him, it left Orlando weak in the knees. Orlando spoke before he could stop himself. Id never take anything away from you Angela blushed. So you do have a secret life, she said. Im sorry, Angela. I didnt mean to Think nothing of it, she said, patting his cheek, a gesture which not only made his day, but his week, month, year, and possibly the second half of his life. Though Orlando had admitted to Angela that he had a secret life, he hadnt told her or anyone else that hed secretly copied each of Tobys drawings that year and kept them hidden away in a portfolio encased in plastic at the back of one of his closets at home. But by the time the second term ended in May, and Orlando exhibited the best of his intermediate students work, Tobys drawings created such a stir that the schools administrative board elected to put on a special show of the boys drawings in the school exhibition gallery. Orlando felt it was too early to alert anyone of note about this show. Others at the school apparently differed with him, however, and one prominent art critic, a Mr. Bland, did visit the student gallery, probably expecting to find something charming and or perhaps even promising. But the critic was predictably stunned by what he saw, and this before he learned that the artist was still only five. Fortunately the man had the discretion to contact Tobys parents before putting anything in print, and following Orlandos advice, Angela Wellington expressed great concern that any further public attention was inappropriate for a child so young and impressionable. Toby, of course, was not at all impressionable; in fact, as Orlando already suspected, he was highly resistant to any influence other than his own. The boys father, however, was too self-absorbed to notice his sons disturbing predisposition, and his eager to please mother could hardly understand. Angela did have other sensitivities, however, and was particularly concerned with the effect Tobys success might have on his older brother. In light of this, shed begun to make extra efforts to make Adam feel special, and was always mindful to praise him for his excellent school work and his athletic prowess. Adam,

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however, seemed quite pleased with himself without any encouragement. He felt a comfortable affinity with his parents, particularly with Tobias, but looked on his younger brother as a reclusive little nerd who happened to have landed in the family. If Toby wanted to be a weird, geek of an artist, it was no skin off Adams ass. When seen in perspective, its unclear whether Toby needed protection from the distractions of the world or not, but it is clear that Orlandos efforts pleased and comforted Angela Wellington to an extent her husband never imagined. For when Angela accepted Orlando as Tobys protector, she felt that hed become her own protector as well. Of course she didnt think of it in quite those terms; what she felt was that Orlando Floyd could envelop her in that vibrant yet serene world of art shed abandoned to get married. She hadnt foreseen that there would be a good deal more enveloping than that, and that it would begin quite soon, weekly at a downtown hotel. Or perhaps she had foreseen it. And what had she foreseen about Tobias? Though Orlando and Angela were never to remember it, the two of them had met once, many years before. Whether this was a karmic footnote in their lives, the play of irony across their marginally aware existences, or the kind of foreshadowing that naturally and frequently falls across all of us unnoticed, may deserve some consideration. In any case, Orlando was twelve years old. He was in Lincoln Park with three of his friends. It was spring vacation from school, and the first truly warm and sunny morning of the year that hadnt fallen on a school day. The boys had covered a lot of territory in the large lakefront park. They had bicycled for miles, crossed bridges, climbed fences and trees, hit golf balls, harassed a few elderly people, lay in the grass and laughed, and finally, laughed out, arrived at a small playground where they let their bikes fall on the grass and ran to one of the climbing structures. The playground wasnt crowded, but even as the boys first climbed up, they sensed that during the winter they had somehow grown too old for playgrounds. Not too big, really, just too old. All the other children there were with their mothers or nannies. The oldest

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looked about ten, and a few toddled around showing obvious signs of diapers. It was when the boys leapt off the climbing structure and ran over spiral slide, that Orlando met Angela, four at the time and named Angela Wyrth. The little girl was at the park with her mother, a vain woman who wished she had a nanny of her own like many of the other families in the neighborhood. She couldnt afford a nanny; she was speaking to a one, however, a young German woman there at the park with her own charges, a three and fiveyear-old. As the two women sat on their bench, in fact, Mrs. Wyrth was far more interested in her conversation with the German girl than chasing her daughter around the playground to help her up on this or off of that. But little Angela was calling her again. Seeing the older womans exasperation, the young nanny offered to go over and help the four-year-old, and Mrs. Wyrth gladly accepted the offer. Her feet and back ached, and she had never expected motherhood to be so so annoying. It turned out the reason little Angela was calling for her mother was because she was scared of the big boys and wanted to go on the circular slide. But when the nanny with the foreign accent approached Angela and offered to help her, the little girl made a slightly different frightened face and backed away from her directly into twelve-year-old Orlando Floyd. She vants to go on for a slide, the nanny said to Orlando, who hardly noticed the little girl behind him. Mistaking the womans words for a request, Orlando shouted to his friends, who were all on the spiral slide at once and way too big for it. Hey! Get down. This little kid wants to use the slide. And at this, he picked up little Angela from behind, his hands under her arms, carried her the few steps over to the slide and planted her squarely on the plastic covered ladder, only a few steps from the top. Then he looked back at the nanny for her approval, which he received by means of a nod and a smile, and ran off, following his friends to retrieve their bikes and find a more age appropriate activity. Little Angela, meanwhile, took the last two steps to the top of the ladder herself, plopped her bottom down on the slide and slid merrily down, landing bottom-side-down in the soft but scratchy bed of wood chips provided. But suddenly little Angela wasnt

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merry anymore. She wanted to be boosted up onto the ladder again, but she didnt want the German nanny to do it. She wanted the big boy. But the big boy was gone, and when the nanny returned Angela to Mrs. Wyrth, the four-year-old was crying. Her mother didnt bother to find out why she was crying, however, and simply told her to stop being a baby or shed take her home.

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ANDR ON THE ROOF

I believe that I have lived with the Wellingtons long enough now to be in a position to judge them each fairly as individuals. But first, let the fallacy of cat years as opposed to human years be permanently put to rest. The passage of time is wholly dependent upon awareness, not the movements of celestial spheres; and since cats are more aware than all but a few humans, time passes not only more slowly, but more significantly for us than for the rest of you. That an average cats lifetime is chronologically one quarter of an average humans does not play into the formula at all. Considering the intensity and size of a cats moment to moment experience, as a race we live far longer than you. This is not to say that all of you experience time in the same superficial way. It recently came to my attention that as a race you are not a homogeneous but multilayered one consisting mostly of assorted simple creatures intermixed with a very few who have, with few observable signs, risen to a far greater level of awareness and understanding. Being politically correct,

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however, or even appreciating my reasoning, is no indication of higher awareness, so dont jump to any conclusions. The adult Wellingtons, on whom I depended for my physical wellbeing, fulfilled their obligations well, except for occasional litter box infractions. They never physically abused me; they provided me with palatable food and permitted me access to the outdoors whenever I wished. The Fricklys and the other two families who held me captive labored under the assumption that the outdoors was unsafe for cats (these same people who believed that they represented intelligent life on earth.) Unlike animals, cats are uniquely suited for both indoor and outdoor living: you, of course, require layers of cumbersome cloth to live outside during cold weather, and the brightest dog (excuse the oxymoron) doesnt have enough sense to avoid soiling an indoor environment, even with easy access out. The back door of the Wellingtons home opened onto a complex wooden stair and porch structure. This led two flights down to a paved area, which in turn led out to a walkway and to an alleya place favored by cats for reasons we wish to keep to ourselves. The porch structure was often warmed by the sun and contained a number of narrow railings and perches, well suited for prowling and contemplation, as well as easy access to the roof. Though cats willingly live with humans, as previously stated, we are at heart solitary beings, and we seek out places in which we can remain undisturbed to satisfy our meditative nature. City rooftops provide such contemplative sanctuary as well an excellent arena for sport-hunting, and the roof of the Wellingtons building supported an abundance of we call low flying ratsanimals known to you as pigeons. There are city cats who depend on such prey for sustenance, I know and respect several of these, and even those of us who are kept and fed enjoy the taste of fresh blood, since the diet served to most cats is bland and tiresome. The female Wellington, known as Angela to the others, was among the brighter of her kind Ive known, in that she understood from that start that my tastes were at least as discriminating as her own. Ive always been served a portion of any meat prepared for meals, and on those occasions when the family satisfied its omnivorous nature with plants or grains, she always provided me with something other than cat food.

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Regarding the later, I understand that there are masses of unfortunate humans in the world who cannot provide themselves with the widely varied diet they favor. They, for instance, may have little more than the grain, rice, to sustain themselves. These are deprived, hungry humans, and when they do have a dish of rice in front of them they eat it greedily. Its all they ever get. So would it be a reasonable conclusion that these unfortunates like their human food? They eat it right up, dont they? Despite her natural shortcomings, Angela Wellington had an inwardly pleasant nature, evident by the range of natural colors she emanated, indicating no ill will toward me or any others. Outwardly, however, she was even more unattractive than the rest of the family, since she insisted on accentuating her humanoid features with colored applicationswhich, I should point out, bore no relation to the colors of her natural aura. Her dreams, though occasionally lascivious, were more often than good natured, even though she often found herself at a disadvantage in these, frequently stumbling into recurring situations where she encountered hostility. It goes without saying that the woman didnt possess the ability to bring her conscious mind to her dream stateanother of those qualities that distinguishes cats from the animalsso in her dreams she was usually buffeted about on the currents of the astral plane like a mouse in a Maytag. (To any whod question a cats use of such a simile, including the name of a commercial washing machine, Id add the following. First, there was a time when I frequented the basement of the Wellingtons apartment building. The laundry facilities were located in the basement, and until the hiring of a brutish janitor, I hunted freely there. One of the resident mice, a fat black female, whom Id held in my claws more than once, found her way innocently into an inviting basket of unwashed laundry and thence into the drum of the washer itself where she may or may not have drowned before she was agitated, tumbled and spun dry, to be discovered tangled in a pair of pajamas as an unnaturally clean little corpse. And second, as should be obvious, I can read.) The adult male, known as Tobias, was altogether different than his mate. Though he never physically abused me or prevented me from coming and going as I wished, as time passed, I witnessed the degradation of his psyche until within the span of one year, hed become seeped in ill-will and deceit, and though he hid this from

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the other members of his family, it affected them nonetheless. When he returned home from work, he routinely bristled with darkly jagged residues of foul play, duplicity and outright dishonesty; and when he returned from his frequent business trips, he was draped with the image of one particular human female, naked and conniving herself. Whatever activities he was involved with in his professional life were of such an unsavory nature that despite his smiling, generous ways at home, his dark emanations routinely despoiled the air his wife and child breathed, as well as the food they ate. I have no doubt that these contaminations had ill effects on his familys health, either physically or emotionally. Being able to see these invisible pollutants myself, I was able to take precautions for my own protection, something cats learn to do patrolling the netherworlds as we do. As far as the wraith-like slattern is concerned, I cant say what effects this image of deceit had on his mate, though I can only suspect the worst. It is a testament to the inadequacy of the human olfactory sense that Angela Wellington could not detect the presence of this woman on her husbands person, a scent that was disagreeably evident to me. For the sake of harmony, I restrained my justifiable desire to hiss at this man during this year of his decline and collapse, but I rejected his friendly advances with such consistency that he eventually gave up, explaining to his wife and children that he just wasnt a cat person. Adam Wellington, the older of the two offspring, resembled an unsullied yet undistinguished version of his father. The boy spent a good deal of time in his room and made it clear to me from the start that I was not welcome in there; though when he failed to close his door, I inspected it thoroughly. As he grew older, he had a propensity to leave foul, acrid and harsh smelling compounds out on his work table, but otherwise there was little of interest in his room. Since I was never within my range as he slept, I know nothing of his dreams, but judging from his typical waking emanations, I assume his dream life was insipid and dull. This child, you understand, like his father and so many humans, had a critical imbalance of his mental nature at the expense of the emotional. His so-called intellectual life was wholly inconsequential in the grand scheme of nature, and as long as his emotional life remained ineffectually

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benign, he was of no threat to others. Under his fathers influence, however, I was not sanguine about his future. It was the younger child, however, who turned out to be by far the most unusual. I hesitate to draw any conclusions about his peculiar human makeup, except one. From what I observed, the boy was a bundle of seemingly irreconcilable contradictions, and I believe it was these, working separately and against each other confined with in his psyche, that created the dynamo of the exceptional power he expressed in his talent, and as I discovered, in other ways as well. The boys artistic gift set him apart from other humans certainly from his parents. This intensity of purpose only increased over the years. Apparently the pictures Toby Wellington made won him acclaim even at his early age, though to me, a being independent of art, his drawings were of no more interest than the unrealistic, andin the case of Tom and Jerry and Sylvester and that insipid birdinsulting cartoons to which he became addicted. Though his art didnt affect me, his Aura of Creativity became increasingly potent as a force in itself as he matured, or at least grew larger, and since he still wouldnt permit anyone in his room when he drew other than me, I continued to benefit from this. Since my previous stays with humans had been brief, Id never before observed a child growing up. And during the years since I arrived at the Wellingtons, Toby did get bigger and more independent from his parents. Shortly after I became a member of their household, the boy celebrated his fifth birthday, then the next summer, his sixth, then his seventh. During the days, he went off to school where he seemed to learn nothing of any use to him, unless one considers learning to get the better of his peers a worthy accomplishment. Having observed him as I already had, I wasnt surprised that he absorbed nothing relevant to his character as he advanced through school, because it was obvious to me that this child was magnetically impermeable. Any cat could see it. When spoken to, when complimented or even chastised, Tobys emanations remained undisturbed. Ordinarily, when one human speaks to another, the subtle body of one affects that of the other: blueness is transferred, a pink brings on a deeper red, a wave is transmitted, a pattern of interference is created, or countless other exchanges of energy transpire. Not so with this child. It was

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graphically clear: no one communicated with Toby. Whether his receptors were shut off, damaged or missing, wasnt clear. What was clear, however, was that the boy felt no deficiency whatsoever; that he considered himself intact and correct. Correct indeed. On more than one occasion, a friend with whom Toby was playing was accidentally hurt and needed the attentions of Angela Wellington, either in providing first aid or simply sympathy. Once I saw Toby shut a door on a friends head, his own aura bristling with malice as he weepingly apologized to his friend for the accident, and once, outside in an empty lot near the Wellingtons home, while secretly observing Toby with another friend, I saw Toby throw a rock at the boy who was looking away at the time. The rock struck his friend in the back of the head, and as he cried out in pain, Toby did so as well, holding his own head as if both of them had been hit by someone throwing at them from a distance. Fortunately for me, and certainly also for him, the boy never directed his wickedness in my direction. Whether he liked me, respected me, feared or considered me his equal is unclear, since as stated, his emotional reactions were unlike any Id previously observed. It would be a mistake to believe that my attention was wholly devoted to the observation of humans over these years. I first met Akbar on the roof on a moonlit night shortly after arriving at the Wellingtons, and the possibility of hostility between us never existed. Nor did it exist with his followers, who were always as civil and respectful to me as I was to them. Any human superstitions regarding the natural incompatibility between nonhuman species should be dispelled here. Given his natural ability to gather information and his mystical nature, Akbar was able to inform me of matters both far afield and numinous, while what I gleaned from my relationship with humans was of keen interest to him. It was Akbar who informed me of the history of the League of Initiates, of the twelve-fold influence of the Suns planets, the meanings of cloud formations and the ever-changing pictures in the stars; and it was I who provided him with details of the peculiar case

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of Tobias Wellington Jr. More often than not, we observed the natural and unnatural worlds around us: we read the stories of the folding and unfolding leaves, we watched the weird magnetic vortices that surged about the wires criss-crossing the city, we listened to the news carried on the wind and inhaled the stink of destruction pouring from the humanitys handiwork; we joined the ancient voices of our separate species in the hymn the earth sings to the Solar System and averted our eyes from the poisonous humming lights. Akbars opinion of humanity differed considerably from mine. He did not belittle your race. He did not convince me of anything immediately, and despite the cogency of his argument, there was something about him, not his words but the subtle, silvery shine of his emanations that moved me most deeply and unexpectedly. Yet his understandings were compelling: Akbar understood human civilization as a necessary step in the evolution of consciousness on the planet, and even defended some of your more misguided actions as well-meaning in several of our conversations. He even went so far as to take the name of a human king, Akbar the great, renowned for his religious tolerance in sixteenth century India and his development of an eclectic, universal religion, Din-i-Ilahi (Divine faith.) In a similar way, the present Akbar, while retaining the fierce temperament of a warrior, showed great charity toward the ways of humankind. The depth and breadth of his wisdom impressed me; and when he confided in me regarding his own membership in The League of Initiates, I took his words at face valuebut still, I had to step back a bit from his persuasive powers and the force of his character in order to maintain perspective. `I pointed out that as an independent creature, he had never served as a pet; he had never been locked in a poorly ventilated room with a hormonally crazed pre-teen female, or plied with tepid, sugary sweet tea and forced into a toy chair in an uncomfortable and embarrassing position while dressed as Mr. Fluffy Fluffmuffin. In short, I concluded that from a distance, humanity might not give off quite the same aroma it from close at hand. Akbars band of followers rustled at hearing this, yet they still glowed warmly, without a trace of disdain or condescension. Akbar, too, welcomed my views graciously, as if he wished to incorporate them into his

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own, which not only reminded me that the wise are always humble, but reinforced my belief that among the pure of heart, differences in species hardly merits noticing and certainly not mentioning. And indeed, each time I spoke with my venerable friend (he was years my senior), I made it a point to never return directly to the Wellington home, but to sit on a structural member above the back stairs, where I purred deeply and devoutly enough to light the inner planes about me for as far as I could see. As Toby grew older, his relationship with his cat matured as well. At first, the boy had simply been proud that Andr responded nicely to him and only to him, and he was smug when the animal hissed at others. Though Toby had the support of his parents and Orlando Floyd, as we know, his response to others was muted, perhaps because he was so sensitive his own source of inspiration. In any case, since Andr the Cat rarely displayed affection or anything else clearly discernable to humans, he made a perfect companion for Toby, who saw himself in the animals aloofness. By allowing the cat in the room with him when he drew, Toby shared his most private moments with him and came closer to intimacy than with any person hed known. And gradually, as time passed, Toby began to appreciate his closeness to the cat in an ever greater way. After hed lived with Andr for about a year, the boy noticed that sometimes when the cat purred, a feeling of well-being came over him. He didnt think of it as well-being of course, such assessments are not the business of children, even prodigies: Toby thought of it as catness. And this feeling was unlike any that had naturally arisen in him. It was trance-like and utterly quieting. At first, Toby had no control over when this feeling came to him. Sometimes when Andr purred, Toby was uplifted by catness, but most often he was not. It never happened while he was drawing; it was then, when directly in touch with his vision that he was most impermeable. But after Toby finished a picture, he began to find that if he turned his attention to the cats purring, he could slip into the state without much difficulty. The cat didnt seem to noticeor care. The animal always sat on the loveseat in Tobys studio when the boy was at work, and sometimes when Toby sat down next to

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him and was touched with catness, the animal remained there and at other times he jumped down and walked away or went to the door to be let out. It wasnt long before Toby became proficient at slipping into this state, and practiced this secret discipline on the completion of every drawing done in his studio at home. But as Toby grew older and his art more became complex, he began to work less frequently but with greater intensity, and more often than not in his downtown classroom rather than at home. Soon the boy began to exhibit his work. His drawings won immediate acclaim. He was written about, sought after. This caused quite a stir but did not deter him from giving up his sessions with Andr, which, by the time Toby entered fourth grade at age nine, had become a regular occurrence, several times a week. Whether in his studio or in his room with the door closed, hed set Andr down, pet him until he turned his motor on, and then by a simple turn of mind align himself with the vibratory resonance of the cats purr. Within moments he achieved catness.

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ANTON

The Wellingtons lived in a three-story apartment building in a comfortable residential neighborhood of Chicago close to Lincoln Park. There were six eight room apartments in the building, three on each side of an entry hall (with mailboxes, buzzers and an intercom), and one other small apartment as well, different from all the others: the basement apartment where the janitor lived. Like most Chicago apartments buildings, the two apartments on each floor were connected by wooden back porches, painted gray. These had stairs leading down to a partially enclosed inner court and the entrance to the basement proper, where, along with six storage cubicles, were washers and dryers, utility sinks, electrical and plumbing access, and a large old-fashioned boiler that supplied the buildings hot water and steam radiators. Though this basement fascinated nine-year-old Toby, Anton, the new janitor who spent part of every day there, frightened him to the point of trembling. No one had ever frightened Toby before.

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Anton was a short, thick man with no neck to speak of; he held his arms slightly away from his body, his elbows bowed out, and as far as Toby could recall, his fists always clenched. His face was square, his eyes deep set, and the stubble on his cheeks and chin dark, nearly blue. He had a thick Eastern European accent, and the first time he discovered Toby in the basement he abruptly ordered him to leave. He had come up behind the boy and frightened him as he was sitting at on old, worn work table playing with toy cars. The former janitor, Mr. McGregor, was a kindly, even-tempered man who let Toby play there whenever he liked. He told Toby that being a janitor was lonely and that he enjoyed company, even in silence and he must have been hungry for it, since in all the hours Toby spent there, the boy rarely spoke to the man. But Mr. McGregor was gone. Toby learned that apparently he drank. Anton was his replacement. At age nine, despite his trance-like meditations and exceptional gift, Toby was still in some ways a typical boy, and when he recovered from the initial shock of being frightened by what seemed an grizzly troll of a man, he began to resent being kept away from one of his favorite spots. One might wonder why Angela Wellington allowed her son to go to the basement alone. Certainly there was enough down there that many parents would consider dangerous: the old boiler, the janitors tools, an archaic tangle of electrical works, and god knows whatever else had been cast aside into the dark, dusty crannies and corners. But Toby wanted to play in the basement, and his mother didnt have the stomach to prevent such a gifted boy from doing what he pleased. And, besides, Mr. McGregor had said that hed keep an eye on the youngster when going about his own janitorial duties, so Toby came to believe the basement was a safe haven. It wasnt that he felt at all threatened at home; on the contrary, he was treated like royalty, particularly when he was drawing, and even more so now that hed had a successful exhibit, in New York City, no less. But in the basement he felt as if he were allowed to break the rules of civilized life upstairs, that he was freer to let his imagination run wild, which he did. He never mentioned his frightening encounter with Anton to anyone. He would never admit he was frightened; and apparently his mother didnt know hed been forbidden to return to the

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basement, because the next day when Toby told her he was going out to play, she acted as if nothing had changed. This was summertime. He had gone to camp the summer before but hadnt liked the children. The children at his private school had already learned to warily accept him, and given Tobys force of character, they acquiesced to any friendly gestures. But hed made no such inroads at camp, and this summer he chose to stay home. When he went out, he played in the empty lot close to his building, in the narrow walkway beside it, and the sidewalk in front. All these, including the courtyard at the bottom of the stairs and the basement, were permissible. Sometimes he played with one or two of the neighborhood children, but ordinarily played alone. His fear of the janitor, however, not only prevented him from playing in the basement but cast a chill over the back courtyard and even the narrow walkway next to the building where he might accidentally meet the brusque, stocky man. For the first week after his run-in with Anton, he stopped using the back stairs altogether. This further diminished the possibility of encountering him, since the door to his basement apartment was under the back stairs, and Toby had never seen a janitor on the front stairs or in the front hall of the building. He didnt think janitors were allowed there. Using the front stairs was an inconvenience, however, since he had to ring the buzzer to be let back in the house, and sometimes his mother was so busy talking on the phone or taking one of her long baths that she didnt answer at all. But after the first week of using the buzzer though, his mother began to wonder, and still unwilling to admit that hed been forbidden to play in the basement, Toby summoned up the courage to use the back way again. Once back to his usual routine, he was fortunate to avoid seeing the janitor. On a few occasions he did hear sounds from the basement as he walked by the open door, but never saw Anton himself. His life, however, had been interrupted. He began to take his small set of cars over to the empty lot to play with them there, but these were private cars, and more than once one of the neighborhood boys found him there and insisted on playing too. He wasnt someone Toby liked. He was crude, and as far as Tony was concerned, inadequate when it came to playing with carsand just about anything else. He was the boy who, when shot dead in a

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police game he insisted on playing, clapped his hands when Toby told him to collapse. And playing with those cars in his room or in his studio just wouldnt do. There were certain books he needed to read in the basementone in particular about ancient Egypt that required that darkened, subterranean setting to be enjoyed. Most of all, there was a feeling he had in the basement: a feeling of secret power, of ownership, and it was a feeling he couldnt summon up anyplace else. So Toby decided he was going to poison Anton. Before he could accomplish this, he reasoned, hed have to observe him and his habits. Antons workbench was along the back wall of the basement behind the boiler, and between the boiler and the wall next to it was a place Toby thought he could squeeze in. It was a small space where brooms, mops, shovels, rakes, and poles of various sorts were stored, and it was backed by a framework of twoby-fours and chicken wire. Toby believed that if he got in there, he could spy on Anton. Naturally, hed need to be silent. He knew that if he brushed against the handles of any of the brooms, shovels, rakes or poles, one might fall, and hed have to run out of the basement before Anton came out from around the boiler. But Toby could tell by the way Anton moved that he was slow. He knew that hed have to have a good start, but if he could escape the courtyard and get to the alley without being seen, he believed he could elude Anton by disappearing into the neighborhood. The first time he spied on Anton in that dark basement, Toby was trembling so violently that when he wedged himself in next to the snow shovel, he dislodged its handle and it toppled against the side of the boiler. Anton had been fitting pieces of a faucet together at his work bench and stood up immediately when he heard the noise. But Toby didnt run away; he felt the breath sucked out of him and went rigid. Anton sat back down at his workbench, however; Toby didnt know why, but the man did sit down, and he also did something Toby didnt entirely understand. It seemed important: Anton opened a drawer, took out a bottle with something brown in it, took a gulp, and returned it to the drawer. The boy wasnt sure what was in the bottle, but it looked very much like those his father had kept locked away in a private cabinet upstairs. He never saw his mother open it. Moments after the janitor put the bottle back in the drawer, though, he turned and

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looked back in Tobys direction. Toby held himself tightly to keep from shaking. He was in deep shadow in a dark room, and apparently Anton couldnt make him out among the long handles leaning every which way, but Toby saw his grizzled face even more clearly than when hed first been surprised by him weeks before. It was later that he realized that if Anton was drinking as he suspected, he might have gained an advantage over him. That night at dinner he waited for an opportunity to ask what drinking really meant, but his mother and brother were talking about the MiddleEast, which was boring for him so he just ate. Toby was tormented by the fact that hed been so frightened of the janitor that he trembled, and this only increased his ire toward the man and fueled his indignation. That evening after dinner, he took his cat into his studio with him, but didnt even consider drawing and ignored the cat as it purred on the loveseat next to him. The next day, he crept back into the basement but saw the light wasnt on over Antons bench, so he went back up the stairs and sat outside the back door to his apartment where he could look down on the basement door unobserved. Not long after that, Anton entered, and Toby snuck downstairs and looked in. Once situated, he saw the janitor hauling heavy bags that said Salt on them; Anton didnt see Toby, but the boy bolted and ran away just the same. He pretended Anton was chasing him, that hed falsely accused him of stealing salt and that everyone believed the janitor and that Toby was going to be punished for something he hadnt done. When he came back to the basement a little later, he heard Anton at his work bench, so he tiptoed in and slipped into his hiding place. This time he was more careful. He dislodged no handles. He was perfectly silent. The old boiler, however, was roaring next to him, but he managed to stay there long enough to see that Anton moved his hands over most of the surface of his work bench, which was cluttered and dirty. Toby saw that he was doing something with electric wires: he was wrapping black tape around them and then biting the tape off the roll. He also saw him take another drink from the bottle in the drawer. When he finally snuck out, he decided to watch Anton there one more time before he poisoned him, but he didnt keep that resolution.

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Tobys older brother, Adam, was fourteen the summer Toby was nine, and the younger boy, despite his own artistic success, resented the fact that everyone always talked about how smart Adam was. Adam was smart. In school, he was already on an academic track for a fine institution of higher learning. Because of his purported intelligence, Adam was allowed to handle dangerous chemicals. He had an advanced chemistry set open in his room, which was where he conducted what he called, his experiments. Toby was resentful: hed been told he wasnt old enough to play with a chemistry set, and certainly not his brothers, since Adam was allowed to order extra chemicals from the scientific supply house. His mother allowed this, but not gladly, since she said that many of the chemicals were poisonous. But Tobys brother laughed at this, saying that no one was going to eat anything from those bottles not even Toby. Angela wasnt satisfied, however; not until Adam promised to wash his hands very carefully after conducting his experiments. Toby didnt know anything about chemistry. The names on the little bottles meant nothing to him; they may as well have been interchangeable. He did know by the color and printing on the labels which bottles were original parts of the chemistry set and which his brother had ordered, and he deduced that the ones Adam ordered were probably the poisonous ones. Since Tobys brother was gone during the weekdays with his job as a junior counselor at a day camp, Toby had access to his room whenever his mother was busytalking on the phone or on the back porch talking to their neighbor, Mrs. Baum, a woman Toby detested. Toby didnt think his mother was very smart. Whenever he wanted to do something he wasnt supposed to do, he went ahead and did it, and she never suspected a thing. Which is what happened the next day; instead of spying on Anton one more time as hed resolved, Toby snuck into his brothers room when his mother was talking on the phone and put two bottles of possibly poisonous chemicals in his pocket. Just to be safe, he waited for her to get off, and then told her he was going out to play. If hed told her while she was talking, he reasoned, she might not have remembered and come looking for him. He went out the back door and when he got downstairs, he looked in the basement and saw the light was on in Antons

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workplace. He even heard him clattering something over the sound of the boiler, so he climbed back up the stairs, took the cars hed brought along out of their box and began playing on the landing where he could see when Anton came out and walked away. As soon as that happened, Toby went down into the basement, around behind the boiler, and in the dark, sprinkled some of the contents of each bottle onto the workbench where he was sure Anton would have to touch it. Then he ran out and back upstairs, where he sat, pretending to play with his cars until his heart stopped racing. Back so soon? Angela asked when he came back into the kitchen. Toby was worried that the bottles bulged in his pants pockets, so he had to slip past her as quickly as possible, saying he decided to read in his room rather than play outside. It didnt take long then before he heard her talking on the phone again, so he was able to replace the bottles in Adams room. He didnt care if his brother noticed that some of the chemicals were missing. His brother wasnt nearly as smart as everyone said. Toby Wellington wasnt sure what was going to happen then, but if he hadn't heard that Anton died in a few days, he planned to sprinkle different chemicals on his workbench, or maybe even put some in the bottle from which the janitor drank. He knew it would be riskier to put anything in his bottle; it would take longer, but if nothing else worked, it was a risk he was willing to take. The boy had come to dislike Anton even more: the first day he spied on him, he saw that his face was even bluer and uglier than he first thought. He also saw that his hands were thick and that his fingernails were dirty. Two days later, Toby saw him in front of the building. Antons arms were bowed out as theyd been the first time he saw him, and his hands were clenched into fists. He didnt see Toby. He had turned into the narrow walkway next to the building. The boy waited, trembling again before going back to the basement to see if Anton was in there; but he wasnt and Toby didnt feel safe going in unless hed seen the janitor leave, so he had to wait. He was more upset than he realized, however. When he went back upstairs he started to cry, but stopped himself before he went into the house. His mother didnt notice a thing.

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It was much later that afternoon before he could return to the basement again. When he finally got in, he did the same thing he did the last time, except with different chemicals. Even in the dark, he could see that Anton must have brushed off the ones he put there before. Toby believed Anton was a dirty man, so he probably hadnt washed his hands, but he supposed the first chemicals hed put there hadnt been poisonous, or poisonous enough. So this time he sprinkled more from each of the bottles. One powder was black and the other white, but even as he was pouring them out, he decided if these didnt work, hed put some in Antons bottle the next time he came in. Then he hurried out, but just after he started up the back stairs, he saw the door to Antons basement apartment swing open, and he had to snap himself up against the back door of his downstairs neighbor to avoid being seen. But the janitor turned and looked right at him, frightening Toby so that he pushed back against the door hard enough to open it up a little, and then a little more, and he couldnt help it but he slipped into the kitchen where he saw Mrs. Lambert drinking something out of a cup. Toby! she said. Youre in the wrong house! Mrs. Lambert wasnt like the hated Mrs. Baum on the second floor, who thought it was funny to tease him, but Toby didnt know what to say and felt he was about to cry. Dont be embarrassed, Toby, Mrs. Lambert said. It was just a mistake. It could happen to anybody. But Toby didnt say anything; he turned and ran outand he did start to cry, so he couldnt go right into the house. As Toby had grown older, tears had begun to embarrass him, and he blamed Anton for this humiliation. So he had to wait on the porch to settle down, but apparently he hadnt waited long enough, because as soon as his mother looked at him, she asked what was wrong. Toby told her he hurt his foot, but when she asked to look at it, he told her it didnt hurt anymore, and he slipped back into his studio and closed the door before she could inquire further. His cat followed him in, sat on the loveseat as usual and began to purr, but once again, Toby paid no attention. Nor did he draw. He hadnt drawn since he first planned to poison the janitor. At dinner that night, his mother asked him again if he was okay, but by then hed concocted a story about stepping in a hole in the empty lot, and though his brother laughed at him, it didnt go any further than that.

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He waited three days before he went back to the basement again. Angela was concerned about him. He seemed unusually withdrawn; he stayed alone in his room or studio most of the time. No one had said anything about Anton dying, and Toby was sure that news of that would have spread through the building by then if he had. It seemed to him that he was down to his last chance, that if Anton wasnt poisoned by the chemicals he put in his drinking bottle, hed have to give up and never go into the basement again unless he told his mother he saw Anton drinking down there, and that might be enough to get a new, nicer janitor to replace him, maybe even Mr. McGregor again. But the boy was unsure of that course of action. He still wasnt sure what drinking meant, or even if Anton was really doing it, though if it was something unsavory, he suspected the man was probably guilty of it, because he was ugly and dirty. When Toby was in his room by himself, he thought about Anton accusing him of stealing salt again, even trying to shake him, but the judge presiding in his fantasy didnt let Anton do it. On the third day, Toby waited until his mother was in the bathroom, and found two more bottles of specially ordered chemicals in his brothers room. When he went downstairs, Anton was adjusting the boiler, and Toby wondered why there had to be a fire in the boiler when it was warm outside. This didnt make any sense to him, but he only wondered for a moment before he went back upstairs and waited on the landing. Very carefully, he opened each of the bottles and discovered that neither smelled badly; this was fortunate, he felt, since these were the ones he was going to pour into Antons bottle. He knew there was a funnel down there on his work bench; hed seen it. But he waited so long on the landing that he worried his mother might get suspicious or maybe Mrs. Baum might come nosing around and tell him he hadnt washed his face well enough because the freckles were still there. By the time Toby saw Anton leave, he already had a stomachache and had just about given up, but then when the door shut to his basement apartment, he snuck down. In the basement, the boiler was raging. Toby could see flames leaping inside it. He also noticed that Anton had left a sliding glass panel partially openabout six inchesand the boy felt heat streaming out. When he got around behind it at Antons

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work bench, he didnt know if he would be able to do what he intended because it was so hot. But he knew which drawer to open, and the roaring boiler cast enough light for him to see. The light was orange, like a picture of Hell one of the Catholic neighbor boys had once shown him. His back felt like it was burning and his knees were knocking against each other but his hands were hardly shaking at all, so he didnt have any trouble with the funnel: when he twisted the top of the bottle off, it fit in perfectly. Then he opened both the chemicals and poured some of one into the funnel and then some of the other. He couldnt see in the bottle, but thought he heard a fizzing sound. It was hard to tell though, with the boiler making so much noise. And he didnt shake the bottle; he wanted to make sure that when Anton drank from it the chemicals would be on top. Toby screwed the top back on and put the bottle back in the drawer, but as he edged around the boiler and started to run out, he was so keyed up and his heart was pounding so furiously that he slipped and fell to his knees on the hard cement floor. When he fell, he knocked over some cans with paint brushes in them, and also something that smelled like the woodshop at school. With whatever it was splashed all over, Toby was frightened again: this time some of it had got on his clothes and he wouldnt be able to go back in the house unless he was naked and told his mother someone had beat him up and took the clothes that he was wearing. He ran out and didnt stop running until he got to the bushes on the other side of the empty lot. Thats when he saw that only the toe of his sneaker had been splattered. It had a strong smell to it, so he spit on it and rubbed some mud on it and kept rubbing until it wasnt very noticeable. Fifteen minutes later, he was lying on his bed thinking about Anton shouting at him for stealing salt again, when Angela rushed into his room. Her face didnt look right; it looked like his grandmothers face; that scared him. She told Toby to follow her outside because there was a fire in the building, and he started to cry. Its not in our apartment, she said, squeezing his hand. Its in the basement. But we have to hurry. The Fire Departments on the way. Then she said, Here, and handed him his leather portfolio. Your drawings.

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Apparently shed hastily collected them all. Still crying, Toby looked at his mother indignantly. Shed gone into his studio. Shed opened the wide, shallow drawers. Some of his drawings had been hidden away under sheaves of blank paper. It didnt occur to him that shed saved his work from possible harm. With the portfolio under his arm, he followed her out, now trying to suppress his tearsof fear, sharpened now by outrage. Everyone from the building was standing across the street on the sidewalk. They werent talking; they hardly moved. Toby was worried. He didnt know what would happen to him if the building burned down, and he didnt know where his cat was. Hed seen war pictures of people pulling carts with all their belongings in them. The peoples faces had looked dark and hard. Would his mother look like that? And the firemen frightened him. They were big and rough and loud, and their trucks were making terrible noises toobut Toby never saw any flames, just a little smoke. Was the fire burning inside where he couldnt see it? Was Anton burning up? Was his room going to burn up? His studio? And then someone said the fire was in the basement but it was out. Toby didnt see Anton anywhere. If only the basement had burned down, he wondered, was Anton dead in there? Would they take him out? What did a burned person look like? Would he ever be able to play there again? Who would be the next janitor? A few days later at dinner, Tobys mother talked about what happened. The house still smelled a little from the smoke. Toby already knew the part of the basement that had caught on fire was under the Lamberts apartment and that there had been some smoke damage but nobody was burned, not even any furniture. Angela said that there had been an investigation, and that the cause of the fire had been determined to be careless use and storage of flammable materials. As she said this, Angelas voice reminded Toby of his father. When the boy asked what that meant, his mother said, It means paint thinner, dear. The paint thinner in the basement should have been kept in a tightly sealed container. She also said the janitor had been let go. But Adam said he didnt understand; he thought Mr. McGregor was already gone.

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Mr. McGregor is gone, dear, she explained to him. This was a new man, Anton. Then Toby went to the maids room to hide. There was no maid living there at the time. The room was very small and very crowded with furniture; there was just enough room between the bed and the dresser for Toby to slip in, and the room smelled of the last maid that worked there. Toby hated that maid. Shed slapped him once and then never came back. The smell in that room made him feel sick, and his cat wouldnt come in there with him, but he couldnt go to the basement to hide, could he? He didnt want to, but Toby fell asleep on that maids bed, and when he woke up, the room had shrunk and the furniture was bigger. It was so crowded he felt he could never squeeze out. He was frightened again; he wished his father was still home. But he wasnt, and Toby wasnt supposed to be in that room, so he couldnt call for help, and he had to wait for what seemed a little forever before he could fit between the bed and the dresser. Then it turned out that his mother didnt know hed been gone. The next day he was playing alone in front of the building. There was an old green truck packed with furniture parked close by. Toby thought the truck had something to do with the fire. Then he saw a man hed never seen before coming out of the narrow walkway beside the building. The man was carrying a chair. It was wooden with shiny yellow cloth and black stripes, and he walked right past Toby and added the chair to the pile in the truck. Then he just stood there staring at the building. Thats when Toby got frightened again. Hed been frightened more in the last ten days than he could ever remember being before. And then Anton came out from the walkway. He had a hard look on his face. As soon as he noticed Toby, he frowned and pointed at him and said something in a foreign language. Then he turned back to someone who was following him: it was a woman who came out carrying a chair, just like the other one. She was even shorter than Anton, but with that same look. Anton said something to her too, and she looked at Toby and frowned. Toby wanted to run. Then something unthinkable happened, something deeply disturbing, something impossible. Two children appeared; they emerged from the walkway, a boy and a girl, and they both had

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Antons face! His face without the bluish cheeks and chin. The boy was carrying a suitcase, and the girl was carrying a wrinkled brown paper bag! Toby was aghast. Why hadnt he seen them before? Had they been hiding in that basement apartment? How could they? How could they have been hiding in there all that time without his finding out? Had they been imprisoned there? What else was in that apartment? Why was the girl carrying her things in an old paper bag? A wrinkled brown paper bag! Toby could see that they were nearly his age but they had that same look on their faces, that same look hed seen in the pictures of the people from the war, and he started to cry out loud. They were all looking at him now. Anton. The short woman. The boy and girl with Antons face. That same hard look. He wanted to run away, to run all the way to the park without stopping. He couldnt move. Those chairs were piled on the truck behind him, and there were tables there too, and a sewing machine! He didnt even like children, so why was he crying? What did he care? But hot tears were burning his face. Everyone was looking at him, yet he couldnt move. He couldnt take a single stepnot one. He stared back at the children. He was waist deep in sand.

NOTE # 1 The Feud

Though familiar with the interdependent theories of reincarnation and karma, this reporter does not wish to attest to the validity of those or deny it. In one school of reincarnational theory, it is held that individuals bound by their souls in close kinship frequently incarnate together to learn the lessons of life by repeatedly exchanging positions in the family group or social milieu. The following historical facts, therefore, are meant only as food for thought should the reader have an appetite for metaphysical conjecture. In the year 888 AD, Odo, the count of Paris was elected king of the West Franks to succeed the former Emperor, Charles the Fat. Charles the Simple, meanwhile, son of the late Louis the Stammerer, also ruled at the time, but since Charles wasnt just Simple but

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only ten, not much was expected of him. He reigned in the city of Laon, and it was there that there lived a simple carpenter named Anthral. On one particular Monday, Anthral the Carpenter was returning from the forest laden with a bundle of wrist-thick tree limbs on his back and the remains of an oiled, leather bag of goats milk (his lunch) around his neck. As Anthral entered the city and passed a certain house, the lad Tobalthred, son of a bandit, was perched upon a thatched roof and flung a partly spoiled cabbage at the burdened carpenter, striking him on the head, knocking him to the ground, and not only breaking open his bundle of sticks, but causing his bag of milk to split under the carpenters considerable weight. Anthral was then set upon by a number of village dogs, who, intent upon the goats milk, separated Anthral from part of one of his ears. Tobalthreds motives were never clear, but unfortunately for the youth, an old crone and potential candidate for village idiot (if women were allowed that position, which they were not) witnessed the entire debacle, and spitefully informed on the boy. The injured and indignant carpenter wasted no time in retaliation, beating Tobalthred about the head with a stout stick, causing such excessive damage that henceforth the lad was known as Tobalthred the Drooler, and without need of appointment or election, filled the empty position of Idiot for the next thirty-two years. In the year 1160, when Frances Louis VII and Englands Henry II made a tentative settlement after Louis had driven the English off a year before, minor skirmishing continued between the armies of the two rulers. After an aborted raid on a phalanx of Henrys infantry in a meadow outside Paris, a small group of English soldiers approached the French camp after midnight. Finding the sentries asleep after a night of drinking, the Englishmen were able to penetrate the camp, but only as far as the mess tent. There, determined to inflict at least some damage, the young officer leading the raid, one Tobalthred of Kent, doused seven legs of mutton with lamp oil and set a slow fuse to them. By the time the British troops had retreated across the meadow and into the cover of a wood, the lamb had gone up in spectacular flames that not only singed it black but left what remained with a slightly acrid taste. The French camps soldier-cook, Anthral le Blaireau (Anthral the

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Badger) assured the men to whom he was responsible that he could prepare the mutton is such a way as to entirely disguise the taste of lamp oil. And so with a marinade of vinegar, wild garlic and thyme, Anthral prepared the next days meal, only to find that the all the men became violently sick after ingesting the lamp oil infused meat. One officer was paralyzed on the right side of his body and several men were never able to eat solid food again. Anthral was summarily driven from camp, and in an order issued by Henry II himself, banished from the kingdom. With his family trailing behind him and his belongings in a cart, Anthral le Blaireau wandered in a south-easterly direction until he reached Bulgaria, where, after he and his family were persecuted for a number of years, he took his own life by drinking poison. In 1346, at the Battle of Crcy, the English, under Edward III, massacred Europes greatest army of horse soldiers. The English had landed near Cherbourg with 1,000 ships, 4,000 knights, and 10,000 English and Welsh longbowmen. Among the English knightswho along with their archers make short work of the Frenchwas Sir Tobert of Cornwall, who distinguished himself greatly in battle, only to be taken down and surrounded by a brigade of Bohemian troops fighting in support of Frances Phillip VI. Sir Tobert was eventually challenged to hand to hand combat by a Bohemian, the cruel Anton of Wences, who after injuring the good knight, took him captive and slowly poisoned him with a potion prepared by his brother, Adamic. Sir Toberts death, slow and painful as it probably was, may have been a salvation of sorts, because within three years Anton, Adamic, and two-thirds of Europe along with them were annihilated by The Black Death. Anton Vanic, by the way, the janitor temporarily employed in the Wellingtons apartment building, a gruff though pious man, was fortunate enough to find a better paying job maintaining the Serbian consulate on the near-north side of the city, as well as doing all maintenance, odd jobs in the Council Generals home and the homes of all the other staff members and their relatives. His wife was also occasionally employed as a cook. Oddly enough, this opportunity did not present itself until Anton left the confessional at his church one Sunday. He had confessed his hatred of a mere boy

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whom he believed had somehow conspired against him. Once absolved of this sin by his priest, he felt such a burden lifted from his soul that tears flowed from his eyes as he walked out of the church to rejoin his family. The Council General, meanwhile, a member of the same congregation, was moved by the sight of the weeping man, but even more so by the resemblance that Anton Vanic bore to a portrait his own famous Ancestor, Bohemias blind John of Luxembourg, who was killed at the Battle of Crcy in 1346. Thus doubly moved, he struck up a conversation with Anton, and hearing of his situation, subsequently offered him a job.

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AN INFINITE RESOURCE

Ever since the fire, Angela said to Orlando, actually, before that. Hed been acting upset for a while. I think something was brooding and the fire just set it off. They were sitting in at a window table in The Bohemian Cafthats bohemian in the artsy rather than Eastern European sense. The restaurant was across Michigan Avenue from the School of Fine Arts. From where they were sitting, the two could see the two great bronze lions that flanked the museums broad front steps. Hes been through a lot, Angelafor a nine-year-old, Orlando said. I think so, at least. Youre the mother, so I shouldnt talk. But you know him. He never let it show before, thats why Im a little worried. Orlando raised his eyebrows before reaching across the table and taking her hand. Maybe thats why you shouldnt be worried, he said, laughing and shaking his head. Angela looked at him devotedly and relaxed her wrinkled brow.

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When Toby was six, just after his father had left, the boy began his private lessons with Orlando Floyd. For the next three years, Toby was delivered to Orlandos well-lit studio-classroom once a week, where for ninety minutes, he drew whatever his teacher put in front of him or suggested. Yet during all that time, as much as Orlando became intimate with Tobys drawings and his mother, he felt he learned nothing more about the boy than what impressed him on the very first day: that Toby Wellington was arrogant and impenetrable. He never told this to Angela, however; hed hardly hinted at it. Orlando squeezed Angelas hand. He happens to have one very adult gift, he said. But hes still a boy. And besides, I think hes just ready for something new. Ever since the show, Ive been seeing signs of boredom, maybe, or dissatisfaction. Toby? Angela said, incredulous. My Toby? Dissatisfied with himself? She laughed. After all thatthat? She screwed up her face. Orlando found the expression endearing. Angela was referring to the reviews, grandiose plaudits and invitations that came in response to the showing of Tobys drawings at the fashionable Cimino Gallery in New York City. The forty drawings, selected from over four years of the childs artistic production, were clearly the work of a young genius. As Orlando had foreseen and the drawings demonstrated, the boys work did not evolve during this period; there was little difference between his most recent compositions and the original ones, but the drawings had a startling power altogether their own. The very fact that a set of 9 x 12 inch ink drawings of animals (several of the childs cat), still lifes with various settings of vases of flowers, fruit, open books, ink pots and pens; landscapes (mostly of Lincoln Park near his home), and a few portraits of the boys mother could command such a unanimously awed response speaks to the genius of the work. One of the most striking of the set depicted a grouping of a dozen crows, some in the branches of a maple tree and some on the ground below it. The draftsmanship was immaculate and expressive as usual, but in this picture the birds were arranged and poised with such acute compositional tension as to convey the impression no, to convey the certainty that they were about take flight, a certainty that Orlando found disturbing, even though hed had no ominous interaction with crows since the day they swarmed around him in

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the bus shelter, four years earlier. But it was another drawing that attracted the greatest attention: this of a vase of roses amidst a pile of several open books. The books were open to pictures, drawings, Tobys drawings, each displayed in the gallery show, one of which was that same vase of roses and open books, so the overall composition not only included three other Toby Wellington compositions in partial or foreshortened views, but distinguished itself with an intriguing picture within picture, M.C. Escher-like complexity unseen in any of the other drawings. The drawing was titled simply: Books and Roses. The following is an excerpt from one of the more restrained reviews: What came to my mind when I studied these drawings that the nine-year-old artist created in the last four years was greater than the sum of my critical impressions. I dont believe I differ greatly from other critics or the art loving public in my appreciation of the living quality of all Wellingtons subjects, their startling vibrancy, their essential reality. I believe most others who attend this show of the young artists work to date will recognize the unflagging elegance of his line, a quality reminiscent of Picasso and Goya. Nor do I expect the most outstanding feature of his work, his uncanny sense of the balance and tension of compositionapproaching the musical in some of the drawingsto go unnoticed. But what moves me most about this collection of drawings, magnificent and perhaps historic as they are, is my wonder at the splendor of humanity, an awe that life is so designed that genius can emerge complete in one so very young. Toby Wellington is not merely a stupendous savant, not one whose brain, by some genetic accident, has unleashed a phenomenal capacity for memory or computation, but is one who has arrived intact, a fully developed artist whose work expresses that implicit sense of the divineor the supremely humane which is hidden in the images of all great art.

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Thirty drawings in the group had been up for sale, and these sold in two days at prices high enough that after the gallery owner took her large cut, an impressive amount was deposited in Tobys own trust account. Yet Angela wished she had restrained her response to the over-blown reviews, the requests for interviews with the young Leonardo, and invitations for the New Picasso to appear on television talk shows. If the phone in the Wellington apartment had a say in the matter, it would have pulled its own plug during the three week span of the show, so constant was the clatter. At first, Angela answered all the calls, showed Toby every review, and even discussed the possibility of an appearance on the David Letterman show with him; but then, at Orlandos prompting, she settled back down to earth and did her best to haul her self-satisfied son back down with her. It was then that she first had an inkling that something may have been a little out of kilter with the boy. The fire that burned in his eyes had never seemed sinister beforebut Angela wasnt sure. She didnt feel he needed any extra praise piled on, however. And she took care of that by herself very well, she thought, making it clear to her son that having a great gift didnt excuse him from making his bed, cleaning the litter box, and minding his mother. Years earlier, when Tobias Wellington was first investigated for his questionable interpretation of the Federal tax code, he maintained the smiling faade he had always presented to his family. Tobias lied very well. His wife and children proved easier to fool than the federal agents, however, particularly the one he attempted to seduce, and once his fraudulent practices came to light, the prosecutors called the case a slam dunk. It was only when his insubstantial defense was thus jammed through the judicial hoop that Tobias Wellingtons emotional defenses collapsed as well. The slick, handsome tax attorney with the pasted-on smile was reduced to the blubbering little boy whod been steeped in fear of the unrelenting fires of Hell in his early years at Our Lady of Perpetual Culpability Catholic School. In his last meeting with his wife before his sentencing, he fully confessed his sins; and had these only included

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his attempts to cheat the Federal government on his clients behalf and his own, she might have forgiven him. She probably would have forgiven him. That was her nature. Despite his downfall, she thrived on his approval. But when Tobias finished expunging his heart of Federal sin, he went on expunging, and out popped the story of the wraith-like slattern visible to the Wellingtons pet, otherwise known as Miss Supplemeyer, Tobiass secretary, whom hed been clandestinely shtupping for the last yearjust about as long as hed been screwing Uncle Sam. Never before in Angelas life had she been betrayed; and were it not for her responsibility to her children (and one other matter), she might have broken down completely. In the time it took Tobias to tell Angela about his ongoing trysts with his secretary, a sizeable chunk of her psychological superstructure was dismantled, its columns and joists fallen and piled in disarray, leaving a gap so large that it sucked the very breath out of her. She gasped. She had trouble breathing. She knew at once she no longer had a husband, but never having conceived of such a thing before, she felt shed topple, and more than once (as she gasped) she grabbed onto the nearest substantial piece of furniture. But she only sought support of dressers, desks and sofas for a few days, because before long she had Orlando Floyd to hold onto. Redundant and uncharacteristic as it may have sounded, after gasping at her husbands confession of adultery, and gasping again at his request for forgiveness, Angela had said Get fucked, Tobias! at which he himself gasped, never having heard such language from her. And of course he pleaded. He told her he was sorry. He told her that hed been stupid. He told her it would never happen again. He promised it would never happen again. But by then her temporary inner collapse was complete, and no longer capable of speech, she turned her back and left her husbands lawyers office. Within a week, the divorce papers were filed. Angela never let Tobias back into her life, nor did Toby. Adam kept in contact with his father, but knew well enough to keep their relationship to himself. Dependant as she had always been, Angela never considered the possibility of reconciliation. The image of her husband with his slut of a secretary was more than she could endure. Infidelity seemed unpardonable to her, yet were it not for her own

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unfaithful imagery, which she scarcely admitted to herself, she would not have so comfortably popped back up and caught her breath. She was not an emotionally mature woman. Shed never had the chance to become one. Perhaps she had been betrayed once before: by her parents who had undermined her self esteem. In any case, Angela Wellington had been conveniently setting aside the smoldering scenarios that she herself had been inventing, the lusty scenarios starring her sons art teacher, in which, among other things, Tobias had been somehow or other incapacitated. Whether she was prescient or opportunistic is unclear; but whereas Orlando reveled in his lust, Angela suppressed and misrepresented hers, until such a time as it was convenient, and that time came on the very day that Tobias was shipped off to the Grey Bar Hotel. Gasping and teetering for less than a week, she had walked into Orlandos office with a look on her face that hadnt shown since the night fifteen years before when Tobias spiked her Diet Pepsi and rented a X-rated movie he kept hidden under his coat until he popped it into the motel VCR. Orlando had been rehearsing this moment for over a year, yet none of his imagery or practiced dialogue bore any resemblance to the reality of what came to pass. What happened was ungainly. Angela had come around behind his desk where Orlando was sitting, and when she bent over to kiss him, the two banged foreheads painfully enough to raise lumps on them both and cause Orlando to topple forward. In order to prevent himself from falling to the floor at Angelas feet, he had to catch himself with his extended right hand, bruising his palm and puncturing it on a pushpin hed dropped earlier but didnt bother picking up. Once the two recovered from their first aborted kiss, however, they regrouped, and ignoring any portentous significance of the mishap, hurriedly left the School of Fine Arts for the venerable old hotel next to the Bohemian Caf across the street, where, despite Orlandos bandaged palm, they managed with each other quite nicely. They were both immensely happy. Whether the promise of a future with this delicious woman gave Orlando more joy than Angela felt at once again having found a man to love is unclear. Whatever their hopes, the two met each others needs as fully as they made love, which, as anyone passing the door to their room

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that afternoon could hear for him or herself, was lyrically enthusiastic. But then there was Toby. His father was hauled off to federal prison when he was only six, and he didnt seem to care. Tobias had tried to contact him but he never asked Toby about his art or his cat. The boy could have done without any inquiries about Andr, but not his drawing. His mother cared about his art, but as far as Toby could remember, his father never did. He didnt even look at Tobys early drawings the right way. He would never understand the importance of art in Tobys life. That was unforgivable, so the boy never answered his letters. As far as people were concerned, a mother was quite enough for him. Then, when he was nine, he was regaled as Little Picasso; and soon thereafter, having probably already committed numerous lesser crimes, he attempted homicide, only to fail at that but stumble into something akin to arson, and subsequently experience a disturbing epiphany whereby he realized there was more to things (like janitors) than met the eye. What would he make of the fact, carefully concealed from him and his brother these three years, that there was much, much more that hadnt met his eye: that his teacher was also his mothers lover? Was he even sure what lovers did? And what if he were to catch them in the act? Some might think at thirty-six and forty-four, Angela and Orlando were a bit too old to be holding hands across the table, but the waitress at the Bohemian Caf who came to refill their coffees and whod waited on them frequently in the past found them charming. Can I get you two lovebirds anything else? she asked. No thank you, Louise, Angela answered, smiling at the waitress and glancing at her watch. It wasnt long before she had to be home. Remember when we talked about the secret lives of artists? Angela asked. I remember every conversation weve had, said Orlando, both amorously and in approximation of the truth. Well, I was just thinking about it. You still havent told me about yours.

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I dont feel like much of an artist anymore, Angela. Thats my secret. Oh, dont say that. I know youre an artist. Its always burning away there in your eyes. Youre certainly an artist in bed. Orlando looked around the restaurant, feigning embarrassment. Angela laughed. Shed certainly changed in the last years, Orlando thought. Or perhaps her own secret life had just bubbled up to the surface. But shed insisted she had secrets, but not a secret life, hadnt she? Was he really so different? What are you thinking about? she asked. Its a secret. he said, reaching across and stroking her cheek. No, really, she said. What was it, he wondered, that made him the way he was? Was he actually an artist, or only a dishonest man? I was thinking that with an inspiration like you, art comes easy. Which was true of course, but not what he was thinking. Angela Wellington, so sumptuous in the flesh, could inspire a Popeeven a dead one. But then again, he hadnt answered her question. Angela smiled. She poured a little more cream in her coffee, and glanced at her watch again. Orlando had been tied up in a late meeting with people hed long disliked, and he hadnt been able to take Angela to the hotel that day. But that was just as well, they agreed; because although their passion for each other showed no signs of abating, theyd been talking less, and then theyd begun to take a proprietary interest in their relationship. Though they hadnt yet declared as much, each hoped theyd be together for the rest of their lives, and knew that enduring love required scheduled maintenance. So tell me what your life was like before me. Tell me again. It seemed Angela required repeated confirmation of her value. Orlando preferred to play this game with her in bed, but he was always ready to comply. I was like a pie, a cherry pie, with a big wedge missing, he said. I was like a one-eyed man. My days were comprised of twelve hours; I was leading half a life. I was fueled on hope and my tank was dry. But then he stopped and looked at her soulfully. I cant imagine being without you, he said.

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But do you think were selfish? Angela asked him, pensive now. In what way? She furrowed her brow again. That were so wrapped up in each other. He shrugged. I guess theres something selfish about being in love, but No, thats not what I mean. And maybe its just me, anywaywhos selfish. Tobys my son, not yours, and youve always been as devoted to him as I could have wished. Orlando felt a pang here. He believed he did love Angela. He hadnt hesitated to get out of bed in the morning or entertained any thought of running away to a life of homelessness in a warm climate since she had come into his life. His friend Parker had recently expounded a new theory of his: soon the pathway for humankind would no longer entail the enlightenment of the individual, but of the couple. Love realized was wave of the future. But Orlando had never been entirely sure what love meant it had been three years that theyd been meeting weekly at the Hilton, three years that theyd known periods of complete freedom with each other, three years that theyd comforted and encouraged each other; yet even when he wished to be, he wasnt always completely forthcoming with her. (Forthcoming was his word. Honest would be the more forthcoming one.) How have you been selfish, Angela? She gazed off for a moment. Ive given myself so wholly to you that I think Ive somehow neglected Toby. Adams fine; he has good friends, lots of them. Im not worried about him. But Tobyhis friends, those that he has, are like Oh, I dont know, I think theyre like playthings to him. Theres no warmth there, not that I can see. And Im not close to him either. I know thats his nature, but I sometimes feel like Im not making any effort. You mean youre wasting your effort on me? Orlando asked, fishing for a compliment; again being less than forthcoming. Oh no, darling! Dont think that. You require no effort at all. But you think youre too wrapped up in me? Orlando knew that even if she felt that way, shed never say it.

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No. No, I dont. I just think I could broaden my attention, my affection. Love is an infinite resource, isnt it? It was at times like these that Orlando rose to the occasion and stepped away from the shallow, manipulative little selves of his whom he employed to protect his lust. When Angela said things like that, she reminded him of everything good and true hed ever known. Maybe Parker was right: mutual enlightenment. Ah-h-h! he said, looking into the pools of her brown eyes. Angela Wellington, Bearer of Truth. Hed called her this before. She always thought he was joking but he was not. Love is an infinite resource, he repeated. Thats something I should always remember. That lights me up. And theres another side to that, too, you know. And what would that be, Mr. Floyd? He thought for a moment. He took off his glasses, polished them with a paper napkin and put them back on. Louise had just refilled his coffee. Not only was it too hot to drink but it was slightly burnt too, so he poured some cream into it to make it more palatable. Then he felt doubly blessed. Here he was with the love of his life across the table from him, in the flesh; and here too in his cup was one of those little niceties of life that he still so much appreciated. The cream swirled into the dark coffee as a cloud more perfect than a cloud can be is swallowed up into another; the cream swirled like liquid marble; like a film of Leonardo painting a sky. Look at it this way, Orlando said. Dont think youre neglecting Toby, think that you love him, but that its possible to love him more. That doesnt negate anything. See? It becomes a win-win situation. Love is an infinite resource, right? You dont have to feel guilty; you can just make a good thing better. Angela loved it when Orlando said things like that, things that seemed wise to her. Thats when the two were at their best together: when it came to glimpsing their higher lights. It was at times like these when Orlando wished he could be wholly forthcoming, and disclose his most closely guarded secret: his deep mistrust of Angelas son. When he and Angela momentarily transcended themselves, he sensed that such honesty could do vastly more good than harm. But, alas, such moments of selfless lucidity were not only rare but of short duration, and by the time Orlando decided to broach the subject, hed lost his wattage and slipped back

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to his customary defensive position. He loved Angela, didnt he? And he wouldnt want to risk offending such a lovely lovely treasure as she, would he now? Anyway, it was time for Angela to leave, and as much as it pleased the two of them to speak to each other from the top of their hearts, a more primal desire, the desire to be enveloping each other again in the Hilton next door, was their mutual parting wish. (Lust, apparently, conquers all.) Toby looked at Orlando questioningly, not a typical expression. Which one? he asked. The studio classroom was flooded with light. Toby was seated at his drawing board; before him was a low table draped with a cloth and set with a vase of irises, a pitcher, and several glasses one half full of water. About twenty feet away, a young model sat on a straight backed chair. She was barefoot, but as always when young Toby worked, she was clothed, but only in a flowing robe. So she, like the table, was draped; and were it not for her spiked hair, she might have been a model for a sculptor in the Golden Age of Greece or a Renaissance painter. Which one? Toby asked again. Both, answered Orlando. I want you to put the subjects together. Any way you like. Put the vase of irises on her head, if you want to. Combine the model and the still life into one composition. And one more thing Orlando added. Use this, at which he presented Toby with a 14 x 17 inch piece of fine drawing paper. Are you up to it? Orlando had never challenged the boy artistically or verbally, but as he expected, the verbal challenge ignited a cold gleam in Tobys eye, who looked back at his teacher as he moved the stack of 9 x12 paper off his table and then glanced back at the model and the still life. Then Orlando left the room. Tobys first attempt at combining two subjects remains one of the most intriguing compositions of his early years. With only the slightest adjustments in the models position and the removal of the pitcher and glasses, Toby created the Girl Arranging Flowers. This was a large, spontaneous drawing in ink. Though it was made without any preliminary sketches, there wasnt a tentative line or a

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line out of place, and it captured a charm and innocence never seen before in his work. It was a composition of such ingenious complexity that it stunned the viewer. The interplay of the folds of the girls robe and the folds of the tablecloth created a kind of visual fugue that served as the foundation for the interplay of the girls arms, hands and fingers with the stems of the irises and the way the blossoms themselves mirrored her facial features. And all this in a style of classic realism tempered by a unique, lyric expressionism. It was Orlandos turn to gasp when he saw this drawing, and he couldnt keep himself from feeling that a higher intelligence had lent a hand in this work, and not necessarily an angelic one. The fact that this boy, just turned ten, could create such masterful work without preparation and without a false move was stupefying in itself, but that he never permitted anyone to witness the creation itself bordered on the spooky. Orlando was so stunned by Girl Arranging Flowers that he wished for a moment that Toby would never draw again, that this would be his crowning work. But a number of spectacular compositions followed. On subsequent Saturdays, Orlando presented other dual subjects for Toby. First was a seated model and a small set of shelves stacked with books, sea shells, small figurines of Greek Gods and candlesticks. Then a table set with a loaf of bread, bottles, jars and fruit; and a moveable section of wall with an open window. Then, two models, one seated and reading, the other standing. Tobys results combining these subjects were no less spectacular than Girl Arranging Flowers; all these compositions had one unique quality. In each, elements from one part of the picture were reflected in others. As in Girl Arranging Flowers, where the completed picture looked like a puzzle cleverly fit together, in the next picture, Toby altered each small figurine on the shelf to reflect one aspect of the models posture, so as a whole she was mirrored in the Greek Gods, and though this may not have immediately been apparent to all viewers, the effect was bewitching. Then in his next composition, he arranged the moveable wall section so that the still life on the table was reflected on the window, providing a view of the backs of each object in a stirring perspective that seemed to create a holographic effect. In his composition with the two models, the one reading and the other standing, he arranged the flowing

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robes of each in such a way as to suggest one figure rising above herself as she read. This did not seem like a trick, however, or a clich. This looked like an archetype; a drawing of a form and an idea that had always existed and had only waited for Toby Wellington to give it substance. Though Orlando Floyd had felt Girl Arranging Flowers, was a drawing for the ages, The Reader, would become the first of Tobys famous works. But how did it work? Orlando wondered. Some might conclude that Toby became capable of greater complexity in his work once he had so movingly discovered a greater complexity in lifewatching Antons unsuspected family leave their home like refugees. Perhaps, but Orlandos concern was deeper than that. How did it happen, he wondered, that these ideal forms were brought into being by a ten-year-olds hand? A ten-year-old who seemed in the midst of a growth spurt, who had become increasingly moody and had suddenly changed his habits. For rather than drawing every day, Toby had begun to spend his free time at home dreamy and distracted. Along with his reveries of persecution and revenge, his regular periods of at-one-ment with the purring of his cat, his thoughts often returned to that boy and girl, his suitcase, her wrinkled paper bagwere her toys in there? What kind of toys? Were the children allowed outside? But Toby only drew for an hour-and-a-half a week, on Saturday afternoons in Orlandos classroom. He did produce a series of masterpieces on these Saturdays, but these changes in Tobys routine only caused Orlando Floyd to wonder even more. It might be said that Orlando was looking for an answer hed never find; not because he lacked insight or sensitivity, but because hed never guess what Toby had seen and made his own as he lay in his crib just ten short years beforethat Toby had a head start, that he already knew the story. He remembered it. Orlando did not. We do not. All Toby had to do was tell it.

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SPOTS

As time passed, I began to spend more and more hours in my secluded spot above the Wellingtons back porch and on the broad roof of their building. Once out the back door, I was free to descend the stairs and wander as far afield as I chose, but once my curiosity about the neighborhood had been satisfied, I seldom strayed far from the building. As an individual, I have an unusually contemplative natureeven for a catand the protected perch Id found above the back stairs and a number of spots on the roof itself, met my Place requirements especially well. Unlike humans, cats have an acute sense of Place. Humans hardly have a word for it, and although you can be heard saying such things as: Theres no place like home, or I like it here, or This is a nice spot, these sentiments are changeable and inexact. For the most part, you humans, so keenly aware of your desires, are as unaware of your surroundings as you are of your own psychological posturings. A Place, as all felines understand, is comprised of

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numerous, distinct spots, which differ from each other as much as climates differ across vast geographical tracts. But to a cat, a Place consists of only that area immediately accessible, such as a room or a roof or a porch or a park; yet within that arena, such a great variety of distinct spots can be distinguished that a cats room or roof or porch or park becomes far greater in size than the same space for a human; greater in size and far, far greater in meaning. A dogor a humanmay be comfortable on a particular stuffed chair because of the contour, support and surface texture of that piece of furniture. Cats share an awareness of these variables, but also perceive the more significant features of a spot than humans and dogs: namely, the frequency and magnetic signature of the spot, qualities immeasurable to those blind to the planes of existence interpenetrating the physical. The frequency I refer to is not only the frequency of light or sound or anything perceptible to human senses or existing instrumentation, but a frequency including the ever-present invisible mental, emotional, and spiritual forces that share our physical plane with us; and likewise the magnetic signature is described by the prevailing vortices, currents, and drifts of these forces and others. So when a cat sits down in a favorite spot, the cat knows what hes doing. So does a crow; and most often Akbar and I chose one particular spot on the roof of the Wellingtons building for our discussions. This was a brick covered platform, slightly raised above the asphalt surface of the roof, and close enough to the edge of the building that we could observe the activity on the street below while remaining inconspicuous, inconspicuous as two elegant, glossy black creatures can be. As a matter of protocol, Akbars twelve followers never joined us on the brick platform. Although I was curious when I first met Akbar, it took me a while to find the appropriate time to ask about his followers. They are wisdom seekers, Akbar explained. They seek wisdom for the simple joy of it. This is not a complicated matter. Though I do not teach them, they learn from me. I am simply older than they, and just as I cannot live without receiving and giving, neither can they. I receive from the heavens around me; they receive from me. When the time comes that they are full, others will be attracted to them. No one has to say a thing.

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The crow stopped, looked at his troupe and then back to me. And you have observed correctly, he continued. There are twelve in the group, just as there are twelve signs in the zodiac, twelve constellations that transmit the mind and spirit of the cosmos to our vantage point here on earth. And here is something interesting for you, Andr; something you may find pertinent in the future. Though the planets in this solar system blend their own emanations with those of the twelve constellations as they circle through the arc of the zodiac, it is the Moon that most immediately reflects the twelve notes of this cosmic scale for all on earth to receive. Because of its proximity and the speed of its revolution, the Moon acts as a lens through which all life on earth is nourished. The Moon feeds the full range of will and love of the cosmos to every human being by forming every angle with every planet once every month, and this for the entire span of every human livfe. Many birds have access to information gathered from far and wide, but one evening when Akbar stood apart from his followers, I spoke to them and learned that his sagacity was renowned and unparalled. No one spoke of his age, or how he acquired his numerous scars or the injury to his foot that left him partially lame. I was told that he was widely traveled and in contact with a network of others creatures with whom he shared secret knowledge. Much of this he imparted to me in return for my insights into human psychology, a favorite topic of his. One cool, windy evening when the clouds raced across the moon, Akbar disclosed the following: Its important for you to understand, he explained, that human beings are a unique species in that as individuals they have the capacity to evolve, to grow and change. This evolution isnt the physical sort that all species undergo over vast stretches of time, but a psychological or spiritual evolution, unknown to other creatures. Fundamental to this, and also unknown to other creatures, are the great differences of awareness and understanding that separates members of the human species. Whereas all cats have vision that penetrates the inner realms of existence and the understandings and abilities corresponding to that perception, and the keen emotional sensitivity of all dogs is approximately the same, humans differ greatly in their levels of awareness and capacity for understanding. Some, those on the leading edge, consciously or even systematically aspire to higher

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levels of awareness, and a few among them have already achieved it and stand apart in their wisdom, compassion and power. Unlike humans, other earthly species dont participate in this conscious evolutionary process. They dont need to: they fill the supportive strata of the hierarchy of beings or in some cases have already evolved to a naturally complete and perfected state. When Akbar imparted this arcane knowledge to me, he understood my initial skepticism. It was obvious that the Frickly family, the other dull-witted families with whom I lived and the baby-talking employees at the Humane Society were not among those few highly evolved members of the human species. Yet the crow assured me that within the League of Initiates, he had relations with some exceptional human beings: a few of whom had gained renown among the species and were revered and feared as gods. Despite my reservations, I continued to listen attentively. The clouds showed no signs of slowing their race across the sky. Its also important to understand, Akbar continued, that the means by which this psychological evolution may be achieved has been conveyed to humanity in differing and apparently inconsistent ways, but that in essence, all human Religions and Mystery Schools deliver the same message. So dont be misled: although there are famous doctrines of reincarnation, of salvation, and myriad visions of afterlife, none of these shed true light on the mystery of death. What they do is act as a spur to kinder, more compassionate behavior while alive. Death, as you already know, Andr, must and always will remain unknowable to the living, no matter what claims are made by whatever authorities. The crow paused for a moment, as if to let me catch up, though I believed I was following him effortlessly. The opportunity for human evolution can be understood in a variety of ways, he went on, as his followers appeared to be listening attentively. It can be seen the possibility of awakening from the dreamlike trance in which life is projected into a vanished past and an imaginary future; it can be seen as the process by which the individual is freed from the cycle of desire and gratification; it can be seen as the recognition of love as the only currency of any but illusory value; it can be seen as the appreciation of all human experience as the sacred means by which illumination is practiced

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and learned; it can be seen as surrender of the narrow sense of self to the invariably wise, expansive and benevolent will of the cosmos, and as the history of human spiritual doctrine demonstrates, it can be seen in any number of variations, combinations, and further developments of these themes, all of which are views from different perspectives reflecting different temporal and developmental needs. But whats particularly significant here, Andr, is that the possibility to evolve on earth is the rarest of privileges. He looked at me quizzically again. And to demonstrate that, he said, Ill tell you a little story. This is from the human Buddhist tradition. According to this story, there is a great turtle who lives at the bottom of the vastness of the sea; and floating somewhere on the surface, buffeted by winds and waves and carried away by powerful currents, is a wooden ring, no bigger around than the trunk of a small tree. And it happens that for reasons of its own, every thousand years this turtle swims up from the bottom of the sea and pokes his head above the surface to glimpse the starry night sky. Now, of course, it is possible that when the turtles nose breaks the surface every thousand years, the wooden ring will fall around its neck, but this isnt likely, not at all. In fact, according to Buddhist tradition, the possibility that turtle swimming back down with the ring around its neck is so remote that it compares only to the rarest of possibilities and privileges: that of a soul being fortunate enough to incarnate on the earth. Frankly, I found this surprising; and told Akbar that according to my observations, human life was hardly something worth relishing, that unhappiness was far more prevalent than joy, and that strife far outweighed harmony among these creatures. Which is exactly the point, he said. Souls are fortunate to incarnate here not because of lifes happiness or its lush comforts or the so-called great cultures that flourish on earth, but on the contrary. It is a privilege for them to live here because of the difficulty, the friction, for that provides them with an exceptional opportunity to learn, grow. Thats how they evolve. It has been compared to polishing the facets of a gem. The environment here is like a school where the rules are strict, or like a factory for evolving souls. At this time in its development, the earth is not a place for perfection, certainly not for perfection of human society; but all have the opportunity to strive for wholeness and illumination: that is

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their birthright. You may have noticed that in their sleep they occasionally succeed in their quest: they fly. Whether they remember it or not, without this promising taste of illumination, many wouldnt have the will to go on. I told him what he said made sense but he was very generous. Even if what you say is true, I said, To me, the differences among them simply separate the dull from the dense. They seem like slackers: poor students and very slow learners. Slackers! Yes! he said, apparently finding my remark amusing. He didnt laugh, of course. Crows dont laugh; cats dont. We express amusement in more subtly. Expressed dissatisfaction is a spur that drives the cosmos on, you know, he went on. Its a form of love, Andr. Everything done in life by humans, by beings like us and others as well has the same intent. The nature of every act is to create a greater harmony than already exists. Few humans realize that. They are fond of classifying things: good and evil, right and wrong, moral and immoral. They fail to see that in everything they do is a wish for a more harmonious whole, even if their means are seemingly misdirected, destructive or even murderous. So it might be said that every act is an act of love Or then again, it might not. At this, Akbar told me he was tired, thanked me for my company, excused himself and joined his followers in an oak tree that shaded the front windows of the Wellingtons apartment. I left the roof then and went to my perch above the buildings back stairs feeling revitalized and certain that this could be attributed to Akbars influence on me. Even though some of what he told me surprised me, these things seemed somehow familiar, somehow close, as if Id once known and forgotten. My sense of well-being and connectedness to the world swelled. Again my purr illuminated the air around me, and though the feeling rarely abandons me, I reasserted my joy and pride at being a cat.

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TOLBERT AND ADEN

It was a Sunday morning, and the boys were making breakfast for their mother. It had been Adams idea; Toby was helping. Angela was delighted by the show of filial cooperation. It wasnt a complicated breakfast: orange juice, scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. Adam was planning to let Angela make her own coffee since he didnt feel equal to the task. He was also planning to let Toby rinse the dishes for the dishwasher since he really wasnt helping much with the cooking. Toby was in one of his moods. Hed been having twinges of that old feeling again; strong ones, strong enough to overpower his urge to attain catness, at least for the time being. Uncharacteristically, he mentioned this to his mother. The day before, when shed seen him sitting in an odd way in one of the big, blue velvet wingback chairs in the living room, shed asked him if anything was wrong. Thats when he told her he had a funny feeling in his back, under his shoulder blade. After questioning him briefly and prodding him a little, she told him he must be having growing pains. He had, after all, grown quickly into

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a tall boy for his age. Then Angela lovingly stroked his hair, a gesture Toby more and more dislikednearly to the point of recoil. Whats wrong, dear? she asked, sensing his reaction to her touch. Nothing, the boy answered. But something was brewing. Toby had been harboring a simmering anger toward his brother. There had been no particular incident to bring this on. Of course, in fulfilling his role as older brother, Adam had teased and taken advantage of Toby over the years and continued to do so, but only on occasion and never egregiously. But Toby hardly registered these offenses; he had other things on his mind. He couldnt understand how it was that Adam hadnt noticed certain things. How was it that Adam failed to notice that Tobys friend Damien so often ended up crying when visiting their house, crying because of accidents that had befallen him while playing with Toby? How could Adam not have noticed that in the years since the turtles perished before living any sort of life worthy of an amphibian, several other small pets had died mysteriously: a gerbil and a guinea pig? Tobys mother had assumed that Andr the Cat was the culprit, but that was ridiculous. After both sudden deaths, the top was still securely attached to the rodents cage. Now, it wasnt that Toby wanted to be caught; he was too clever to be caught, but it angered him that Adam was too dense to be suspicious. That was it. Toby was angry with Adam because he thought Adam was stupid. As anyone who has seriously attempted to cook breakfast for others knows, the difference between success and failure depends on timing; and Adam Wellingtons instincts were good that morning. The toast popped up just as the eggs were finished and the bacon had cooked to the familys crispy preference. Adam expected Toby to put the cooking pans in the sink, but when Angela saw Toby about to pour the bacon grease down the sink drain, she told him to stop. Thats bad for the pipes, dear. Theres a can to pour that in, and when it solidifies we can throw it out with the trash. Adam, show Toby where the can is. Wanting to please his mother, but resenting his little dweeb of a brother for needing help with such a simple thing, Adam took

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the can from its place under the sink and set it down on the counter where Toby was standing. Oh, this looks just beautiful, boys! Angela exclaimed as she looked at the serving plates Adam had put on the kitchen tablebut by then it was too late. Toby knew what he was going to do. Adam was the target. Adams face was the target, but Toby knew that he too deserved to be hurt; and he knew that when he was, everyone would pity and coddle him. So with his brother still standing next to him, Toby slid his hand down the handle of the frying pan until it touched the hot edge. This caused a more searing pain than he expected: clearly enough to cause anyone to drop the pan on the counter, causing the hot bacon grease splash volcanically upward. He protected himself with his extended left hand; he did this instinctively, and with the expected result. It was a pain like hed never known, but probably not as severe as Adams. Adam had turned away, but looked back as Toby screamed: just in time for the flying grease to meet his face. Angela didnt become hysterical until after she cleaned off Adams face and then Tobys hand, knocking the plate of freshly scrambled eggs and one glass of orange juice off the kitchen table and onto the floor as shed lunged to the boys aid. Then she called 911 and became hysterical on the phone, doing her best to follow the simple instructions she was given regarding the thorough, gentle washing of the wounds. After that, and after slipping on the scrambled eggs shed spilled and sprawling on the floor, she sat and cried with her arms around her crying boys. But things hadnt worked out quite as Toby planned. Adam wasnt disfigured as Toby wished. The damage to Tobys left palm was more extensive than that to Adams face. In fact, Adam had ducked. His face was barely touched: the hot grease had hit the front of his scalp. He lost some hair and suffered some burns just above his forehead, but the facial scaring would be minimal. The burn on Tobys palmhis left one, not his drawing handwasnt readily visible, but caused considerable pain during his recovery and periodically after that. He was reluctant to show it to anyone, but his mother noticed that the scar resembled a flying bird. Typically, Angela Wellington blamed herself. Adam blamed Toby, and Toby, of course, blamed Adam. Thus, the somewhat illusory balance that had existed in the Wellington

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household since Tobias had been sent away was upset. One can imagine Andr the Cat seeing dark, murky billows of toxic emotion emanating from the mother and her two sons in the weeks and months after the breakfast accident. Toby didnt miss a drawing session with Orlando Floyd, however; and only four days after he was burned, he created a drawing of a mother comforting a child so moving that the director of the School of Fine Arts, a normally reserved man, commented that it looked like it came from the hand of God himself. Toby only missed a week of school; furthermore, he showed no signs of remorse for hurting his brother and a steely lack of self-regard in dealing with his own pain. Adam, on the other hand, a fifteen-year-old adolescent, was sorely embarrassed by his burns and temporary loss of hair, and since hed been taught by his parents, his school and the culture as a whole that intellectual development was sufficient to qualify for an inner life, he had nothing substantial to fall back on and so was temporarily bereft. To make matters worse, Angela was too busy with selfincrimination to address her boys needs: Adams anger and humiliation, and Tobys apparent disdain. Thus disabled, Angela leaned ever more completely on Orlando Floyd; or, more precisely, she invited Orlando Floyd into her home so she could lean on him there as well. At this point, we shouldnt be surprised that Toby was more than willing to suffer in the cause of hurting his brother, if even slightly. All too soon, a far greater opportunity for his destructive powers would present itself. In his fantasies following the accident, however, he imagined that he was on trial, once for blinding his brother, and once for killing him by cracking open his head and throwing him off a cliff. In defense he held up his injured palm, insisting that he, too, was hurt. But this ploy elicited no sympathy from the cruel judge, who in Tobys mind, resembled an older, hardened version of Orlando Floyd, and inevitably Toby was sentenced to death. This, the boy who drew with the hand of God himself.

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NOTE #2 Sibling Rivalry

In 1346, shortly after Sir Tobert of Cornwall was poisoned by the sadistic Anton of Wences, a son was born to his sister, Agnes of Wessex. A sickly boy, named Tobert after his courageous uncle, the child remained at his mothers side continuously until at the age of ten, when Agnes and the rest of her immediate family died of the Black Death. How it was that the boy, pale and weak as he was, managed to survive is unknown, nor are the means by which he came under the protection of Agnes cousin, Sir Aden (also of Wessex). Aden, however, possessed neither the courage of the boys father nor the generous spirit of the boys aunt: he was a vain and jealous man, set solely on personal aggrandizement. Young Tolbert, on the other hand, though frail, had a winning personality and gained favor of all he met, particularly the ladies. He was quick to amuse, like a jester, and had a talent with the brush. But Aden feared the gentle boys intrusion into his great hall; if the ladies and noble guests werent charmed by Sir Aden himself they wouldnt be charmed at all, and besides, painting pictures was an effeminate amusement. It was not long after Tolbert arrived than Aden saw to it that he was given lonely quarters and was only released when no guests were present. Furthermore, he elicited the help of the local cleric, Friar Roland, who, in return for one black and white sow, had Tolbert declared feebleminded and of weak moral constitution in the eyes of the church, thus justifying the boys banishment from the society of the castle, such as it was. Despairing his loss of convivial chat and gentle company, Tolbert languished in the tower, and after only six years of this unhappy existence, at the age of sixteen, the talented boy was found dead one morning in a pigsty. The circumstances leading to his death are unknown, though a rumor circulated that Sir Aden had murdered the boy, having gone mad for a night after drinking a brew concocted by a gypsy, supposedly an elixir of eternal youth. Sometime in the middle of the fifteenth century, a shepherd named Adam lived in northern Ireland. His flock was not large but sufficient to support his small family: his wife and son, known as

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Toby. As the boy grew, so did his fathers flock, and as soon as young Toby could climb hills, he joined his father with the sheep. Competent shepherd though he was, Tobys father had other interests: he had heard tales of magical powers ascribed to certain flowers and roots, and believed that if he could locate these and concoct them according to ancient tradition, he might grow wealthy as a king. Before long, however, he grew tired of searching across the hillsides and woods and began to send his son on these gathering forays with instructions to bring back a certain blue flower, a red root and a barbed leaf. Toby did not care for these errands or for his fathers impatience and ill temper when he ordered the boy mash these flowers, roots and leaves with crude homemade implements. It wasnt long, in fact, before Tobys days were filled entirely with gathering and mashing plant life. But the findings were few, and soon Adam began to neglect the sheep and join his son in the herbal treasure hunt. Adams wife began to notice that the flock was diminishing in number; untended sheep had been lost to foxes and wolves, but as much as she tried to talk sense into her eccentric husbands head, he would not relent in his search for botanical charms. He assured her that as soon as hed combined the correct ingredients, theyd move to town and live in a house with servants. Toby was not a boy given to contemplation. He had grown into a fiery, impetuous youth. He loved his mother but saw his father, Adam, squandering their meager resources. This being the case, theres little more to say about this particular constellation of human souls than that one afternoon, after crouching next to his father for hours in the laborious collection of weaselwort, a yellow flower whose purple roots when boiled with the bark of a certain elm made a bitter tea that purportedly attracted silver, Toby finally rose to his feet, selected a stout stick and bashed his father over the head until he gave up the ghost, after which the youth dragged the amateur sorcerers corpse to the edge of a nearby ravine and pushed it over. The little heaps of weaselwort and elm bark were left to rot on the groundwhich may have been unfortunate, since the tea that was never brewed from these ingredients had powers curative enough to correct the imbalance of humors that was to soon thicken the blood and cut short the life of Tobys dear mother, Angelina.

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In 1799, in Boston, Massachusetts, two sisters were hired into the house of a prosperous barrister, Tobias Wells. Both the older sister, Ada, and the younger by three years, Tobessa, were bright and energetic; nonetheless, as was customary at the time, they both began their service as scullery maids, doing only the meanest and most dismal work in the great house. Before long, it was clear, that between these two lively girls, Tobessa was the better worker. Unfortunately, she was not the more ambitious or cunning. Ada had her eyes fixed on a better life. It was her intention to rise within the ranks to Cook as soon as possible and then to the coveted position of Housekeeper. To this end she flattered the Butler and senior servants while telling tales on her sister all the while. Not only did Ada falsely accuse Tobessa of various household misdemeanors, but went so far as to scatter pastry crumbs in Tobessas bed and a few drops of the Butlers brandy in her bedside drinking glass. So fervent was Ada in her campaign to discredit her sister that one might conclude that she bore an inbred grudge of some sort toward her. And to a degree, her treachery was successful. Evidence of pilfering brandy and pastry alone was enough to prevent Tobessa from rising to a position higher than second cooks helper, while Ada quickly proved herself clever and efficient enough to take over the position of Cook from Mrs. Bradley, a woman who was not only getting old but into the Butlers brandy as well. Despite Adas good cooking and competent management, her reputation was far from pristine. She was seen as haughty and conniving by the downstairs staff and never fully trusted by the Housekeeper or Lady of the House herself. Mild mannered Tobessa, on the other hand, even with her weakness for thievery, was popular among all who worked in the house. But as the years passed and servants were dismissed and died and others were hired and promoted, her older sisters position remained unchanged. Her ambitions notwithstanding, Ada was Cook and simply that and would never have a place in the finely carpeted and draped upper rooms of the Wells stately home. But as Cook, the woman ruled the kitchen with a strong arm, a heavy cleaver, and a chronic case of gum disease with attendant bad breath. Meanwhile, Tobessa was passed over on numerous occasions, remained Cooks second helper, and thus spent her long

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hours scouring pots, cleaning the kitchen fireplace, and taking undeserved abuse from her older sister. If the daily scouring of cooking pots and pans and the washing of the households dishes werent enough to leave Tobessas hands in need of yet-to-be-conceived Lubriderm Skin Therapy Lotion with Aloe, the scores of cooking burns sealed the deal. To make matters worse, the Master Tobias, already a corpulent man by nature, had taken such a liking to Joshuas Lickings (fried pork fat,) a dish hed tasted on one of his journeys to Virginia, that he asked to be served a hefty portion of it daily. According to Cook Adas instructions, it was Tobessa alone who was to prepare this dish, and Tobessa alone whose hands, wrists, forearms and even cheeks were daily spattered with scalding dollops of fat. The deleterious effects of the Southern indulgence went beyond the plethora of burns to Tobessas skin, however, for after seven years of ingesting this favorite of his, Tobias Wells keeled over in court while defending a well-to-do embezzler, every artery that supplied his indulgent heart being packed with pig fat like a yet-to-be-conceived Oscar Meyer Wiener. Sad to sayor perhaps notsuffering injuries incurred in a calamitous cooking mishap involving a soup-bound turtle, Tobessa soon followed Tobias to the grave. (Once again, this information is provided for purposes of historical perspective, and is not intended to affirm or refute and doctrines regarding the whence from, hereafter or anywhere in between.)

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HOUSE RULES

For five years, Angela and Orlando had restricted all outward displays of affection to Orlandos apartment and office; Grant Park, the city park surrounding the Art Institute and School of Fine Arts; the Bohemian Caf, and room 1233 at the Hilton across the avenue from the Museum. It had been for Tobys sake that they had thus restrained themselves. Both were sensitive to the delicacy of nurturing his great gift, and both wanted to protect him from any confusion between his private teacher and his mothers new love. But with Angela as insecure and needy as she was, it finally seemed that enough was enough. Toby needs to face reality, Angela said to Orlando in their hotel room as they sat back in bed, leaning against pillows one Tuesday afternoon. Orlando laughed. What? Angela asked, sounding fragile. I know what you mean, sweetheart, but I think Tobys reality may be a far cry from ours. Meaning?

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Meaning I dont feel like I understand anything about him other than how beautifully he draws. I dont know what makes him tick anymore than I did when you first introduced him to me. And Im not saying that in a pejorative way, Angela. Artists have secret lives, remember? She turned toward Orlando, propping herself up on her elbow. I dont need to hear this right now, dear. Im feeling hopeless recently when it comes to Toby. All Im capable of doing is loving him, and he doesnt seem too keen on that these days. But I dont think hiding like this is helping me get closer to him. If anything, its a hindrance. Whatever you say, Orlando answered. Youre the one to make the decision about this. He was twirling the end of one of her pecan-brown locks in his fingers, and seemed a little distracted. But Ill give you my unbiased opinion, okay? Orlando turned his attention to the smooth inside of Angelas forearm. Waking up next to you every morning would be Well, you know what it would be. And short of that, having dinner at your place occasionally will do just fine, but Id be doing a disservice to you if I let that influence my judgment. . And that is? That is that I think we should test the waters. I agree about Toby facing reality. He might not be fazed by it at all or he might be resentful. From what Ive seen, its hard to tell exactly how he feels. Maybe he needs to learn to express that. I dont know, sweetheart; maybe were making this into something more than it needs to be. Angela slid over and put her head of luxuriant curls on Orlandos chest. Maybe we are, she said. Ill make something they like for dinner. You come at 6:30. When? Tonight? Really? Why, do you have other plans? No. But Im Im nervous. Would you be nervous if we made it for Friday? Id be nervous all week. So?

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So what do they like to eat? Orlando asked, sounding very much the non-parent, as if inquiring about the feeding habits of spotted tree frogs. Tacos. Angela had packed frequent picnic lunches for the two of them to eat in the shade of the trees in Grant Park, and Orlando knew she was an excellent cook. Are they good? he asked. She lifted her head off his chest and looked him dubiously. What do you think? Sorry, he said, adjusting the pillows behind and sitting up a little straighter. Youre in for a treat, Angela answered. And not just tonight. Ill make exotic meals for us. The boys always want to order pizza anyway. Theyll particularly appreciate you for that. But Orlando seemed suddenly thoughtful. What? Angela asked. Adam? Hows he? I dont know. Hes not talking much. Hes terribly selfconscious, but the doctor assured me hes healing beautifully, and it really doesnt look all that bad even now. Hes a very handsome boy. Hell be a handsome man. His face will have charactera little like a pirate, but just a little. Women will love him. But what bothers me so is that he seems to blame his little brotheras if Toby did it on purpose. You dont think theres anything to that, do you? I dont know how you can say that. Orlando wasnt surprised at her reaction. Youre right, he said. Sometimes I look for things that arent there. Im sorry. It was too bad. Angela was feeling bold, and this might have been a perfect moment for Orlando to voice his suspicions. But a bold, self assertive Angela was a very sexy Angela in Orlandos eyes; so once again, he took the low road. It took no coaxing at all; he enjoyed it very much, thank you. So did she. When it came to the low road, the two didnt need a map. Dinner that night went splendidly. Before they sat down to eat, Toby took Orlando into his studio and introduced him to his cat, but the cat submitted to Orlandos fondling for only a moment before squirming away.

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Maybe he doesnt like me, Orlando said to Toby. He doesnt like anyone but me, the boy answered. We communicate secretly. We have for years. Really? Yes, he understands me. And no one else does? What do you think? Toby said. Orlando recognized the gaze and chill tone. How does that feel, Toby? he asked. What do you mean? I mean, do you feel lonely? Do you know that your mother loves you very much? The boy hesitated, and then looked at Orlando as if he didnt understand. Why? he asked. Why what, Toby? I know that moms love their children, that theyre supposed to love their children, but why? Orlando had begun to sweat. I dont suppose its the answer youre looking for, Toby, but its just just natural. He might as well have been speaking Aramaic. Toby registered no response; not scorn, not disappointmentnone. Would you like to see some drawings that no ones seen before, the boy said, except Andr? It would be an honor, Orlando answered, feeling much like the same obsequious toady whod hoped to curry Tobys favor on the day of his first lesson. But it was an honor. These were studiesnot sketches, but complete mini-compositions, drawings of simple, single objectsa doorknob, an alarm clock, a hammerand Orlando was just beginning to register his joy and sense of discovery at seeing these when Angela called them in for dinner. He noticed that Toby carefully replaced the drawings in a drawer under sheets of blank paper before he opened the door to go into the dining room. Both boys were chatty at dinner. They seemed bright and happy to have a man back at the table. And they continued to be happy with Orlandos presence on Tuesday, Friday and occasionally, Sunday evenings for dinner for the next several months. Toby was unusually congenial at these dinners, and as Adam continued to heal, he too seemed relaxed and at ease with

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Orlando sitting in his mothers former place at the table, while Angela sat at Tobiass. It was on the second night that Orlando came for dinner, a Friday, that he noticed that Tobys cat sat on an arm of the living room sofa, looked into the dining room and watched him throughout the meal. The animals fixed stare somewhat undid Orlando at first, but after several weeks, when the cat sat in the same spot and watched him unflinchingly at every meal, he grew accustomed to it. Shortly after that, however, the cat began to appear in Orlandos dreams. These appearances were disturbing, because the cat always bore an expression that somehow reminded him of that crow that had attacked him five years before. Orlando didnt say anything about this, but after the dreams had begun to recur on a regular basis, he tried to pet the cat, hoping that this would somehow break the spell, but the animal made it clear that it wanted nothing to do with the man. Toby had noticed his teacher trying to get friendly with his cat, and approached him after the cat fled. Toby shook his head. I told you he only likes me. I know that, Toby. I was trying to be friendly. But the cat seems to know its own mind. He doesnt like being called the cat. His names Andr. Try calling him by name. Maybe he didnt like the way you were thinking about him. Of course Orlando knew this was foolish, but was touched by what seemed by a friendly suggestion on Tobys part. Here Andr! Orlando called out. Here kitty, kitty, kitty! Here Andr! Toby shook his head. I dont think he likes the kitty, kitty part. He thinks its stupid. he said when the cat didnt return. So Orlando tried calling Andr directly according to Tobys instructions, and immediately the cat loped back into the living room where the two were sitting, approached Orlando and stood in front of him, fixing him in his gaze. Does he stare at everyone like that? Orlando asked. No. He usually ignores peopleeveryone but me. So should I be flattered? Flattered or worried, Toby answered. Orlando thought the boy was joking; but when he laughed, Toby did not.

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What are you men talking about? Angela asked, coming into the room. Andr, Orlando said. Angela rolled her eyes and invited them back into the dining room for dessert. It was noon on a Friday, and Angela and Orlando simple couldnt resist. Theyd consumed a bottle of Champagne at lunch downtown in the park, and Angela convinced Orlando not to go back to his office to finish up his paperwork, but to come home with her and just stay through dinner. The boys wouldnt be home from school for hours. Ive been lying in this bed imagining you with me here for years now, Angela said, on all fours above Orlando, her hands on his shoulders and her hair cascading down onto his face. It was May, the bedroom windows were open, a warm breeze wafted across them. Then she sat back upright, beaming. What Orlando saw above him there was the most glorious image he knew: her creamy skin, apple-blossom-pink nipples, curling brown hair and eyes that looked like candy from eternity, set him melting. The fact that he was deep inside her now gave a paradisiacal ecstasy to his favorite vision, of course, and soon the two were dissolving into love itself, energetically, and as usual, making a good deal of rapturous noise about it. Enough noise to say, prevent them from hearing the front door open? Enough noise maybe to prevent them from hearing the approaching footsteps of a child who was home from school early, as announced in the monthly school bulletin a self-absorbed mother failed to read thoroughly, and to whom the love racket sounded like calls of distress from his mother? Enough noise to prevent two buttnaked people on top of the sheets from noticing a soon to be elevenyear-old standing in the doorway gaping at them, a soon to be eleven-year-old who, not having any friends and not on friendly terms with his older brother, had no idea how it looked when humans made love? Yes, that much noise. And so Toby once again learned there was more to life than hed ever imagined. Despite his mothers beseeching, he didnt come out of his studio until the next morning, at which time he shrugged off her apologies and awkward attempts at an explanation. She remained

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mortified for weeks; and knowing Toby as we do by now, we might expect some dreadful accident to befall her, or her paramour, or bothor perhaps poor Adam might once again take the brunt of it. But nothing of the sort happened; in fact this incident ushered in one of the more well-adjusted periods of Tobys life to date. This may be difficult to understand, but the bizarre and elaborate workings of this boys psyche were often unpredictable. Perhaps he reacted well to the forced widening of his perspective; perhaps his maturation needed a shocking kick start; or perhaps and maybe most likelyToby reacted to the apparition of his mother and teacher naked and moaning by giving up the last vestige of sympathy or any other humane feeling for the adults in his life, because the next September when he started sixth grade, Toby became friendly with several boys his own age and his social life began in earnest. At the Wellingtons apartment, of course, things were touchy at first. Angela, emotionally fragile and confounded, made sure Orlando didnt visit her there for a while; and, with Orlandos consent, she temporarily cancelled Tobys Saturday classes. Toby looked at his mother in pained bewilderment when she told him this news. But where will I get my subjects? he asked. Although Angela was familiar with the way Orlando worked with Toby, the fact that every picture Toby had drawn was based on a suggestion from Orlando, even if that suggestion left room for interpretation, had never quite sunk in. Furthermore, she was reluctant to so much as nudge the boy in any direction regarding his creative life. Well dear, couldnt you come up with ideas on your own? she ventured, sounding sadly unsure of herself. No I mean, it would only be a tiny bit different Or I could call Mr. Floyd, and he couldmaybe? Why cant I go to class? Well, honey, I thought you might be uncomfortable or a little embarrassed. Id understand if you felt that way. Toby looked stricken. Whats wrong, Toby? Im so sorry I dont understand, he answered, tears in his eyes now. I didnt do anything wrong.

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Of course not, dear. I never said you did anything wrong. Then why am I being punished? You mean? You think not going to class is a punishment? Or that OrlandoMr. Floyd, I meanis angry with you? Toby sucked back his tears and glared at her. Honey, you can go to class. No ones mad at you. Angela was about to reach out to hold him in her arms but thought better of it. So I dont have to be embarrassed? Even Angela, so sympathetic to her sons every wish, wasnt ready for this. No Of course not. You dont mean? Toby? Do you understand what being embarrassed is? Im not stupid, he said, looking at her as if she were a different life form. So I get to go on Saturday? Of course, Angela said, feeling more things at once that she had the capacity to sort out. Of course, you can go on Saturday. Of course, she repeated as Toby went into his bedroom and closed the door behind him. The embarrassing incident and Tobys reaction to it was never discussed or even mentioned to him again. He continued his weekly ninety minute sessions in the classroom-studio downtown throughout the summer, and continued to produce pen and ink drawings of a kind never before seen. In each, two distinct subjects complete in themselves were joined in compositions so ingenious and intriguing that many viewers marveled that there seemed to be somehow more to the drawing than was apparent on the 14 by 18 piece of paper. Some even said the drawings seemed magical. But not Orlando. He didnt believe there was anything supernatural or spiritual that gave these drawings their unique quality; he believed it was the sheer brilliance of Tobys vision: his ability to create confluences of lines in which harmonies of like shape rang out and resonated in stirring and most unexpected ways, while set against and amidst bits and pieces masterfully rendered disorganization, randomness grasped, frozen like nature caught napping. This is what the boy could already do. And then in September, eleven years old and nearly a head taller than his classmates, and the most striking in appearance of them all, Toby

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entered sixth grade with an expression on his face that could have fooled anyone into believing he was just a big, reserved but friendly kid. Toby wasnt the only boy whod changed coming into sixth grade. His friend Damien Sharp had spent the summer in Philadelphia with his older cousins who were well practiced in getting into trouble. Damien came back with tales of shoplifting, bullying, vandalism and other assorted acts of malicious mischief, which surprised Toby but excited him in an all too familiar way. In the past, Toby had treated Damien as a kind of toy: hed take advantage of his company only so long as it pleased him; and when it did not, Damien suffered abuse. But just as something had clicked in the mysterious workings of Tobys psyche, Damien had returned from his summer vacation armed with a cocky new style of his own; and though nothing was said, the two boys now recognized something in each other. Then a third boy, Marcus Freeling, son of a faculty member at Tobys small, private school, seemed attracted to the two as if by magnetism. He too had matured over the summer, and he too was good looking, so he formed the final, though subservient part of the new trio as if a natural part of the team. Within weeks of the beginning of the new term, these three boys were at the top of the pecking order among of the eleven and twelve-year-old males in the class and had begun to stir the wakening hormones of the most popular girls. None of the three, however, had matured past the cootie stage in regard to the opposite sex. The school that Toby attended was among the best in the Chicago, and it was only because of Tobias canny management of money before his onset of criminality that Angela could afford such a high priced education for her son. Tobias had become a very wealthy man before he tried to defraud the Federal government, and Angelas lawyer saw to it that Tobias was separated from his fortune as well as his freedom when he stepped on the bus for the slammer. Without any income other than the interest earned on her ex-husbands investments, Angela could not lead a lavish existence, but while putting her childrens education first, she still managed to maintain her apartment and her expensive tastes in clothes. Her

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club membership and travel abroad were things of the past, but she had Orlando, whose tastes tended toward the aesthetic rather than the material, something that pleased her as well, as long as she could dress as she wished. And if Toby continued to produce and sell his art, he was well on his way to financial security of his own. The administration of Tobys school was acutely aware of the childs exceptional gift, which was considered a windfall to institutions already good reputation. Being a school that nurtured individuality and creativity among its students, Tobys indifference toward his academic pursuits was tolerated, particularly since at this time, with Orlandos approval, he began to join the rest of the sixth graders on art class. In the past, Toby had been excused from art. Ever since Mrs. Stars refusal to let him draw in ink and the subsequent revelation of his great talent as expressed in the portrait of Mr. Zootie, deceased, there had been an arrangement between the schools administration and Angela Wellington that the boys art education would be conducted privately. Any suggestions that Toby even go into the art room at school, were met with his cold, unequivocal refusal. Until that September. Whether this concession on his part was motivated by his desire to demonstrate his sense of superiority over his peers, a desire to join completely into the social currents of his classmates, by astrological forces (Toby was approaching his Jupiter return, the first time the giant planet with a twelve year period of revolution crosses over its original position in the natal horoscope, a return which generally corresponds with the onset of adolescence,) by karmic forces or reasons unknown, made no difference at all to the schools delighted and administrators and facultyexcept the art teacher, of course, a Ms. Pincil, who was terrified. In any case, Toby walked through the halls of the schools venerable old building with a look of self-confidence no longer founded in disdain alone but in something that resembled congeniality. We shouldnt be surprised that he and Damien, with Marcus following along behind, were often up to no good, but the mischief they plotted was more often than not undertaken off school grounds. The results in art class were not only spectacular artistically but socially as well. Toby began to create portraits. Hed drawn

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models in the course of his work with Orlando Floyd, and had never neglected to render their faces with skill equal to his compositional gifts, but the only portraits hed drawn had been of his mother in his earliest years of work. Now, in the quaint little art room at his school, one of his classmates sat for him each week, and in the fifty minutes allotted, he precisely captured his or her features and essence in ink, and set it so on a 9 by 12 piece of drawing paper supplied by the school, with such regard for the weight and balance and negative space around it that it looked as if the image of the person and the rectangle on which it was set were a spontaneous blossoming of the world of nature. Tobys friends, Damien and Marcus each reacted in his own way to this reaching out on Tobys part. Damien, the more hardboiled of the two, had little affection for art, refused to have his portrait drawn, and looked upon the great fuss made about it all as effeminate. It seemed he was threatened by Tobys display of genius among their classmates, and belittled it defensively behind Tobys back. Marcus, on the other hand, had been brought up in an atmosphere saturated with the fine arts, but showed his admiration for his friend with such fawning reverence that Toby rebuffed his compliments with distaste, something that wounded Marcus more deeply than Toby realized. As far as the other children were concerned, Toby was indifferent. His look was distant when they thanked him profusely and marveled at what hed done. His portraits were neither flattering nor unbecoming. Those children with facial blemishes, however, were spared. Tobys motivation for this is unclear. When they asked (as they inevitably did) if they could have the picture, Toby told them they could not, but when Ms. Pincil suggested that they use the schools copying machine, Toby said hed ask his teacher, Mr. Floyd. Orlando, whod stopped surreptitiously copying Tobys work since his love affair with Angela began, told Toby that he was his teacher, not his agent, and that he could do whatever he liked. He added that it would be very generous of him to make copies of the portraits for his classmates, and that generosity won friends. Though Toby only stared at Orlando at this comment about winning friends, he did agree to let Ms. Pincil copy his drawings. Each drawing was signed, of course, but when the children asked Toby if hed personalize them with phrases such as For my friend

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Amanda, or Best Wishes, he solemnly shook his head. The children didnt know, of course, that those wordsthose lines, reallywould upset Tobys compositions in an unthinkable way. Damien lived in an apartment only three blocks from the Wellingtons. The apartments themselves were similar; each was spacious, generously laid out with bedrooms set off a long hall from back to front. Damiens family lived on the third floor rather than the second, however, and their building was six stories high rather than three. This was advantageous in two ways: first, the third floor gave the boys ten feet additional height when dropping water balloons on unsuspecting pedestrians; and second, the six story edifice provided cover if the boys could slip the screen down quickly enough to be undetected. The balloons themselves were small enough to cause no bodily harm while giving the target a good soaking, but with adrenaline flowing and the desperate necessity of silently closing the screen and immediately leaping back out of sight, direct hits were not only few, but difficult to ascertain. A shriek from a woman or loud cursing from a man usually indicated wetness of some sort, even if only from the splash of the balloon on the sidewalk; and risky though it was, the boys could hardly resist the possibility of seeing an angry, wet adult. They saw this only twice: once, it was an elderly woman who looked as confused as angry, and the boys laughed so raucously at this that they ran back to Damiens room for fear theyd be heard out on the street. This was only the second occasion when Marcus was with them for their bombardiering exploits. He said he felt sorry for the old woman, and not appearing to have the nerve for such sport, Toby and Damien didnt invite him to join them again. And then there was the time when the tall, angry man saw Toby and Damien peering out the dining room window. The boys would not answer the buzzer when he rang it repeatedly, but could do nothing to prevent him from slipping a note in to the mailbox, demanding that Damiens parents let him come to their home to scold the boys in person. The parents did not agree to this, though they did inform Angela and gave the boys a good talking to. In retrospect, it might have served everyone better if theyd let the angry man give them a scare, if in fact, he or anyone could do that. In the two years that the

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boys dropped water balloons from Damiens apartment, they were only caught that one time. Bombardiering from the Wellingtons second story living room was a far riskier proposition; too risky, in fact, to throw at any targets other than children. But there were lots of children in the neighborhood, all of whom Toby disliked. He disliked younger children as a matter of principle, and felt the same way about public school and catholic school children. He suggested to Damien that they throw rocks at the younger ones, but Damien wasnt sure if he wanted to: if someone got hurt they might get caught, he said. Tobys reaction was scornful, but he didnt force the issue. He could have: he was bigger than Damien, and it was his house; but he didnt want to listen to Damien complain. Besides, theyd been successful the two times theyd thrown balloons at smaller children, and it had been very funny. Then one day Damiens fortunes changed. The two boys had been poised at the living room window when a cat appeared under the large oak tree just outside. Damien squealed. No! Toby said. Thats my cat! So what? Dont! Thats what! But Damien couldnt resist, and his aim was true. Andr leapt a good two-and-a-half feet into the air when he was hit. When Damien collapsed in peals of laughter, so Toby punched him in the side of his head with his fist. Then he kicked him in the back, twice. He told him if he ever touched his cat again hed kill him. Then he told him he made the rules in his house, and then he told him to get out.

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ACTS OF LOVE

It might be said that every act is an act of love Or then again, it might not. Akbars words; and I have no reason to doubt anything he told me. It took some thought to understand this, however. Akbar also said, The nature of every act is to create a greater harmony than already exists. So I conclude that this means that if a human or other animal on whatever level of awareness seeks to harm another, it is to relieve a perceived disharmony, a perceived imbalance, or in other terms, to satisfy a need, and is therefore an act of lovean act of self-love. But if what Akbar told me about psychological evolution is valid, then it must be taken into account that the sphere of self and self-interest may vary greatly among individuals, as when a female will risk her own life to insure the welfare of her kittens, or a human for her familyor as Im told, a person for his or her community, or even, for those most highly evolved, for all life on earth itself. So its only in the most generous terms, or perhaps in the most compassionate view, the view of one who truly loves all life, that every act may be seen as an act of love. For those with more

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exclusive, constricted views, some acts may appear to be less loving, or destructive, or outright hateful. Thus, Akbar seems correct when he says that every act might be seen as an act of love and then again, maybe not. Take me, for example. One day not long ago, when following a pale green magnetic trail beneath the tracing of a century old electrical gift of the moon, commonly called a tree, I was hit between the shoulders by a human childs toy filled with frigid water. If Id been attacked by any recognizable foe, ranging in size from a spider to a wolf, Id have counter-attacked with all the ferocity of my species. And though it may be difficult for you to understand, cats have the sensibility to differentiate a naturally occurring accidentsuch as a falling pine cone or even a plummeting rockfrom an act with malice attached. If you had more than five senses, youd also be able to make such distinctions. In this case, however, I didnt need my subtle senses to determine the source of this act of love in its narrowest, most restrictive sense. I used my ears, and I heard the expression of four distinctly different human emotions. First, I heard malice, then compassion, then malice again but from a different source and differently directed, and finally a unique blend of fear, regret, anger and pain. Of course, I recognized the voices and understood the roles played by each. Most significantly, however, my immaculate fur was despoiled with water and I suffered the corresponding thermal, psychic and deeply personal shockthis, along with the my own expression of love, which took the form of unbridled, explosive outrage as I quickly retreated under the closest cover: a prickly, decorative hedge planted along the apartment buildings wall. There I shivered uncontrollably until Toby Wellington coaxed me out, wrapped me in a large absorbent towel, and cradling me, carried me upstairs. Though rubbing a wet cat with a towel might absorb water, it causes a discomfort no less distressing than wetness. Rumpling of the fur is as abhorrent to a feline as coating a humans bare skin with gluenot to mention the electrostatic and etheric effects of misaligned receptors. Still, I understood the boys good intentions just as I understood his friends wickedness. His friend, a boy whod visited the Wellingtons apartment since Toby was much younger, stood in relation to Toby much like any inexperienced,

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weak mammal to a dominant male. When he left the apartment, he was in tears and in pain and looked at me only briefly, but the story of his part in the cowardly attack was as evident in his emanations as if he wore a sign around his neck. After Toby let me out of his clutches, I found a warm, sunny spot on the floor where I continued to dry and groomed my coat back into a fully functional state. It was shortly after that that the male replacement for Tobias Wellington entered the apartment and made himself at home. This was an unusual specimen. In my experience with humans, I have noticed certain psychological similarities in each. I dont doubt, as Akbar explained, that exceptional, wise, compassionate and powerful humans have existed and still do, but it should be clear that I havent had the privilege to encounter any of these or any of their followers or devotees. All those I have met have had an inherent selfishness in common; and all the males Ive known have had a strain of deceitfulness intermixed with that. The new male at the Wellington house, known as both Mr. Floyd and Dear, was a typical male of the species, except that he had a pure blue band in his aura I had never seen or felt before. Besides his self-interest and willingness to deceive to fulfill it, this man possessed a clear line of sight to the more rarefied realms of existence, and therefore, insights unavailable to others of his kind. What was most unusual, even disquieting about him, however, was the way these illuminated perceptions failed to color his more callous motivations. Rather than tempering his selfishness and deceit, these lofty understandings of his alternated with his baser drives, leaving him unpredictable, and to my mind, untrustworthy, even dangerous. Any attempts he made to approach me were clearly meant only win the favor of Toby Wellington, and I instinctively rebuffed these, restraining my hiss reaction only out of respect for the boy who had shown loyalty to me on a number of occasions, despite his own streak of unalloyed meanness. Angela Wellington, who, for biological reasons, was powerfully drawn to Dear, showed him every favor, but I couldnt look on her too unfavorably for this. Dear was by any standards, a great improvement over the vile Tobias Wellington, and Angela Wellington, though self-serving as any, was wholeheartedly open

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and honest enough to become a sympathetic figure in that household. I hadnt seen Akbar on the roof for a number of months, and it wasnt until one of the last warm days of the year that he and his followers appeared. He told me hed been away conferring with other members of the League of Initiates, though he said no more about this than when hed first made me aware of it: that from time to time he met with others of like mind (not like species) to discuss and plan matters concerning the evolutionally progress of life on earth, particularly humanity. Since it was clear that if he wished to tell me more, he would have done so, I didnt question him further. Though cats are known by humans for their curiosity, it should be obvious that physical or tactical curiosity is a far cry from lack of tact. Intellectual curiosity is a human trait, characterizing those who fail to see the wonder in what they already have directly before their noseshence, the term nosiness. In quite a different way, Akbar was particularly interested in everything I had to say about Toby Wellington and repeatedly asked for more detail regarding him. When I made a comment about the popularity and demand for his drawings, Akbar said something that surprised me. You know, my friend, he told me, what Toby has made appear to be drawings only on surface; in a broader view they are root systems of brilliant living organism on planes unseen. And furthermore, and to the boys credit, by drawing these, he is doing a service to the cosmos far more significant than providing humanity with great art. And no, the old crow said, sensing my question, these drawings are not tracings or pictures of roots, but roots themselves. All great art functions as material anchors for spiritual entities. I thought about that for a moment, but felt I should tell him what I knew about the boys malicious tendencies. Akbar was keenly attentive, even concerned, explaining that he had been aware of this before he had met me, and that these traits were inherently related to his ability to create art. He did not expand on this surprising assertion. I made a point of not asking him how he was able to know about the boys history or in what way his destructiveness was significant, and apparently appreciative of my

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silence, Akbar informed me that hed told his brethren of my service and that they asked him to convey their thanks. Service? I asked. I was only aware of friendship. From their point of view its the same thing, he answered. I looked at him questioningly. Andr, he said, with surprising warmth to his tone, this is an exceptionally compassionate group. Then the two of us sat quietly then and listened to the harmonies emanating from the stars position in the night sky unique to that time of year. This, along with the buzzing and chirping of the local insects and night birds serves a similar purpose of what humans call newscasts, though the information transmitted by the natural world filtered through the pervading sidereal harmony, relates to human journalism as starlight to electric light, or perhaps as Akbars vision of humanity does to that of the men who Mr. Floyd refers to as those bozos in Washington. . After we had spent a good hour in quiet contemplation, Akbar asked me what I could tell him about Orlando Floyd. This took me by surprise, since hed shown little interest in Angela, Tobias or Adam Wellingtonor any human other than Toby. I told him everything Id observed about the man (whose first name I hadnt known until then), and though he listened carefully, he gave no indication of why he was interested in him. With the onset of cold weather, I knew Id venture up to the roof less frequently, so I took my leave of Akbar with a degree of formality. As I wended my way back down across the structural supports of the buildings back porch and heard Akbar and his followers take flight, I supposed that just as before, Id be considering what he said until the next time I met with him. And again, as on each occasion Id spoken with this crow, I felt more myself afterward than before our conversation, as if hed contributed something to my beingsomething luminous, yet in the most refined way, material, like stardust. And though cats are a proud race and have no need for what humans call humility, we naturally respond to those greater than ourselves without reservation, and I believe it was on this night that Akbar solidified his place in my mind as my superior.

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On an unseasonably warm day the next January, Orlando decided to take his coffee to the bus stop for the first time in five years. The night before had been a trying one. Hed been to dinner at The Jade Palace with his friend Parker and his old friend Olivia as well. Orlando saw Olivia only occasionally, but whenever he did, she felt it necessary to unburden herself. Like Orlando and Parker, she had been a promising artist, and though her career in advertising was very successful, she claimed to be ashamed for having sold out. This sentiment never seemed quite sincere to Orlando, nor did the spirit in which she ceremoniously presented both Orlando and Parker with gifts every time the three of them got together. These gifts seemed meant to garner favor.. Orlando let this go, but Parker, being the man he was, did not. He challenged Olivias sincerity, and the two ended up bating each other and bickering. This embarrassed Orlando, and on these occasions, Parkers spirituality seemed as much of a sham as Olivias pretentious humility. Orlando thanked whatever powers might be guiding his life that petty strife played no part in it, and that he was in love with a woman who loved him back. There would be other problems, however. Even the sour memory of the previous nights dinner didnt diminish Orlandos appreciation of this balmy day. There had been other lovely days when hed considered having coffee in the park, but had always opted out for one reason or another: there hadnt been enough time to enjoy himself fully, he wasnt in the right mood to appreciate the beauty of the day, he was too tired; anything but the real reasonfear of another encounter with the limping crow. Orlando had continued to have disturbing dreams of Tobys cat, and more and more the cats penetrating gaze had reminded him of that crow, to such an extent that eventually when he awoke he wasnt certain if it had been the cat or the crow that had visited his dream. In these dreams the cat (or crow) turned up in unlikely places and fixed its piercing and unrelenting stare on him. The cat/crow was on a grocery store shelf among the boxes of breakfast cereal; it was riding on the bus on the seat next to him; it was somehow incorporated into a great painting: among the philosophers on the steps of Raphaels The School of Athens, at

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the table in Leonardos Last Supper or among the Parisians dancing and at the tables in Renoirs Ball at the Moulin de la Galette. Yet time can erode the strongest defenses and the day was so surprisingly lovely that Orlando set off for the bus stop that Saturday morning with a new traveling cup, this one emerald green, filled with a far milder blend of coffee than hed formerly used Angela Wellingtons presence in his life apparently making up for the balance of optimism lost in the smaller dose of caffeine. There were puddles of melted snow all along the buckled sidewalk that wound through the little park; the January thaw was at its peak: the temperature was pushing sixty. The crescent moon that had preceded the sun in the sky was just paling to invisibility, and Orlando watched this disappearance as a charm of loveliness to toast his day. He also saw wisps of cloud fading away behind the climbing sun, and he doted on these: wispy things of all sorts, from clouds to locks of Angelas hair being among his favorite little niceties of life. The only reason Orlando went downtown on Saturdays was for Tobys lesson, and there was still plenty of time to linger with his coffee before he was due at the school; he could even be a little late. He had to take such care making his way around the puddles that he didnt notice Akbar making his way through the wet grass and approaching the sidewalk. But when Orlando sat down on the bench and saw the crow, he went rigid and a strangled little yelp escaped his mouth. This was the closest experience to the supernatural he had ever known, and any niceties hed been savoring went sour. He didnt know that crows even lived for five years, and had Orlando known the Buddhist story of the turtle and the wooden ring, he might have thought the possibility of the same crow approaching him after all that time was as rare as the possibility of incarnation on earth. But it was the same crow; it approached him steadily, and when it stepped onto the sidewalk, it lifted one foot and then the other, just as it had on the day when Orlando first met Toby Wellington, and on the day of the boys second class. To make matters even more ominous, Orlando saw that the crow was again accompanied by a group of followers: at least a dozen, all of whom had eerily arranged themselves on the grass

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behind the chief bird. Though Orlando had not planned to make another sound or even move if he could help it, he heard himself say something that seemed so ridiculous that his voice cracked as he said it: Good Birdie, he said to the malevolent looking crow, at which the crow flapped its wings, lifted up off the ground, and hanging in midair before Orlando, gave out a rasping caw that would chill the blood of a vacationing rattlesnake taking the sun in Death Valley. Then as the crow settled back down onto the sidewalk, Orlando heard something that, in fact, changed his life, to the extent to which lives can actually change. It was a voice. A voice that seemed to come from the air just above the crow. It was thin and reedybut sharp. So far so good, said the voice. So far so good. That was all. And it was the crows voice. The lame black bird had spoken to forty-five-year-old Orlando Floyd. And then it turned, flapped its wings and took off, soon to be joined by the dozen other crows that had apparently been watching. Together then, brazenly cawing and jeering all the while, they flew away and disappeared behind the trees on the other side of the park. Of course, Orlandos rational mind immediately set in to repair the damage done by the intrusion of the paranormal, and did its best to convince him that he had suffered an hallucination. But he felt blurred, disoriented, light-headed. He began to sweat. So far so good? He took off his glasses and put them back on. Try as it might, his rational mind could only succeed in its debunking tactics superficially. Emotionally, Orlando wasnt at all convinced. Not at all. If he were, he wouldnt have walked away repeatedly asking himself exactly what the infernal crow had meant. So far so good? So far what was so good? Orlando was angry, because if he truly believed hed been imagining things, he wouldnt have had the nagging inclination that the crows supernatural message had something to do with his prize student. But animals dont speak, he told himself again and again. And thats that. Animals dont speak! Except for this one, perhaps. This one did. And it chose to speak to him.

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THE GRAVEST BUSINESS

The drawings Toby Wellington created in the next year were to win him a permanent place in the history of Western Art. The development in his work during this period was one of both complexity and scale. Again, Orlando Floyds suggestions triggered Toby on to a new plateau, though Orlando could not have foreseen the scope of the results. Two years earlier, Toby had had a very successful second show at the same New York Gallery that had sold his original, simpler compositions. Of the thirty drawings displayed (all these with two conjoined subjects rather than one), Toby, Angela and Orlando had selected six to retain for the Wellingtons private collection, and all the rest sold at high prices within a week of the shows opening. The unanimous critical acclaim was not surprising; it was clear by now to anyone with a seasoned eye that this child had been born a masterful artist and was simply showing what he knew. But whereas his mother had been overwhelmed by the buzz created by his first exhibition, she took the attention

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directed toward her son in stride this time, and protected him as she saw fit. Another invitation did arrive for an appearance on the David Letterman show, and the only way Angela could dissuade her son from his threat to run away to New York was to promise him that by the time he had his third exhibition hed be old enough to appear on late night television Now Toby was a twelve-year-old seventh-grader, and though Orlandos promptings to Toby at this time were simple, they were carefully thought out as the next natural step in the boys development. Orlando suggested that since Toby had already composed hundreds of drawings of varied subjects, he might be ready to begin drawing solely from memory; and furthermore, that he might challenge himself with an even larger scale than the 14 by 17 format he was already comfortable with. It surprised some in the School of Fine Arts and others following Tobys progress that Orlando did not introduce the boy to printmaking at this point, etching and lithography in particular, in which the drawing was not done in pen but with a stylus on metal and grease pencil on stone respectively. Drawing on metal and stone was still drawing, after all, and for one whod proved he could draw without making mistakes, it seemed the transition would be simple. But Orlando didnt feel the boy had yet plumbed the depths of his skills with pen and ink. And Toby didnt hesitate to prove him correct. When he told his teacher what he wanted to do, Orlando used the schools facilities to supply Toby with what he needed: a three by three-anda-half foot white drawing board of the highest quality mounted a braced wooden board to ensure permanent rigidity. When Orlando suggested a larger scale he had nothing this big in mind. This was a size appropriate for a painting, not a pen and ink drawing. The challenges presented by such a large format for a line drawing would be vast even if the work were carefully planned and executed in stages. To vary the textures in the composition enough to create depth and avoid a distracting black-and-white sameness alone presented such challenges as to make it clear why there was not a rich history of oversized drawings in ink. To create a work of this size in this medium even posed problems for the artist in finding a spot to place his hand while workingand given Tobys style in

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which he had completed every drawing hed done in one sitting, the prospects for success in this venture seemed remote. As far as Orlando knew, nothing like this had been done before in quite this way. Once the composition had been conceived, Orlando reasonedif thats the correct word to describe whatever it was that the child did to begin creating his artthousands upon thousands of lines would be required to describe it, thousands upon thousands of lines that needed not only to be correct since erasure was impossible, but stylistically correct as well, or to put it another way: beautifully and uniquely Tobys own. Toby chose to work in the schools large studio, empty as it was of other students on Saturdays. This had been his preference for years. His first drawing was of the studio-classroom itself, but filled with students, including Toby, who was seated at his drawing board like the others, in the act of drawing a still life set up in front of them all. In the immediate foreground of Tobys composition was his own drawing board, his rendition of the still life the class was working on and his own hand in the process of drawing it. But also included in the picture within the drawing were several of the other students and their drawings of the still life as well. Beyond this mini-composition, in the mid-ground of the composition, was the full compliment of students busy at work drawing; and in the background, the still life, consisting of a vase of flowers, a bowl of fruit, a stack of books, a table cloth and the moveable window frame behind it. Also in the background but off to the right, stood Orlando Floyd looking on with what seemed keen interest. So as it was arranged, the still life was portrayed in varying stages of completion, from varying perspectives and angles and finally in the background as the actual subject of all the students drawings. The overall effect was astonishing. The composition was replete with harmony, congruency and reflection. It was not only prismatic, even holographic, but somehow kinetic, as if animated. The still life was everywhere, and each version of it spoke to the others with musical resonance; and so it was with the borders of the paper on which each student was drawing and the borders of their drawing boards: these rectilinear shapes resonated with each other, with the frame and panes of the window in the still life, with those as rendered in the other drawings, and with the large rectangular windows of the studio-classroom itself shown on the far-right-

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middle and background of the compositionwhich was, remember, over a yard wide and a yard high. It was a house of mirrors, not designed to befuddle but to illuminate. Then there were the student artists themselves, all of whose faces were turned to one degree or another toward the still life in the center background. These faces, some looking down at their work and some looking back at the subject, were faithful renderings of Tobys classmates, but all fixed in expressions of deep concentration, so deep as to lend even greater focus to the still life and their versions of it. As had been demonstrated in Tobys previous work, all elements of this extemporaneous composition complemented each other in delightful, intriguing and uncanny ways; but here the number of compositional elements had vastly increased, and the result was not only unlike anything seen before, but presented am enhanced vision of reality, a proof, a demonstration of the inner harmony innate in all things. When Toby invited Orlando Floyd into the room to see what hed done, some of the ink was still wet, and no inhibition or sense of decorum could prevent the flow of Orlandos tears at what he saw. But then through his tears he began to laugh, and in the most direct display of affinity Toby Wellington had ever shown him, the boy also began to laugh in awe of what hed done. On the next Saturday, Angela brought Toby downtown to the School of Fine Arts for his lesson as usual, but the boy told Orlando he wasnt ready to begin another drawing. When asked if there was something hed rather do, Toby said that hed like to walk around the museumby himself. Never before had Toby made such a request; in fact, in the years of his association with the school, he hadnt spent more than fifteen minutes in the galleries of the Art Institutes permanent collection. Thrilled by the boys interest, Orlando escorted him to the buildings entrance, told him to show his student card and let him loose. Orlando stood watching as Toby climbed the broad central staircase, but before the boy chose which direction to turn on the second floor, he glanced back at his teacher, making it clear from his lookthat forbidding glare Orlando had known for years nowthat he didnt wish to be watched.

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Orlando never learned to react well to that lookwhether from Toby, Tobys cat, or that infernal, limping crowand as he walked to his office to wait for Toby to return, a twinge of that old unfulfilled feeling returned, that feeling that had kept him in bed many a morning; it returned as if to say hello and remind him that bad feelings, like bad karma, have a way of sticking to your shoe. No one, of course, will be surprised that Toby wasnt willing to say anything about what hed been looking at, but Orlando assumed hed know as soon as Toby completed his next drawing, and Orlando was correct. Toby had studied one of the museums most famous paintings, the huge pointillist canvass by Georges Seurat, Sunday Afternoon on the Grande Jatte, which depicts Parisians walking and lounging on the park-like islanda painting which is not only a unique technical tour de force, but a compositional masterpiece as well. Two weeks after Toby completed his three by three-and-a-half-foot The Drawing Lesson he drew another astonishing drawing of the same size, this depicting contemporary city dwellers walking and lounging near a Lincoln Park lagoon near his house. Orlando believed that as well as having studied the great Seurat, Toby had been visiting the park, because the next day when Orlando went to look at the scene Toby had depicted, he found it startlingly accuratenot only regarding the textures of the trees with their new, May foliage, but somehow, as if by extraordinary coincidence, he saw some of the same people depicted in Tobys drawing lingering there in the park. The next of Tobys large compositions came after a period of one month. This was of a bus crowded with passengers, standing and sitting, as viewed from the back seat. This composition was atypical of Tobys work in that the characterization of the passengers faces was its most outstanding qualityat least at first viewing. For Toby had created a picture in deep perspective where most of the bus riders had their heads turned as to look at something in the back of the bus. There was no indication of what this was, but the overwhelming impression given by the varied curious looks was that the passengers were looking directly at the viewer. And there was such great diversity in those faces: from an innocently curious child; to a smug but weary teenager; to a old woman whose face was creased with a sorrow uniquely her own; to an annoyed man, too important to be disturbed; to a heavyset

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maternal woman, with subtle traces of concern in her look; to a sleepy commuter, hanging onto the overhead rail, looking as of just snapped awake; to a bored woman whod seen it all; to a woman concerned her baby would awake; and more as well, packed in the crowded bus. When one took it all in, it was too easy to forget that the portrayer of this human mosaic was a boy not yet thirteen. This is to say nothing of the congruency of line: the pairs of eyes, close, distant, above and below; the backs of heads; the heads in profile; the shoulders; the folds and creases in clothing; the reflections parts of all this on the inner panes of the bus windowsall elements together making the viewer feel self-conscious at being examined by so many in so many different ways, and wanting to know what was causing such a stir. Then after only two weeks, Toby created a cityscape: Chicagos skyline with a group of picnickers in the foreground. A drawing in which the elaborate precision of the architectural draughtsmanship stood in stark contrast to the softness of the relaxed, laughing family. And others followed these: a new one every two weeks, three weeks or every month. And the fairskinned, handsome twelve-year-old boy, who more and more resembled his beautiful mother, grew even taller. The volume and astonishing character of his compositions made Orlandos head swim. The inspiration behind these complex, flawless drawings seemed so great that Orlando feared that Toby, as the conduit for such power, would be consumed, burnt out in the truest sense of the expression. It was a strain on Orlandos nervous system to even think of creating on such a scale and at such a rate. But Toby showed no signs of strain. It was shortly after this period of Tobys great productivity that Damiens family had moved from their third floor apartment to an old twenty-four story high-rise overlooking Lincoln Park and Lake Michigan. Their new apartment was on the eighteenth floor, and once Damien invited his friend over to show him the view, the two boys waited anxiously for a bombardiering opportunity from such great new heights. It came on a Saturday in August, only weeks after Tobys thirteenth birthday, a day when Ellen and Alexander

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Sharp had gone to visit Ellens sister in the northern suburbs, and one on which Toby had told Orlando and his mother that he needed a break from his Saturday lessons. At thirteen, Damiens parents didnt know as much more about his secret life as Angela Wellington knew about Tobys, so they not only trusted their boy to stay home alone, but to invite his friend over to visit as wellas long as he promised they would stay out of mischief. In the three short weeks he had lived in the twenty-fourstory building, Damien had learned a thing or two about hi-rise mischief. He had already experienced the glee of pushing all the buttons in the two automatic elevators that served his wing of the building, and then doing the same in the service elevator, thus crippling elevator service for at least fifteen minutes and causing mass consternation among the well-to-do residents. He also learned to press the entire bank of intercom buttons in the buildings lobby when the doorman wasnt present, and listen to the tinny chorus of dozens of Hellos sounding like something from a bewitched poultry barn. When Tobys mother dropped him off at Damiens at ten in the morning that Saturday, Damien already had the days strategy planned. Once Toby arrived, he and Damien took one of the front elevators downstairs and left the building in clear sight of the doorman on duty. Then they walked three blocks down toward the underpass across Lake Shore Drive to the park, but once out of the doormans sight, rather than crossing under to the park, they took the long way around and circled back to the backdoor of Damiens building, where they took one of the service elevators up to the eighteenth floor and entered the Sharps apartment through the back door. In the three weeks Damien had lived at 3443 Lake Shore Drive, he had noticed that many of the tenants there had children, and many of those were close to his age and of his ilk; thus he felt that he and Toby were doubly safe from detection when they went to the twenty-fourth floor with a bottle of maple syrup and poured the contents down the mail chute, and then, once back on the eighteenth floor, pressed all the buttons in the elevators. Damiens mother was a disorganized but avid grocery shopper and thus their pantry shelves were stocked with many random redundancies. The maple syrup would never be missed. Damien even thought to wipe

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the empty bottle clean of fingerprints and drop it down the incinerator chute. The trouble with this kind of stunt, however, is that the perpetrators dont get to enjoy the chaos of the stalled elevator service and the dreadful inconvenience of a jammed, sticky mail slotwhich certainly constituted a federal offense of some sort as well. So after Toby and Damien finished laughing and describing various scenarios of human rage and suffering, they didnt find the video games they played provided sufficient excitement: there was nothing to do then but move on to the inevitable. Damien still had his stash of the small balloons theyd used to make their jiggly missiles at his former apartment, and the boys filled six of these and brought them to the living room, where the windows overlooked Lake Shore Drive, a street busy with both traffic and pedestrians. Unlike many of the newer high-rise apartment buildings in the city, in some of which the windows didnt open at all, this older one had conventional aluminum screenstorm windows, so the screens could be raised simply by squeezing two moveable latches. Many of these hadnt weathered well over the years, but there was one particular window in Damiens living room where the screen slipped up and down easily. So it wasnt difficult to throw water balloons out and slip the screen back down before anyone below could look up and see them. This was the most prudent approach, though at first, the boys put their heads out and watched. As soon as they began, however, they found that the lightweight balloons wouldnt do; they were swept back against the building by wind currents that seemed unrelenting that day. Toby and Damien threw all six balloons with the same disappointing result: insignificant stains on the buildings brick edifice just a few stories below. It was actually Damien then who suggested the eggs. After the boys stopped laughing, Damien brought two eggs from the refrigerator. Since there was a stoplight directly in front of the building, the plan was to aim at cars on Lake Shore Drive. In order to get the eggs beyond the broad sidewalk below, however, the boys would have to stand back away from the window and sling them with some force. Toby threw the first egg as Damien watched at the window. It was unclear whether Toby threw the egg too far, not far

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enough, or if Damien simply didnt see where it landed, but the first throw was inconclusive. Toby watched then as Damien stood back and flung the second egg. The light changed just before Damien let his egg go, and Toby told Damien he saw the egg hit the windshield of a car, that he even saw the car swerve on impact. This did not happen; he saw nothing of the sort, but had made sure that he blocked access to the window with his shoulders so Damien couldnt look out until after the traffic had moved along. Toby didnt want to report another miss. He feared that if he did, Damien would want to give up. But the effect of his lie was not what he expected. Damien believed Tobys story, but seemed satisfied that theyd finally hit something. He said he wanted to stop. This was unacceptable. At Damiens bidding, they went back into his room and began to play video games again, but Toby was disgusted with Damien because he was so easy to beat. He felt he could foresee Damiens every move and could outmaneuver him regardless. He could only play for a few minutes before he couldnt stand it any more. He stopped mid-game, stood up and walked back in the direction of the living room. The sweet ache under his shoulder blade throbbed for fulfillment. Lets do some more, he said. We didnt even hit that car. I just made that up. What do you mean? I just said that because I thought thats what you wanted to hear. Get it? Now I want to do some more. Like what? Damien asked. Like more eggs. Or maybe something bigger. No way, nothing bigger. I dont even want to do eggs. Why not? I just dont want to. We might get caught. Thats stupid, Toby said walking into the kitchen and looking around. There was a large bowl of fruit on the kitchen table. Shes wont miss one of these, he said, touching one of the pears in the bowl. I can rearrange it so shell never know its gone. And anyway, the way the fruit was arranged in the bowl disturbed Toby. It was common. It was artless. It was no still life hed ever draw. No-o! Damien insisted. It doesnt matter if shell miss it or not.

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It doesnt? Toby barked back. No! Damien said. Im the one wholl get in trouble if we get caught! Of course this was largely true; it was Damiens parents apartment, but this self-serving consideration left Toby fuming, and feeling a stab of pain under his right ear now, he pushed the pears aside, picked up a cantaloupe and walked toward the living room. Are you fucking crazy? Damien said. Toby stopped and looked at his friend, disgusted. No, are you? Whats your problem? At this Damien tried to wrest the cantaloupe from Tobys hands, but though he was strong, he was no match for the larger boy. Toby stalked off to the living room with Damien pulling desperately at his shirt. When he got to the window, he held the cantaloupe between his knees and snapped the screen all the way up. Im going to throw this out, he said. You want to watch or not? There was something so forceful, so inevitable and uncompromising in the way Toby said that, that for a moment Damien felt powerless. He came over to the window to watch. His expression was slack. Toby flipped the cantaloupe about ten feet out and it plummeted straight down. Damien turned away before it hit. Even Toby jumped back when it did. The wind off the lake still buffeted the building so the boys did not hear the melon hit, but when Toby looked out before letting the screen back down, he saw that not only was the sidewalk below them was orange, but there was a person sitting on it as well, at least from eighteen stories up it looked like he or she was sitting. Wed better get out of here, Toby said to Damien, who went white at these words. Toby didnt wait for him to ask why. Theres a person down on the sidewalk, he said, as of it were the persons fault. Wed better get out the back way. As tough and savvy an exterior as Damien had recently tried to present, hed begun to blubber, and Toby despised him for that. Once theyd rushed out the back door and summoned the service elevator, Toby acted as if he wasnt acquainted with the sobbing Damien even though the two of them were alone as they rode down. They didnt see anyone downstairs behind the building either, but before they headed away, Toby wanted to peek around in front to see what had happened. Damien was frantic at this suggestion, so

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much so that he stopped crying and tried to hold Toby back. He grabbed Tobys arm with such force that Toby had to elbow him sharply in the chest to get away. What Toby saw was this: a small crowd of people had gathered around someone on the sidewalk, some of them kneeling down. It looked to Toby like it was a woman there, but he didnt see any blood or hear anyone screamingall he saw was splattered cantaloupe radiating out in a large circle around her, like a starburst. He wasnt entirely satisfied with what he saw, but felt he shouldnt force the issue and joined Damien who was hiding behind the building, crouching against a door to a utility locker. Damien had started crying again, but softly this time. Refusing to look at his face, Toby told him to follow him away, which he did, and the boys walked down a side street then, slowly and steadily as Toby insisted, leaving the scene of the crime behind them. Damien remained teary and agitated. Still averting his eyes, Toby told him not to be stupid, that if he acted that way theyd get caught. But what if you killed someone? Damien pleaded. What if I did? Toby answered. I didnt mean to. Then he told Damien to say they were at the park all day, hanging around the lake and the tennis courts just like theyd told Damiens mother, and that they should circle around over to the park now and come back in about an hour when everything was over and cleaned up on the sidewalk. Damien, feeling powerless again, agreed, and they walked back to the underpass where they crossed under Lake Shore Drive to the park. Once there, Toby became more and more antagonized because Damien kept saying that he was angry at him. This sounded stupid to Toby, insipid, like something someones parents might say. And anyway, Toby wanted to know, why did Damien think I cared of he was mad or not? It was incomprehensible for Toby to care. He didnt. And then Damien didnt want to do anything in the park either, and when Toby told him he wanted to throw stones at the gulls at the Lake Michigan shore, Damien acted as if Toby was crazy or something. The two of them sat there on the big rocks at the lake for a while, but Damien kept going on about how Toby shouldnt have thrown the cantaloupe, and how they were going to get in trouble, and Toby told him to shut up, that he was ruining the day. Then Damien told Toby he was scared, and

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that reminded Toby how he scared hed been of Anton, and he became even angrier at Damien. He felt like killing him. Once Toby decided they should go back to the building and theyd arrived there, they found there were still some people in front along with a police car. Toby went directly up to the doorman and asked what had happened. The doorman told him that a lady had been hit by a cantaloupe or maybe some other kind of fruit too, and that shed been taken to the hospital. When he asked what had happened to the lady, the doorman told him that she was only hit in the shoe but had feinted. Where did the cantaloupe come from? Toby asked. From an airplane? The doorman said that no one knew for sure. Toby shook his head. Thats crazy, he said. The doorman agreed, shook his head and said that the police were going through the building, door to door. Damien listened to this conversation in terror but didnt say a thing. What was left of the cantaloupe on the ground looked to Toby like mashed up orange; only the seeds were recognizable. Toby saw that Damien looked pale, and concerned that the doorman would notice, he hurried his friend inside. Again, Damien was docile. But when the two of them got in the elevator to go back up to the eighteenth floor, Damien said his mother was going to miss the cantaloupe. He looked like he was going to cry again, which made Toby want to slap him. If she does, Toby said, Ill just tell her it was your idea. Shell never believe that, Oh, really? Your motherll think you let me throw something like that out of your window? Toby looked at Damien with disgust. And then a most peculiar feeling came over him. It wasnt that he felt like this had all happened before, but that he knew exactly what was going to happen next, as if a block of time had fallen into place, a piece of it that he could see as a whole, from all sides. It was very much the way he felt once he decided what to draw and was about to beginexcept for the pain. Toby hunched his shoulders as it shot down from under his right ear. And though what Toby saw coming was unexpected, it made perfect sense, because if the police were going to go to all the apartments looking

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for a missing cantaloupe, there was going to have to be some explanation, wasnt there? Whens your mother going to get home? Toby asked after they got off the elevator and were going in the front door. I dont know. What does it matter to you? And why dont you just go home anyway? Because I want to throw something else out the window, Toby said. No! Damien shouted, stamping his feet. You wont! I wont let you! But this sounded hollow; it sounded wretched to Toby who already knew what was going to happen. Damien was frantically grabbing at his shirt again, but Toby pushed his way into the living room and over to the window. Damien tried to stop Toby from opening it, and the two boys fought over that, punching and pushing each other, until Damien slipped down on the floor and Toby was able to put his foot down on his shoulder as he forced the window all the way up. But Damien was crazed. He was back on his feet, and in order to raise the screen, Toby had to pummel him in the solar plexus. When he buckled over, Toby flung the screen up with such force that he heard the storm window behind it crack like a gunshot. Damien struggled back up again; he didnt have the breath to make a sound, but he was swinging wildly at Toby. Toby, however, was unconcerned; he held Damien off with one hand and found what he was looking for. He hadnt known exactly what it would bejust that something would be there for him: and it was a crystal candlestick with a red stub of a candle in it, one of a set of two that was on a table next to the couch. Toby took hold the candlestick in his right hand and continued fighting Damien off with his left as he worked his way back to the open window. Damien was sobbing and swinging frantically but nearly all his blows missed, and when he did connect, Toby didnt feel a thing. Toby was straddling that block of time. He was holding the candlestick out the window; he was right up against it; his arm was all the way out; he felt the wind against his sleeve. His left hand was on Damiens head now, and though he felt Damiens strength swelling against him, he still managed to hold him off. Damien was flailing his arms like a baby having a tantrum and crying so pitifully that Toby wanted to smash his head, he

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wanted to see it crack open, but that was not going to happen. Toby would see no such thing. What happened was this. Once Toby felt the full power of Damiens rage build up and nearly break through the force of own his rigidly extended left arm, he dropped the candlestick he was holding out the window, and as it plummeted silently down, he released his grip on Damiens head, and simply stepped aside. Thats what he did. He stepped aside. Damien lunged forward. It felt like a choreographed dance. It happened in silence. A simple stepwith no feeling attached, none at all. Toby used his left hand to push Damien out the window. He glancingly touched the bare skin under Damiens shirt where it had come out of his pants. The index finger of Tobys left hand caught for just an instant in one of his friends belt loops, so just for a moment, Damien was suspended there, half in-half out the window, like a huge wriggling fish. Tobys fingernail split in half, all the way down the middle, but he didnt feel a thing. He heard the noise that Damien made as he fell eighteen stories to the pavement below. It wasnt a scream; it was a moan. By the time Toby got downstairs he was hysterical. Hed had to wait for the elevator so long that he thought someone else had pushed all the buttons. Then once it came, it stopped on seventeen and a man got on. Toby shrunk back into a corner and but couldnt restrain his sobbing. The man was embarrassed and didnt say a thing. Then the elevator stopped on twelve and two women got on. They saw that Tobys finger was bleeding and thought he was crying because of that. One of them tried to touch him but he swatted her away. Then the other woman started weeping. By then Toby was sobbing and gasping so violently he had to squat down. He held his bloody finger under his right ear and quaked. As the elevator descended toward the lobby, it shrunk in size. The one woman tried to calm the other as they looked at Toby in horror, but nothing could contain the other womans tears. She wept convulsively, as if bereaved. Then Toby was outside. And so was Damien. There wasnt much blood, just something that looked to Toby like Jello and a lot of skin, and Damiens legs werent right and his face was on the wrong side of his head. The tiny red stub of a candle had somehow ended up between Damiens limp fingers. And there were

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cantaloupe seeds all around him. It felt like a very long time before Toby could get any words out. He had crossed beyond the block of time that hed seen from all sides at once. I was trying to stop him. That was what Toby gasped through his wracking sobs. Those words: I was trying to stop him. Again and again. I was trying to stop him, he pleaded as heads of people were bobbing and bending around him. Ugly heads, with distorted features, dirty hair and coarse, oily skin. And then his knees buckled and he was sitting on the sidewalk next to what was once Damien. And then, as if reciting his lines on stage, lines hed recited countless times in performance after performance, he said Damien had been doing it. Damien had been throwing things out of the window, and that he tried to stop him. Damien had been doing it. And Damien was still there. No one had covered him: he looked at Toby from the face on the back of his head with gaping eyes. Hed tried to stop him from throwing a candlestick down, Toby said to the ugly heads of all the people who were putting their heavy hands on his shoulders and on the skin of his neck and trying to comfort him; he said theyd been fighting by the window and Damien had lunged to throw the candlestick out and he couldnt hold him when he lost his balance and fell out. How many times did he have to say it? And once he couldnt talk anymore and the hands came off his neck, he fell into a black pit that was the source of all tears where he also found the essence of himself that flowed out as well in searing drops. It was as if the bubbles had finally burst and Tobys soul leaked out.

NOTE # 3
Murder, of course, is the gravest business. Some say taking the life of any sentient being is the most ungodly act and should be strictly avoided. Does pushing a thirteen-year-old boy out of an eighteenth story window offend the cosmos (or the great ones who have attained unity with it) more so than clubbing a superstitious, neglectful, fifteenth-century shepherd to death and pushing him down an eighteen story ravine? Is neither an offense to the cosmos?

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Is murder universally proscribed because the lack of love implied, and not because it ends life, which all saviors, avatars, sages and saints insist does not end? And how do the various theories of whence from and hereafter bear on this? What if the two boys were playing out a long incarnational-karmic relationship, or even bringing it to a final resolution? Or what if the doctrines of reincarnation are fallacious or lacking in dimension, which to some extent they must surely be? What if Damien Sharp was to be the man who found a cure for cancer or some other plague that visited humanity? What if he were to become a serial killer? And what would Akbar the Crow say about this heartbreaking turn of events?

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AFTER THE FALL

Toby continued to cry. An ambulance and three police cars pulled up, one after the other. Toby cried to the police, all of them, and as the paramedics examined the broken remains of Damien, he cried to them. When his mother was summoned, he cried to her, and for the first time in years, he clung to her. And when Damiens parents arrived a little later, he cried to them, though to them he was only another specter in a scene of unthinkable horror. Toby stuck to his story: he had tried to stop Damien from falling. It didnt matter whether he believed it or not; the torrent of his feelings was so furious that trifles like the truth were blown away like motes of dust. When pressed to speak more, he told the police that he had had gone along with Damien when it came to just throwing eggs, and said maybe because of that he was to blame for it too. But this lie as well, caused no stir in the boys tumultuous feelings. And when the police asked him to tell them everything that happened again and again, and about the other times Damien had convinced

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Toby to throw water balloons with him, Toby told them just how it had all transpiredwith only one twist; and when Damiens broken parents began to speak to him imploringly and said that it just didnt add up, Toby only continued to cry. Perhaps his lies were effortless because he so firmly believed it was not his destiny to be caught. He had never been caught in the past. Once the detectives were satisfied that the heartbroken boy could provide no further information at the time, his mother took him home. The forensic unit was still working the scene, but the body of Tobys friend, Damien, had been taken away to the medical examiners office. What remained on the ground was the starburst of cantaloupe, shattered crystal, and a gelatinous splatter, which was soaking into the porous sidewalk in front of 3443 Lake Shore Drive. The red stub of the candle must have been removed. The doorman who had been on the scene had feinted and was being ministered to by the paramedics. His replacement had been called but had not arrived. Nothing was said on the slow, short ride back to the Wellingtons apartment, but to Angela, it no longer resembled the home she and her son had left that Saturday morning in August. Nothing was quite the same there, and she believed it never would be. The shadows, in particular, seemed just a shade deeper in light of Damiens death; and the way the light fell through the windows on the tables, the chairs, the floor, carried a palpable weight to it, as if the light itself were a dire consequence. And the walls felt closer, millimeters only, but enough to make Angela feel as if shed taken on a few grains of mournful weight herself. When she looked at her son as he walked away from her toward his room, he seemed to move cautiously, as if through strange rooms in utter darkness. Andr was nowhere to be seen. Of course, there was an extensive investigation. It lasted weeks. Detectives talked to Toby repeatedly and at great length, asking him to repeat his version of the events that day, which he did, convincingly, tormented as he was from the collision of inner forces of which the detectives knew nothing. And Tobys family was interviewed, and the Sharps; and all Tobys and Damiens classmates and teachers. But there was nothing in the evidence gathered that could be construed to contradict Tobys version of the

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story. Even the blood from Tobys broken fingernail on the belt loop of Damiens jeans looked as if it might have been shed in trying to hold the falling boy back, and the configuration of the split nail suggested the same. Once the questions finally ceased, Toby fell ill. He lost his appetite, grew weak, ran a low fever and slept eighteen hours a day. His complexion was pallid; his pulse rate low. His mother feared he was going to die. After the consultation of learned specialists resulted in no medical diagnosis, his pediatrician prescribed drugs for depression, but to no avail. Toby was sinking away. Try to understand how difficult it is for them, Akbar said to me on the night of the Autumnal Equinox. They arent only struggling to evolve in the densest plane in the cosmos, but its their ultimate mission to enlighten it. Do you understand? As remote as that possibility may seem to you, Andr, humans arent here just to illuminate themselves, but to bring light to material life itself in the form of love. And to do this, they need to immerse themselves in it, to learn its secrets, to focus their energies in the density of it all; act as specialists, if you will. Akbar and I were on our usual perch atop the Wellingtons apartment building. Even with the dirty air, the harsh city lights and the brightness of the moon, the cloudless sky was resplendent with stars. I was listening to Akbar intently. I needed to know more. I knew what had happened; not only had I sensed it and seen afterimages in Tobys emanations, but Akbar had confirmed it. I didnt know how the crow knew what he knew; perhaps another bird had witnessed the act; perhaps Akbar could read the secret records of events, or see with an inner eye. But he had confirmed it, and even called it murder. Theres a divine spark in them all, he explained. But in order to do what they must, these humans need to direct their energy outward, thus losing contact with the divine for a time and appearing to plod on without direction, as youve pointed out to me more than once. Whats actually happening is a loss of dimensionality: they perceive only a cross-section of reality. Some have called this an illusion. They perceive the world as a linear

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reality, in dualities, in pairs of opposites, and though it serves the purpose of their mission, it severely limits their understanding. Youve seen how it is. They have their good and evil, their right and wrong the various gradients between the two; they have their yes and no; free will and fate; past and future, and perhaps the most limiting duality of all: their questions and answers. To a degree, this method of understanding works, but only as if they were a race of two dimensional beings living in a three dimensional world. Do you follow me, Andr? They see and understand things in a linear way: only lines and pointsaround them, approaching them, receding, but not as aspects of the transcendent three dimensional objects. And if a three dimensional object suddenly enters their flat world, it miraculously appears from nowhere; and if a three dimensional object moves up and away, some lines or points theyd seen moving about would disastrously disappear. They cannot explain this: they cannot explain why certain things happen; they cannot explain birth and death, because birth and death and other acts of God are not linear events, they are actions from beyond their dimensionality; they are not answers to questions. Nothing of deep importance to their lives is an answer to a question. Akbar paused, as if to give me a chance to catch up. I noticed that his troupe of twelve was unusually silent and keenly focused in their attention on their leader. One of them, I noticed for the first time, had a streak of white on his head. Quite naturally, the old crow continued, these humans try to justify the incomprehensible with doctrines of salvation and damnation and reincarnation and karma. But these doctrines are linear, flat: theyre only projections of what they routinely observe. So when a murder occurs, humans are constrained in two ways. First, theyre restricted by the rules they created for living without full knowledge of reality. This is just as it should be. Thou shalt not do things that violate the laws of our known dimensions. Killing, for instance. And second, they concoct theories to justify what they cannot understand: theories about the will of God, when in truth the fullness of the reality they cant yet see arises from the will of everyone and everything, It is a Great Cosmic Dance of Consent. Things do not happen to humans because they deserve it, nor is any human to blame for any act; yet still, they should and

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must believe so until they see the interconnectedness of all acts and times and understand that it is the ignition of opposites that maintains the pulse of creation. But Akbar had not quite finished with me that cloudless night of the Autumnal Equinox. So, my feline friend, he said in conclusion. Rather than answer your question this evening, Ill tell you something far more useful, more widely applicable. To your concerns regarding the boys crime I will say this: Yes, he is to blame, and no, he is not; but best of all, I will tell you both are true, together at once. For only when you understand that, will you know the unmistakable savor and sound of truth. You reconcile the irreconcilable. You wed the opposites within yourself. You carry it in your heart. Only then will you become the mystery. You will feel it in your eyes, in the tip of your tail, in your whiskers. Then you will be among the fortunate. You wont speak of it; you will burn with it; you will emanate it as a blessing for all to receive, as do the trees and wind and the rivers and rocks. As one day, once we have all fulfilled our mission, all humans will as well. Every last one of them. A purr arose from every cell in my body when Akbar told me this, and if Id had any question as to why Id felt drawn to the Wellington child and felt it my duty to remain close to him, that question was dismissed. As I expected, once Akbar stopped talking, he wished me well, excused himself and joined the ranks of his followers, who still seemed particularly reverent and hushed in his presence that night. It was only after it seemed Toby had been sinking away for ten days that his decline leveled off. His mother noticed it first, but it was only the next day she discovered the source, which seemed to be the presence of his cat, Andr, whod begun to sit by the sick boys pillow and purr. These visits by the cat began to bring a hint of color back to Tobys pale cheeks, and when the cat was with him, the boy was willing to say a few words, sip a little broth and even have a taste of solid food. Noting this new development, his doctor commented on the reputed therapeutic effects of petsa remark no doubt overheard by Andr, and perhaps appreciated, but only to an

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extent we can probably surmise, since the doctor undoubtedly included dogs in his definition of pets. But no matter what Andrs opinion of doctors, and for that matter, of Toby, before long the cat took up residence in Tobys room, taking his meals in there, most often remaining close to the sick boys head and leaving only for occasional trips out the back door, after which his purr seemed noticeably amplified, even at times audible from outside the room. Yet still the boy continued to sleep eighteen hours a day, but as Angela Wellington noticed, not only did the cat sleep eighteen hours a day himself, but the same eighteen hours. When Toby went to sleep, so did Andr. When Toby woke up, the glossy black cat stood, arched his back, and then extended his forepaws in that most elegant stretching gesture known among mammals. Angela also noticed that after this routine had been established, Toby customarily whispered a few words to the animal, to which the response was a stirring, full-bodied, resonant purr. Except for his apparent relations with his cat, Toby remained shaken, withdrawn, and clearly depressed; he wept frequently and murmured what sounded like words of apology and remorse. Needless to say, the child psychiatrist brought in by Tobys pediatrician may as well have been trying to analyze the cat for all the all response he received from the sick boy. Angela knew at the first suggestion that her son would not cooperate with any psychological probing, though as a worried parent, she let herself be convinced to give it a try, feeling it couldnt hurt. Orlando, on the other hand, felt differently. He too had been shaken to his roots by Damiens horrific death. He had wept with Angela, more tears that hed shed in his adult life; and hed wept when alone, for a complex tangle of reasons: hed wept for Damiens parents, for Angela, for Toby and for his own heartwrenching suspicions. Like Angela, he hadnt wanted to be alone, so hed been spending a good deal more time at the Wellingtons since the disaster on Lake Shore Drive. And though shaken by his sorrow and still disoriented since receiving that enigmatic message from the crow, his wits were still gathered closely enough about him to know what was best for Toby. He believed any traditional psychiatrist attempting to meddle with the psyche of the traumatized boy might do nothing but harm. Toby, after all, with his

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otherworldly gift and God knows what else, probably had an inner landscape for which no map existed. And Orlando was correct in his concern which hed vehemently expressed to Angela, for any brightness regained after the first full week of high dosage purr therapy was extinguished in an hour of Dr. Putzniks psychiatric intervention. It took days for Toby to rebound. Dr. Putznik was an individual Toby would have gladly pushed out a window, down a ravine, or down the mail shoot in shreds, had not the boys psychological coherence been shattered. But it was. Simply put, though Tobys genius emerged complete at birth, his character had not. The boy had broken his own rules, commandments hed never read, written perhaps in his bones or his cells or genes, and in a language he didnt yet understand; and the question remained whether the kings horses and men or whomever it was that had the task of reassembly could locate Tobys operating manual and make any sense of it. The condition of Toby Wellingtons psyche, however, was not the overriding concern for Damiens parents, the Sharps. Ellen and Alexander Sharp had suffered a loss from which they would never fully recover, and in Ellens case, never recover enough to pass a day in her life without tears. Of course they knew Damien had become wilder, more arrogant if not openly defiant in the last year. They had known hed thrown things out of windows; they suspected that he and Toby had likely been more malicious than that, but they never imagined their son would become the malevolent outlaw that Toby described: a boy whod not only recklessly endanger the lives of innocent strangers but put himself in a position to lose his own. Of course theyd known Toby for years and were aware that with his great talent Toby had been a somewhat peculiar boy, whod at times picked on Damien; and of course it occurred to them in their most private times together that Toby might have been the perpetrator, and may even have but they couldnt bring themselves to speak those words. They did harbor suspicions, but their shock and grief were only dimly tinted by this uncertainty, for they were, as anyone can understand, inconsolable.

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Not even Akbar the Crows exalted brethren in the League of Initiates could have consoled these bereft parents, though the two did regularly turn to one such initiate in their Christian prayers, and the image and love of this Master did mollify their grief from time to time. Had the Sharps known the facts of what happened in their living room that day, the scope of their grief may have been deflected by a few degrees, but not the heartbreaking intensity. And if they had been able to see the Great Cosmic Dance of Consent of which Akbar spoke, they might have found consolation, but of course in that case, they wouldnt be who they were and any speculation becomes meaningless: they might never have had a child to lose, they may have never met, they may have evolved into beings beyond our ken. In the world in which Damiens parents lived,the world deprived of dimensions, that fatefully level playing field, the flat onethey suffered unbearably. We know the greatest loss that can befall a human being (and perhaps other beings as well) is the loss of a child, because the loss of a child is the loss of promise, of hope, the loss of the future. Angela Wellington suffered as well. She too shed more tears in the aftermath of Damiens death than in her entire adult life to that point; her reaction to Tobias infidelity having primarily been one of indignation. During those days after Damiens death, with her own son fallen into a near-death of his own, Angela often awoke in tears, weeping at some terrible news she received in her dreams. And she often wept at the very thought of her beautiful boy, whose shock and grief affected him so; and at the thought of the happiness she had once known in her household; and of course, she wept for Ellen and Alex Sharp. Although they managed to be polite about it when Angela called, the Sharps didnt want to see her; they even found it difficult to speak to her. This troubled Angela as well; but her greatest worry was that Toby would never be the same, that hed climb out of bed trembling, stuttering, incompetent: a psychological cripple. These were a mothers intuitive fears, yet as short on information as she was, her intuition was hardly illuminating. Hes eating more, Angela said, but somethings still terribly wrong.

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It was a hot, windy day in September. Angela and Orlando were sitting on the bench in the park near Orlandos apartment. The park appeared to be crow free. Orlando stared away, watching the clouds move swiftly overhead. Of course somethings wrong, sweetheart, he said. Orlandos intuition, though not parental, was like a spotlight compared to Angelas. For like Marietta Star eight years earlier, he felt he knew what happened, though in this case the decedent was not a six-ounce rodent named Mr. Zootie, but a one-hundred-andfive pound boy. Has it ever occurred to you that Toby may not have been as uninvolved as he claims? he asked. It took considerable effort on his part, but as Orlando said this he looked directly at Angela. The color drained from her face. I dont need to hear that Angela, I think you do need to hear that. Im sorry, but You should be sorry. Angela. Im concerned about helping him, cant you tell? Angela began to shed tears at this, and as a cloud passed in front of the sun, cooling the park momentarily, Orlando felt the foundation of his life shift underneath him. He took Angelas face in his hands. Look, he said, have I ever taken your feelings lightly? Do you know how frightened I am of anything coming between us? He looked directly, his hands on her shoulders now. You seem angry, she said. No, thats not it at all. The stakes have been raised, sweetheart. Im just as worried as you are, but I think you love Toby so much youre not seeing things clearly. You mean hes lying? Orlando hesitated. I can see why he would. I trust him, Orlando. Did you ever think it might be better for him if you didnt? Meaning? Orlando scanned the park for crows. None were visible. He saw the sunlight suddenly illuminate the far end of the park and sweep across toward them as the cloud passed away from the sun. Meaning that Toby may have been taking advantage of us, that he might have been getting away with things, that he might have been getting a free ride when it would have been better for him to have

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paid his way. I cant say for sure, Angela, but Ive had my suspicions. Suspicions? Why didnt you tell me? How could you keep that from me? Orlando sat back. What do you think, Angela? She didnt say a thing. Shed stopped crying and looked up at the sky with a determined expression on her face, not unlike Orlandos own resolute look. You think hes so upset now because he had some part in what happened to Damien? I dont know, Orlando said, his resolve giving way. I really dont. Angela didnt seem to have listened to him. But Orlando, she said, I dont want to know about anything that will make me feel worse. Her hands were folded in her lap now, her eyes closed and her head bowed. Maybe you wont. Maybe youll feel stronger. Im not a strong person, Angela said, looking up, sounding almost defiant. You may not be the best judge of that, Orlando answered, reaching over and taking her folded hands in his, as racing clouds covered the sun again and the air cooled. But Im not going to try to convince you. I think youre as strong as you need to be. So what do you propose? I dont know. Just that we keep together in this. Thats a start. Thats when Orlando heard the chorus of crows, cawing, circling and finally settling down in the maple tree across the buckled sidewalk from them. He felt a little sick. Just as he finally had tried be open with Angela, and succeeded, here was something else he felt he couldnt speak to her about. A talking crow. So far so good? What nonsense! He fixed his gaze on her face. He didnt want to look around at the park. How long have you been keeping this from me? Angela asked. Not too long, Orlando lied. Its probably my fault, she said. I mean I probably wouldnt have been very receptive. She was looking down at the weeds and grass growing up through the cracks in the sidewalk. You were brave to bring it up, Orlando.

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Look, sweetheart, Orlando said. Youre the brave one now. Its going to be hard for both of us, but if we can look at it Look at that! said Angela. Look at the crow. Hes coming this way and hes limping. Orlando turned stiffly. And of course, there it was: the same crow, the aggressive, talking crow. Orlando couldnt account for the look on his face. Oh, Im sorry, dear, Angela said, taking his arm. I didnt mean to interrupt. You were saying that if we could look at thishow? Orlando felt he was going to choke. His round glasses came off and went back on again. From the same perspective, he said. Without letting our hopes distort the way we see Toby. Weve got to help him through this with our eyes open You mean my eyes, dont you, Orlando? Im sorry. Dont be. I suppose I need to hear this. Here she hesitated. But Im scared of that bird. Its coming closer. Can we leave? The fast moving clouds had become denser, and the park was all in shadow now. The crows glossy black feathers shone with added brilliance in the muted light. The bird had approached the sidewalk in front of the bench and was raising and putting down its feet as Orlando had seen it do three times before. Sure, Orlando said stiffly, taking her hand and pulling her up. He kind of scares me too. He? Angela asked, as they hurried around the bench to cross the street. Orlando shrugged, befuddled but trying to smile, and led her on across. The crow did not follow. We can have lunch at Mr. Lees, he said, indicating The Jade Palace at the corner. Angela turned and looked back at the crow once more. Hes going back to his friends, she said. I think those are his friends. Mr. Lee greeted them at the door. More crows, Mr. Froyd? he said. (Thats DOCTOR Freud, Mr. Lee, Orlando thought, despite the circumstances.) Mr. Lee was still looking out the glass front door across to the park where the whole murder of them had risen into the air, flapping and cawing. Orlando only smiled at him and shook his head as Angela looked at him

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quizzically. As they sat down at their table and Angela asked Orlando what Mr. Lee was talking about, Orlando had already lost his resolve and said he didnt really know. One morning after hed been in bed for six weeks, Toby got up. Hed been eating lightly for ten days, so he had the strength to stand and walk, but not for long and not far. His appearance was Hollywood zombie-like. His cheeks and eyes were sunken; he moved as if in a trance. It had been only the day before when Angela and Orlando had sat by his bedside and told him that if there was anything about Damiens accident that hed been keeping to himself, they would stand behind him and support him no matter what the future held. Toby was thirteen years old, and though the approach had been oblique, he had never before been so directly challenged with the truth about himself. He showed no outward signs of recognition, however, neither in denial nor regret. He remained impassive; no surprise to either his mother or Orlando, since hed responded to no one but his cat since he took to his bed. But finally he was up, and looking frighteningly thin, he walked into the living room, plopped down on the couch and looked out the window. He stayed there with his black cat by his side for the rest of the day, and by evening, he was responding to simple questions, even politely. Are you hungry, dear? Would you like some soup? No. No thanks, mom. Would you like to see whats on T.V.? I dont think so. Not right now, mom. Would you like me to bring you your cat? Thatd be great. But Tobys tone was as flat as a squirrel to eager to cross the interstate. If the boy had been reassembled, some pieces had been left out. Angela fed him, howeveranything he wanted whenever he wanted itand in time he put on weight and gained strength, but not the color in his cheeks or dangerous look in his eye; and though he wasnt yet ready to start eighth grade in September, by mid-October he was back in school.

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His classmates didnt know how to react to Toby, traumatized as they were by Damiens death. They had long sensed something ominous in Tobys disposition, but much of that was dispelled by his willingness to draw their portraits. Still, though no one said a thing, some may have suspected him as a co-conspirator in the bombardiering that day in August, and relations were somewhat strained, particularly with Marcus Freeling. Perhaps it was due to Tobys aloof demeanor, but Marcus didnt see fit to ask him about the accident or express his feelings to him in any way other than a worried stare. Toby reacted in kind, though his stare was cold, not worried. Marcus had heard Tobys story, everyone had, and apparently Marcus didnt want to hear anymore. He had always been close to Damien; hed hoped to be close to Toby as well, but as it was that October, he had often been rebuffed. Given their former association, however, some of their classmates shied away from Marcus as well as Tobybut Toby showed no reaction to these signs of his classmates misgivings. He was polite to everyone, though stiffly, almost robotically. His teachers said he seemed like a different boy. Among themselves they said that it seemed hed been switched with his good twin. A change had come about in his school work as well. In the past, hed only dabbled in school, participating when his curiosity was aroused, which wasnt often. Now he seemed less distracted. He was attentive in class, though shut tight in discussions. He answered questions when asked but never offered anything. At home after school, he sat down to his homework even before having a snack. He wrote a cohesive, well balanced report on the life of Leonardo da Vinci. His work was error free, but everything he did in school and at home seemed as if the gloss was stripped away; despite his refreshingly attentive manners, there was a dullness about him, a deadening flatness that was hard to look at given the coiled, electrically charged power he formerly exuded. The fact that he had not put pen to paper in months seemed secondary to those close to him, though probably not to his gallery owner, Filomena Cimino, who may have felt she was the one who suffered the greatest loss. But Toby Wellington, the artist, was no longer in residence. The shambles of the former Toby, in fact, was virtually unoccupied, save an odd, marginal character who took care of the maintenance. It was he, this splinter of a self, who did the

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homework and answered questions in school, and was appropriately polite to his mother and Orlando Floyd. And when Toby slept, no unifying principle held his nonfunctional parts together, and had it not been for his cats newfound tolerance and generosity of spirit, the boy may have succumbed to nightmares and dreamt himself into insanity. As time went on, Toby no longer sobbed or wore the face of wracking grief, but it took only a look in his eyes to see that his grieving had given way to a numb sorrow. Angela Wellington felt it as well. As the days passed, she slipped into melancholy herself, an unaccustomed state for the good natured woman. Despite her newfound courage in facing her son, the weight of his sorrow was too much for a mothers heart. Orlando saw her slowly sinking away, but knew there was nothing he could do to help. Adam had gone off to college in September. His good grades got him into Princeton, and he was happy to be leaving the troubled household, but Angela missed his company. She often went into his room when she was home alone. She lay down on his bed and let herself be swallowed up by her feelings of loss. It was one morning after Toby had gone off to school as she was lying there that the first sign of relief came to her unexpectedly. Andr had followed her into the room, leapt onto Adams bed, and curled up, resting on a pillow next to Angelas head. She couldnt remember a time in all the years Andr had lived with them that hed come to her unbidden, but there he was, purring loudly enough to almost make her smile. He was just a cat, of course, but Angela believed that he sensed how unhappy she was and was drawn to her by animal instinct. She wouldnt have been surprised at such behavior from a dog, but shed never known cats to be sympathetic. And he stayed with her there in Adams room until she fell asleep, and when she woke forty-five minutes later, he was still there. She felt somewhat better, too, and though she wouldnt go so far as to say anything about it, she felt the cat was responsible. So every day, at least once, she went to Adams room to lie down and was joined by Andr, who assumed the same position and stayed with her whether she fell asleep or not. And every day after her session with the cat (roughly the length of an appointment with a therapist), she felt a little better, a little less pessimistic.

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NOTE # 4 Techno-incarnation
According to this reporters historical source, one brimming with information incarnational, a certain cloudiness obscures the facts concerning the possible rebirth of animal souls. According to Buddhist sources, human souls may be reborn in animals if an animal incarnation will provide the lessons needed for further development. On the other hand, the Theosophists contend that human souls incarnate only in human form and never in animals bodies. The Theosophists, a distinguished movement born in the late 19th century and still flourishing today, have made current many ancient Hindu and other esoteric beliefs. Animals, the Theosophists say, are on a different evolutionary chain than humans, and currently the door to human evolution is closed to them. Any animals developed enough to be prepared for the human experience wait (comfortably) in etheric realms until a vast epochal change takes place and the door reopens to the human incarnational chain. Or so they say. They go on to say that your highly evolved dog, for example, may linger for ages in the equivalent to Doggy Heaven, until some day in the vastly distant future when he incarnates as your good hearted but very simple servant, who may have a fondness for playing catch. Perhaps the Theosophists are getting sold a little short here; they are a highminded bunch. In any case, its likely that Andr the Cat would have an opinion on this particular example. The historical source quoted earlier (known as a maverick and not sanctioned by Akbar the Crow or any other esteemed individual or tradition) insists on quite a different story regarding the incarnation of animals. According to his information, three species of animal life have already successfully bridged the gap to human incarnation. Rodents, certain water foul, and mammals of the family Leporidae. And this, in historical terms, is a relatively recent development. It was among the Rodents, in particular the Mus Musculus that the breakthrough first occurred. Certain members of this species demonstrated such tenacity of spirit, such apparent good will and common sense that by the power of

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personality alone they insinuated themselves into the human life chain. But still, the strictures set down by the Theosophists concerning closed doors apparently constrained this great leap for Mousedom to the realm of humanity. And so it was in the 1930s, that a genetically paired set of mice entered our world not through the door but through the bourgeoning new world of technological advancement. According to this source, both these, both Mickey and his mate, Minnie, are REAL, infused as they have been with the emotional and intellectual energies of countless humans in what modern mystics might call a popular if not Immaculate conception. The same holds true of two ducks, one peevishly troublesome, the other ironic, but both suffering speech impediments possibly incurred through hurried popular gestation; and one wascilly wabbit. He says nothing of cats and canaries, but asserts that the abovementioned incarnations are as real as you and your grandmother, except that in the case of these exceptional animals, the possibility of physical immortality exists in a way we may never approach even with the future advances of science. And though as already stated, these possibilities have not been expressed by Akbar or any of his Brethren, its been suggested by this source that the crows inclusive vision may encompass his own regarding these technological entities. This may or may not be true.

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ANDR ASPIRES

I havent seen Akbar since the night of the Autumnal Equinox. I never learned where else he went in the city, but after watching him fly off on a number of occasions, I believed that despite his age and damaged foot, he was able-bodied and could fly as far as any crow. I also believe that he had developed alternative modes of travel. He gave the impression that he met with the League of Initiates regularly, and I would have been surprised if they were all located in this particular city. Knowledge of geography is difficult for felines to obtain, it is also of very little interest or use to us. As Ive already pointed out, our horizons are closely set by human standards, though within those boundaries our vision surpasses yours to an extent you cannot imagine. For example, its come to my attention recently that pillows are among the most desirable spots in the rooms where humans sleep. This is not due to their softness, though this too is comforting, but to the powerful vortices these cushions anchor, due to the psychic activity that routinely takes place upon them. The

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vital energies of life pass more potently through these whirling channels than through more static fields, and exposure to the more powerful flow of this inner light brings rejuvenation, a brightness in the eyes, an opening of the doors to perception. These pillow vortices are at their most dynamic and inviting state when primed, so to speak, by human dreamingthis I learned by my association with Toby Wellington and time spent next to his head while he slept. At first I attributed this to the boys unusually powerful psyche, but I found that the energy around his mothers pillow was as invigorating as his, though slightly different in character. So I made it a habit to expose myself to the potently comforting forces that surrounded his mothers dream activity, while disregarding the banal subject matter of the dreams. During her sons prolonged illness that followed his murderous episode, I had found it necessary to guard him in his sleep, to hunt the demonic entities that sought to loot his disarrayed psyche. These wretched parasites took the form of naked, pink-skinned, gluttonous troll-like creatures, which stood upright with grotesquely sagging bellies, buttocks and jowls, and faces in the spitting image of a famous cartoon duck but with a bill crammed full with dozens of huge, decaying teeth. Though slow, this rabble was tenacious. Some damage was done: the demons after all, were of his own creation and knew their way around, but my aggressive defense cleared most of them away. Unlike her son, the mothers inner activities were not plagued by entities of much substance, but being in a position to do so, I obliterated those that I encountered as a matter of sport. These too were creations of her own: diffuse, lumpish, Humpty Dumpty-like parasites that fed on her fears. They were persistent but slow to react and easy to catch. Her psychological makeup seemed porous, fragile and of little consequence to me, but she appeared to benefit from my defense and from my purr much as her son did, though on a lesser scale. My initial impression that she was not an unpleasant person was verified by my hours spent in close proximity to her head, and as far as I could read the expression on her painted face, the feeling was mutual. As one might expect, I was surprised to find that Id developed a particular affection to these humans with whom Id been living. Most cats develop attachments to humans but not in an

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affectionate way, no matter how the keepers of cats may choose to anthropomorphize our reactions. Cats enjoy being stroked, but would respond to a mechanical stroking machine as gladly as to a human, perhaps more so given that a machine would not object to the natural use of our claws. Likewise, cats enjoy eating, and would accept food from a dog as readily as from a human, and thats saying quite a bit. But its not in the nature of cats to undergo character transformations, since in the grand design of things, theres no necessity for this: cats lack nothing within their spheres of activity, visible and invisible. Which is to say, cats, like many other natural forms, are perfect. This is not a prideful statement, of course, since perfection precludes the distortion of reality that leads to pride, envy, greed and all other such qualities. It wasnt until I met Akbar that I learned of the possibility of spiritual evolution and of the League of Initiates, those illuminated beings with perfected natures, that state towards which some humans strive. I never imagined that, as a cat, this opportunity for growth was open to me. I did not imagine it, nor would I have sought it out. But it may be that very few cats have had the opportunity to meet a great being like Akbar, and if thats the case, it may be my acquaintance with him that has spurred this surprising transformation in me. Because I have not consciously tried to learn compassion. I am a cat; compassion is unknown to felines, but that indeed is what I have begun to experience. Perhaps if one such as Akbar had suggested that I try to attain such a state, I may have, but he made no such suggestion. Somehow, still, the possibility seems attractive to me. I dont object to the seeds of this unique quality germinating within me; on the contrary, I welcome the warmth and expansiveness of it all. Of course I recall the feelings I had for my mother and my siblings during that period when I lived with them. But those feelings, which call humans love, I believe, dissipate with feline maturity, since those bonds are no longer productive. I cant deny that the feeling of compassion Im beginning to feel for both Toby and Angela Wellington resembles those fond feelings of my kittenhood, but it is also different. I sense a broader quality in these new sentiments of mine, as if they may apply to other humans as well as those with whom I live. This is indeed a peculiar premonition for a cat; it is unexplored territory, and though as a natural being I

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approach the unknown with acceptance, Im so accustomed to the notion that I am not a nice cat, that I wonder what will become of me and just what kind of cat Ill become if this unexpected transformation continues. Whatever the future may hold, I attribute the change thats overtaken my feline nature to Akbar and his influence. I take no credit for it myself. I believe taking credit is a peculiarly human, prideful concept, just like taking blame. In the world in which I believe Akbar lives, there is no personal credit and no blame; in the scheme of things as he sees it, no beings deserve either praise or condemnation for their acts, because all acts are acts of God, and because instead of judging the world and limiting it by names, categories, and beliefs, he lives by the rule of marveling at its mystery and wonder, and thus becomes mysterious and wonderful himself. And if, by any chance, you may be wondering how it is that a cat like me is speaking in such lofty terms, Im wondering the same thing myself, and again, attribute it to the aged crow who is having such a profound influence on my life, and may well be leading me from the fourth of my allotted nine into the fifth.

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THE MISSING INGREDIENT

CHILD ARTIST SUFFERS BREAKDOWN AMID QUESTIONS ABOUT FRIENDS DEATH PLUMMET
Orlando saw this headline, the accompanying article and others like it posted on a bulletin board at the School of Fine Arts. No one was sure who was posting these, but Orlando took them down immediately, as did most of his colleagues if they saw them first. This headline infuriated Orlando. The case was closed. There were no questions. Since Toby hadnt been at the art school for months, he didnt see these inflammatory articles, but Orlando and Angela assumed he must have encountered similar material since it was so prevalent. When asked if hed read such reports, however, Toby said he hadnt.

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As one might expect, demand for his work was at an all time high. Those drawings that had sold at his New York shows were being traded at three to four times the original prices; and there was no end in sight since rumors abounded that the young genius artistic production may have come to an end. These rumors angered and frightened Orlando. As much as he treasured Angelas company, visits to the Wellingtons apartment agitated and depressed him. He, to a far greater extent than anyone, had become familiar, even intimate with Tobys extraordinary creative powers. The ongoing marvel of Tobys work had filled all voids that may have gaped in his artists soul. True, Orlando had found a mate, but hed lost a purpose for his life, at least as far as he was able to understand such things, which wasnt far at all. So of course, he suffered. His metaphysical drifter friend, Parker, might have had a thing or two to tell Orlando regarding his dilemma; and had Orlando known what Akbar knew, he would have been serene throughout it all, but then again wed have a different story here, one in which Orlando Floyd may have been a talking crow, a revered saint, or even the moon of a planet far, far away, and in any of these cases, particularly the last, it may have been impractical to teach his class in intermediate drawing which, by the way, he continued to do. (In regard to the Purpose of Life, Akbar might point out that life has no more of a Purpose than God has a moustache. But he may also point out that when personalizing God, which often serves humans quite well, he may indeed have a mustache, just as life, when personalized, may have purposes such as: seeking the divine in all things, loving one another or serving humanity. But in the wider view of things, Life is too great a thing to be contained in answers to questions. So Orlando Floyd, like his metaphysicaldrifter friend, Parker, may be seen as a man straddling the border between the mundane and the illuminated, and thus finds himself in a metaphysical pickle when wondering about the purpose of life or the purpose of death or even the purpose of a porpoise.) Given Toby Wellingtons inscrutable disposition and the distance he maintained between himself and others, it should come as no surprise that in the eight years he and his mother knew Orlando Floyd, the boy had never visited his teacher at his residence. Angela was entirely at home in Orlandos little

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apartment by the park, but whenever Toby was invited to join her, he refused. All that changed, however, and a good deal else as well, one Saturday in mid-November. Along with a small bedroom and his kitchenwhere the view of the neighborhood park was blocked by The Jade Palaces banquet hallOrlando had one large room which served as a living room/office. This room was packed full with furniture and bookcases, and the walls were covered with prints of great art, often stacked two or three high, in the old style. The bookcases were filled with an extensive collection of costly art books, reference works and a good deal of fiction and poetry. (Orlando particularly appreciated the novels of Tom Robbins and the poetry of ee cummings and Dylan Thomas.) Several of the dozens of prints on the walls were from the Chicago Art Institutes own collection, but most were from other American and European museums. There were classics like El Grecos View of Toledo, Raphaels The School of Athens, and Vermeers Girl with a Pearl Earring(a framed gift from Olivia); there were Czannes apples and oranges on tablecloths, and Van Goghs stars swirling in the night sky that was actually his mind, and Renoirs lovely women and children (another of Olivias gifts, whom Orlando sometimes thought may have a crush on him); there were Kandinskys and Braques and Chagalls; there were works by the surrealists, Dali, Tanguy and DeChirico, and there were calligraphic Klines, DeKoonings Marilyn Monroe, and Rothkos meditations for the induction of peace. Also hanging on the walls of Orlandos living room were works from the Chinese (impersonal) and Japanese (social) traditions. A few of Orlandos own paintings from his early years hung in his bedroom; these were recognizable, DeKooninginfluenced, abstracted figures, mostly women. Many of the pieces of furniture in the living room were rich in character, some were antiques, some were just old, and a fine Persian carpet covered the floor. And here and there in Orlandos apartment were little niceties of life for which he had such keen appreciation. There were blue jay and parrot feathers, polished stones, things made of cobalt blue glass, compasses, clocks without faces, a light green bowl of pink marbles, the skulls of small animals, an exquisite and rare set of mounted butterflies and mothsstill another gift from Oliviaand small lightning bolts, precisely cut from stiff gold foil.

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On the day that Angela brought Toby to Orlandos for the first time, the boy seemed to have suffered a setback. Hed been back in school for a week but had awakened sobbing for the first time in a month. He may have been in such a vulnerable psychological state he didnt have the will to resist his mothers suggestion that he accompany her to Orlandos for a visit, but he complied, though it took him a full thirty minutes to simply dress himself, comb his hair and brush his teeth. Even once out of the house into the bright, chill November day, Toby was more visibly depressed than usual, and had his eyes been closed and his arms been extended in front of him, he would have made a perfect somnambulist. He seemed utterly lost in some inner wasteland. He didnt respond when Angela spoke to him. After she parked the car, she had to coax Toby out, and then lead him like an invalid to Orlandos door. Orlando had been nervous but optimistic about the visit. He knew that his apartment, though small, had the look of an artists living quarters, a place where Toby might be at ease. He also believed that the gallery of art history on his walls might reawaken the boys desire to create. And Orlando had placed a large book of the engravings of Albrecht Durer open on the coffee table. This, he felt, would certainly peak the boys curiosity. When Angela coaxed Toby in, he glanced briefly around the room but he showed no signs of interest, nor did he give the book of engravings on the coffee table a second glance when he sat down on the couch facing it. Then a surprising thing happened, however. The expression that came over his face was one neither Orlando nor his mother had seen before, and when Toby settled in on the sofa next to Angela, he became perfectly still, so still that it was clear he should not be interrupted, whatever it was that had come over him. Moments later, still motionless, like a monk in meditation, tears began to run down his cheeks. He breathed deeply then and threw his head back; then his tears had begun to flow copiously, and Angela, worried now that her son was about to crumble, was about to interrupt when Toby whispered, urgently. What is this? he said, his eyes glittering. Angela and Orlando looked at each other, unsure of how to react.

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Toby continued to weep, rocking back and forth on the couch, seemingly carried away. Then he gasped. What was that? Orlando had some music playing very quietly on the stereo and there was a pause at the end of a track. The music? he asked Toby. Toby nodded. Thats Bach. Its Glen Gould playing Bach. This is one of the six partitas. But then the music started again, and as if struck by something from above, and still weeping, Tobys attention, white hot now, snapped back to the Bach. Orlando slipped over to the stereo and turned up the volume. Something of great consequence was happening to Toby Wellington. Could it be, Orlando wondered, that Toby had never heard the music of Bach before? When he thought back over his association with the boy, he realized that the topic of music had never come up. Though he was an avid and educated listener himself and very much the devotee of Bach and others, he did not play music in his classroom studio, nor had he heard any music at the Wellingtons other than the one Ella Fitzgerald recording that made Angela sentimental and the hip-hop Adam played in his room with the door closed. Angela was not a musical woman; she and Tobias had occasionally gone to the symphony, but her artistic interests were strictly visual. Yet Orlando was incredulous. Surely at school, a private school so comprehensive in its curriculum, Toby had been exposed to classical music. Or was it possible that this formidable artist had never been exposed to the formidable art of Johann Sebastian Bach? As Toby listened now he grew more animated. Each of Bachs piano partitas is comprised of a number of relatively short movements, like a suite; and each of these sections is named by the particular eighteenth century dance form on which its based: thus, Courantes, Sarabandes and Gigues (Jigs). The six Partitas, which can be played on either Piano or Harpsichord, run from about twenty to thirty minutes each; and without interruption that November day, Toby listened to them all. Eventually he was on his feet, pacing in front of the speakers, dancing, weeping frequently, and exclaiming, How can this be? or Of course! Thats RIGHT! OF COURSE! Angela and Orlando listened to the music as well stately, exciting and lyric by turnsbut couldnt keep their attention

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away from the spectacle of Toby, alive again, but in a new, charged, invigorated way, the expression on his face one of simultaneous astonishment and recognition. When the last Partita ended, everyone seemed stunned, and Angela suggested they sit down for lunch. Angela had brought her pasta salad, one of Tobys favorites. He ate hungrily, like a teenager: two heaping bowls and two Cokes, but when Orlando asked him about the effect the music had on him, he seemed shy. When he asked Toby if hed ever hear anything by Bach before, he began to open up. No. Ive never heard anything like that before. Is there more? Orlando couldnt hide his surprise. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of pieces, more than a thousand, I think. Theyre for piano, for organ, for strings and other solo instruments, for small groups of instruments, for larger groups, called chamber orchestras, and vocal music toolots of vocal music, some for big choirs and orchestras. Symphonies? Toby asked. No, those hadnt been invented yet. Ill need to hear it all, Toby said, in a tone both eager and reverent. Orlando laughed. I dont have it all, Toby. But we can get more, and theres always the library. Toby stared off, a bemused expression on his face. And then of course theres more, Orlando went on. Theres Beethoven Oh, thats not the same, Toby broke in. Ive heard Beethoven, thats nothing like this. Its okay, but its not Toby stopped, smiling, as if there were no words for what he had to say. What, dear? Angela asked. Its not what? Toby looked from Orlando to Angela and back again. Its not what I draw, he said. That music I heard today is what I draw. Its the same thing. Exactly the same thing. Neither Orlando nor Tobys mother understood precisely what the boy was getting at, though Orlando might have guessed. Throughout that fall and winter, Toby came to Orlandos apartment every day after school and all day every Saturday and Sunday to

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listen to Bach. On weekends, Angela joined him. With Adam away out east, she lived there on weekends, cooking marvelous meals and fattening Orlando up a little. During those months Angela enjoyed a musical education as well. By the time the first few weeks had ended, Toby confirmed that he indeed wanted to hear everything Bach wrote and he joined Orlando and his mother in searching for hard-to-find recordings. Between the three of them, they eventually tracked down nearly all the Bach there was. At first, Toby wanted to listen to all the keyboard music, and as with the Partitas, he was overjoyed by the very existence of the French Suites, the English Suites, the Inventions, the WellTempered Clavier, the Goldberg Variations, and the rest. From his occasional remarks, it seemed to Orlando that Tobys understanding of these compositions was as great as his love of it. Toby did not have a musicians vocabulary to discuss the keyboard music, but he applied the words line, shape, reflection, shadow, tension and balance to analyze the compositions with such facility that he sounded like a composer himself. It seemed a natural progression then to introduce Toby to the keyboard concertos, and the boys reaction to Bachs addition of the small chamber orchestra was like that first day all over again. He was intoxicated, awestruck. And so it was with the other instrumental concertos, the Brandenburg Concertos, the Suites for Orchestra, the unaccompanied violin and cello suites, the trio sonatas, the B Minor Mass, the motets, and on through the Passions, the cantatas, the Musical Offering, and on through that most abstract of Bachs works, the Art of Fugue, and on and back again. By the time the great, long exposition of the masters work was over, Orlando finally understood. It was the lines. Bach was the last of the composers whose music still had a largely polyphonic component. This means that it is often comprised of independent but related musical lines that move freely, rather than a melody simply supported by harmony, by chords. This polyphony (from the Greek: many/sounds) is perhaps most readily appreciable in his keyboards music where the right and left hand always play (at least) two separate but related, ever evolving melodic voices. And apparently this bountiful inventiveness of Bachs polyphony, the elegant shapes of these musical notions followed the same laws of design, the same artistic logic as the lines that Toby Wellington memorized as an infant

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gazing through the luminous spheres of meaning that impinged upon him. Bach, like all the rest of us, was a bubble baby who forgot. To recall infancy, the world before language, would be akin to recalling past livesif such things as past lives exist. So of course Toby never remembered his months in the suburbs of the Kingdom of Heaven, but if he had, he might have believed he lived in the same castle as Johann Sebastian Bach. The lines of other composers of Bachs time, Vivaldi and Handel for example, though similar in shape, had practically no effect on Toby. Whatever differences there are between these composers at their polyphonic best and Bach were immediately apparent to the boy. And the earlier music by the masters of pure polyphony like Palestrina, though pleasant to Toby, was not his music. And so it was for Mozart, Beethoven, and everyone that followed. Only Bach was his music; only Bach drew Tobys linesand the art world had already recognized that no one else came close to drawing lines like Toby Wellington. Or perhaps we should say, had drawn lines like Toby Wellington, because the Toby who had discovered Bach, that same Toby who had murdered Damien Sharp, showed no further interest in drawing whatsoever. As one might expect, during the five months that Toby listened to the complete works of Johann Sebastian Bach, his mood changed considerably. Listening to the complete works of Bach might even change the mood of that squirrel that didnt make it across the interstate; it would certainly have a profound effect on any living human, particularly one with a highly strung artistic soul that was wracked by grief and possibly guilt. Tobys mood brightened. He lost his Hollywood zombie affect. Though hardly garrulous, when he did speak, he became animated. He hummed, whistled and sometimes sang. At thirteen, he was a tenor with a good voice. No one who met him at this time would have suspected that hed just recovered from severely psychological trauma, but for that matter, most people wouldnt have understood much about the handsome boy at all. His face, though masculine, looked more like his beautiful mothers every day. His features were nothing like his imprisoned father: he knew that, and it was fine with him. He wanted nothing from the man.

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It occurred to Orlando that though the music of Bach was a balm for Tobys soul, perhaps even an expression of his soul, the vacuum it rushed in to fill might have been better filled by honest self-examination, by coming to terms with or owning up to what Orlando believed hed done. Orlando even went so far as to share this notion with Angela; and meeting the challenge that her lover offered, she peeked over her own wishful nature and agreed. But still, suspicions aside, both Angela and Orlando were deeply moved and relieved by Tobys great discovery. It was only after hed listened to Bachs complete oeuvre at Orlandos little apartment that Toby began to listen to it all at home. Soon the Wellington apartment was filled with music. Its interesting, if not indicative of some dimension of what we call fate, that among all the masterpieces to which Toby listened, he always considered the first piece he heard, the Partita #4 in D Major, as interpreted by Glen Gould, to be his favorite. Keyboard works in general were those that drew their lines most lucidly for Toby, but among those, this Partita was foremost. This work held such primal meaning for Toby that after Orlando treated him to the two full hours of Bachs B minor Mass one Sundaya monumental work for choir, soloists and chamber orchestra, one that in itself might resuscitate a family of flattened squirrelsToby asked to listen to the twenty-five minute D Major Partita to clear his head a little.

NOTE # 5 Ancestry
According to the aforementioned historical sourceone always willing to provide titillating information regarding the transmigration of soulsthe following facts pertain to the incarnational ancestry of Tobias Wellington Jr., known to his loving family as Toby. It should be stressed here, however, that any facts regarding history must be considered in light of the probability that time is not a line, or at least not only a line, and that when we, as humans, perceive something much, much larger than ourselves as a line, like the horizon, for example, it turns out to be only one

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dimension of something greater, just as we see stars as points. The line of history then, is probably only an aspect, a cross-section of something greater than we can see from our limited perspective, and any reports of the transmigration of souls, no matter how esteemed the source, should be taken no more seriously than we take ourselves. The life of the great Saint Francis of Assisi came to its close in the year 1226 at the age of 45. After a comfortable but misspent youth as the son of a merchant, he renounced worldly life and dedicated himself to living by the Gospel: to poverty, charity, and brotherhood with all of Gods creation. He founded the religious order of the Franciscans, famously preached to animals, and eventually received the stigmata in his final years. After he breathed his last breath, the great servant of the Cosmos was formally escorted to one of the more rarefied planes interpenetrating the coarser ones in which he preached, and there in a ceremony as natural as it is mysterious and sanctified, he chose the place and nature of his next incarnation. The souls of the most highly evolved humans may be seen in the form of great polyhedrons: glorious, multi-faced, symmetrical solids, not entirely unlike the grand reflective disco-balls of the earthly 1970s. The souls of these great individuals, too, are mirror-like when viewed from without, but when spinning in the midst of the starry firmament, they also focus the starlight within, creating a microcosmic map of the universe within themselves according to their own unique, multi-faceted nature. Simply stated, these great souls, like all lesser ones, transform the order of the universe at the time of their death into a map of stars for their next birth. Yes! said Francis of Assisi, pounding his celestial fist into his celestial hand as he viewed the prospects for his next life. Vinci! Yes! Close to homeand those Florentine women to boot! Basta con gli animali! (Enough with the animals, already!) And indeed, he saw it all there in the map he cast within himself. Hed be reborn 226 years later in Vinci, only 75 miles from Assisi, and take the name of Leonardo. And so in 1452, Leonardo da Vinci, was born just outside of Florence, the star map of his birth having turned within the celestial

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clockworks to indicate that the power of spirit achieved during his last life be refocused into the realm of worldly rather than ecclesiastical sublimity. And so, as it is well known, his soul directed its enlightened vision to painting masterpieces, to architecture, to the study of science and to futuristic engineering. What is not so well known is that the great man loved animals so deeply that he not only practiced vegetarianism but often bought caged animals at market and set them free. And when he died in 1519, he was escorted by the same angelic transit service to the upper realms in order to give his own sparking disco ball a spin to discover whether hed win a trip to Paris or Timbuktu. Oh, che miseria! (Oh, the misery of it!) cried Leonardo. Germany! Whatever happened in Germany? But then, looking more closely at the detail of the mission, he may have smiled. Two wives, that nice but twenty children? And so in 1685, the great diversified talent of Leonardo da Vinci was harnessed, pared down and focused directly into the supreme musical genius of Johann Sebastian Bach, who famously dedicated all his music to The Glory of God alone, much as St. Francis dedicated his life. And of Bachs music we already know a good deal, but not of the moments after his death in 1750. After being escorted to Lutheran Heaven by the appropriate (modestly dressed) angelic host, and spinning his great glittering soul, Johann was heard to cry Scheist! (Phooey!) because of all the possible futures for him (he was hoping for a mere six year wait to play the Mozart card, or a brief twenty for Beethovenhed even have settled for a go at that Frenchman, Bonaparte), he had drawn the dispersion card. True, only the most highly evolved and experienced among human souls are granted the possibility of dispersing their gifts of soul among the many, but apparently there is a certain fun factor lost in the process. In any case, the Wheel of Fortune had turned, and the dispersion foretold. But of all places! Johann saw as he read the maps, it was to the cultural abyss of the so called New World. It could have been worse, however. At least some of his identity would be preserved; it was only a threefold dispersion: to a poet named Eliot, an Architect named Wright, an Artist named Wellington, all apparently to be known for the elegance of their lines. Of course, each of these individuals would carry his or her own karma and partake of only a portion of the

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great soul: the artistry would remain in tact, but the conscious dedication to the Glory of God alone, might be lost in the stardust. There are 209 existing scores of the Bach cantatas: works for choir, soloists and groups of instruments. It was shortly after Toby listened to the last of thesethirty minutes of listening that ended Tobys excursion through the manifest soul of Johann Sebastian Bachthat Orlando asked him if hed been thinking about drawing. Aware of Tobys precarious state of mind, as his teacher, Orlando hadnt as much as mentioned drawing since the accident. Ive never thought much about it, Toby answered. It was a warm, sunny Sunday in February: first day of a fleeting winter thaw. The two were sitting at the table in Orlandos kitchen, Orlando with a cup of coffee, Toby with a Coke. Orlando took this to mean that the boys conscious mind had little to do with his artistic impulses. I mean have you been wanting to draw? Orlando explained. No. No? Orlando asked. Just no? You mean because its expected of me? Im not sure if expected is quite what I mean. I think people hope youll draw again because they love your work. You can understand that. Think how you might feel if Bach had stopped after he wrote the Brandenburg Concertos and never gone on to the B Minor Mass. You mean I should draw for other people? Toby asked, taking a drink of his Coke. It was poured over ice the way he liked it. As he sat back with the drink in his hand, he seemed almost an adult. He had the hands of a man now, and his sweet features had begun to sharpen. When he put down the glass, Orlando caught a glimpse of the scar on Tobys left palm: a dull dark red, it still resembled a bird, even a crow, thought Orlando; but as the boy noticed he was being observed, he flattened his hand on the kitchen table. I think people should create art because they love to, Toby, or need to, Orlando said. You know thats what I believe. But at

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the same time, I dont think theres anything dishonest about doing things for others Though he had no such intentions, the Orlandos word dishonest had a harsh ring, a pointedness to it. If Toby noticed, he concealed it. So let me ask you this, Toby, Orlando went on, aware that hed become much more direct with the boy since that day when hed admitted his suspicions to Angela. Could you draw now? Do you have that spark that brings it out? Though thered never been any talk about a spark or any such thing before, Orlando felt secure in his question. But Tobys reaction shocked him. He started to cry; and his sobbing didnt resemble the sobs of recognition and joy that Orlando had routinely witnessed as Toby listened to Bach. Not at all. Toby pushed his drink aside and strode out of the kitchen. When Orlando followed him into the living room, he saw the front door slam shut. Toby had left the building. Hed picked up his coat and gone. Hurrying outside, Orlando looked both directions down the street; then rushing to the park, he saw Toby running across it the direction of his own home, several miles away. After following only a little way, Orlando decided not to go after him. Angela had gone to a visit an old friend recuperating at home from surgery that day. She had planned to pick Toby up. Orlando expected her in about a half an hour, so he turned toward home to call her. But he didnt get far. It was that crow again. This time it stood on the brown winter grass between Orlando and the old sidewalk he had to cross on his way home. And again the crow was moving from foot to foot in what now seemed a forbidding ritual. Orlando was so taken by surprise that self-consciousness hadnt had a chance to set in before he spoke to the crow. Why are you doing this? he asked, imploringly. In the second-and-a-half it took him to utter these words, however, selfconsciousness had plenty of time to curb his spontaneity and rob him of the clarity of mind that accompanied it. He glanced around. Two people were looking at him. One, a man approaching on the sidewalk path through the park, turned away when Orlando noticed him. He may have turned away for any number of reasons, but Orlando assumed the man thought he was deranged. The other observer was Mr. Lee, who once again was standing behind the glass front door of the Jade Palace, as if a sentinel monitoring

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human-crow interaction. It was just as Orlando decided to pretend he didnt see him that the crow spoke. So far so good the crow said. The voice was thin, reedy and sharp, just as the first time, and again the words seemed to emanate from just above the crows head. And the intonation and cadence of the phrase seemed identical to what he heard the first time the crow spoke, just over a year beforebut something was distinctly different, because after only the shortest pause, half a beat, the crow continued; he finished his sentence. For the crow did not simply say, So far, so good the crow said, So far so good, Mr. Floyd. Among other things, Orlando felt that he was unraveling, violently, as if he were a ball of string spinning wildly loose on a spindle. He also felt paralyzed. He also felt insane. What is this? Some kind of trick? Orlando whispered with the kind of crazed urgency that can be expressed only by a man whos been spoken to by a crow. Is this a recording? he hissed at the animal. Is it? But of course it was not. He knew it was not. And as if in response to Orlandos frantic question, the crow flapped its wings and rose off the ground directly in front of Orlando Floyd and maintained its position at eye level until, with a terrifying cacophony of cawing, the crows henchmen flew in from what seemed all directions and beat their wings in a brutal din around Orlando. Whether or not Orlando heard the words So far, so good, Mr. Floyd, again or not was unclear to him. Maybe he just imagined it as he ran off, parallel to the cracked sidewalk in the direction of the large maple tree with a pale half moon hanging just above it, and then dashed across the street and off towards home. The crows did not follow, but Mr. Lee did. Hed come out the door of The Jade Palace and was running excitedly after Orlando. Mr. Froyd! Mr. Froyd! he cried out, sounding worried. But as much as Orlando respected Mr. Lee, and as much as he disliked appearing rude, the experience of being called by name by a talking crow had been too much for him, and losing all restraint, his invisible dialogue bubble burst and he shouted back at Mr. Lee, Thats D-O-O-CTOR! D-O-O-CTOR! And then without remorse, he out-ran the concerned restaurant owner and disappeared into the door of his building. So far, so GOOD? he said to himself

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aloud then. So far, so good, MR. FLOYD ? IMPOSSIBLE! Impossible!

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SO FAR SO GOOD

Several days before Toby Wellington went running off across the park in tears, two hitherto unconnected forces came together and made a noticeable stir in the ethers. Ellen and Alex Sharp had been so emotionally debilitated by the appalling death of their son that they could not bear to remain in the apartment from which he plunged to his death. After spending only one tearful, sleepless night there, they left for Ellens sisters home in the northern suburbs. There they stayed for a full month, during which time a funeral and memorial service for the thirteen-year-old was held, neither of which Ellen Sharp was able to attend: she had collapsed on the way out of the house to the funereal limousine, and her doctor had recommended she spare herself any further stress. It was when the Sharps felt they had begun to wear out their welcome at Ellens sisters (which they had not) that they decided to take a long vacation in hopes of refreshing their outlook on life. Fortunately, Alexander Sharp was a prosperous businessman and Ellen had inherited a tidy sum of her own, so a prolonged European vacation was not beyond their means. They

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decided that a long tour would be preferable to a stay in one place (like Tuscany, where friends of theirs had offered them the use of their rented home in the hills) because they believed the stimulation and even the rigors of going from city to city would help them break the cycle of grief. This was successful only to a point. Ellen broke down into a fit of sobbing during a performance of Don Giovanni the Milan opera when the ghost of murdered Commendatore returns from his grave and demands that Don Giovanni repent. She had to be hospitalized overnight. Alex, a man with an unusually placid temperament, went nearly berserk with annoyance at a Parisian taxi drivers insolence; and the two of them had many a tearful night in the finest hotels in the European capitals. But they did recover a shade of their formerly optimistic outlook on life bicycling through the English countryside and sipping themselves through their tours of wine country, French, German and Italian. Maintaining such a relentless pace, as if being pursued, they hardly skipped a country in the bourgeoning European Union. They returned home after nearly five months badly needing a rest, but ready to face life with a grief that was enduring but no longer incapacitating. They hadnt been in their very dusty apartment on the eighteenth floor for fifteen minutes when Marcus Freeling called and asked if he could meet with them. Apparently he had been calling every day for weeks. The Sharps had always liked Marcus and preferred him to Toby as a friend for their sonand it was concerning Toby that Marcus wished to speak to them. He explained he had information pertaining to Toby and Damien that they needed to know. It was Alex Sharp who took the call, and he agreed to see Marcus the next morning. If Ellen had answered, she may have been more reticent, and probably not agreed to a visitor, even a thirteen-year-old, before shed had her cleaning woman in to tidy up the stale apartment; and had she known that Marcus parents decided at the last minute to accompany him, she would have barred the door. Nevertheless, when the intercom buzzed at ten the next morning, Alex Sharp let them all up. Flustered by the unexpected adults in her messy house, all Ellen could do was make coffee and apologize that there was no milk or cream to go with it. Searching the kitchen cabinets for something to accompany the coffee, she nearly missed what Marcus

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first said. His parents, Chase and Hope Freeling, tried to convince Marcus to wait for Ellen to return to the dining room, but the boy was apparently more upset than he looked and went on anyway. Im sure Toby was lying, he said as Ellen Sharp rushed back into the room. Ive done things with them before and Toby was always the instigator. One time we threw water bombs out of the living room window where you used to live on Barry, you know, and it was all Tobys idea. He gave me a hard time because I didnt want to, and he wanted to throw heavier things out. Damien told him not to because someone might get hurt and it was his house, but Toby said so what and was going to do it anyway. He always acted that way. But thats when you came home, remember? Ellen sharp didnt remember until Marcus told her it was a day she had to drive him home because his parents were busy and couldnt pick him up. Ellen looked pale. I do remember, Marcus, she said. And I also remember broken baloons and water all over the street. I didnt say anything though. I think I forgot when you asked me for a ride But Marcus, Alex Sharp said to the boy, who was trying to be brave but was trembling a little. I dont think we can conclude that Toby was lying about about what happened that day, just because of that one incident. And then he stopped and glanced at Ellen. Hope Freeling looked worried; her husband put his hand on Marcus shoulder, and the boy began again. But it wasnt just that once! Marcus insisted. Every time we did stuff, Toby was pushing us to do more. As he said this, he looked over at Ellen Sharp with a troubled look on his face. Apparently he regretted his choice of the word pushing. What kind of stuff, Marcus? Ellen asked the boy sympathetically. Marcus squirmed a little and shrugged his shoulders. Its okay, his father said to him, his hand still on the boys shoulder. Just tell the truth. Making phone calls and stuff, Marcus replied. We used to call up Here he gave his father, a teacher at their school, a worried look. We used to disguise our voices with an electronic mike and call teachers and say gross things to them. He was now looking directly at the maple dining table between his elbows;

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his hands were on his forehead. And we used to make other calls too, and almost every time Toby said hed do stuff to us if we wimped out. I mean, Toby was our friend, but when we did stuff like that he got weird. He never wanted to stop, and he always said wed never get in trouble. And we didnt. Marcus father squeezed his sons shoulder. Its okay, he said. I used to make crank calls to teachers too. Lots of kids do that. There were affirmative murmurs from the other three adults at the table. You want to tell them the other things you told us? Marcus mother asked. You dont have to if you dont want to. Sure I want to, Marcus answered, sounding angry for the first time. Toby knew I didnt like throwing things out of windows, so sometimes he talked about it to me I dont know, maybe to tease me. Hes never really mean to me, he just teases sometimes. But he and Damien were talking about it and Toby said how cool it would be they lived in a tall building so they could drop eggs down or maybe tomatoes. What did Damien say? Ellen Sharp asked. He said it would be cool, Marcus answered. But then Toby said if I didnt watch myself hed throw me out. Then he punched me in the shoulder. That was before we lived here? Alex sharp asked the boy. Yeah, and the next time I was there with them, and his parents I mean you, he explained, looking at the Sharps, werent home and we threw balloons down, Toby grabbled me when I was next to the open window and kind of pushed me He tried to push you out? said Ellen Sharp, incredulous. Maybe he was kidding. He said he wouldnt mind killing me. I wasnt sure, but I got scared and thats when he told me I better not come when they bombed again. Why did he say that, Marcus? Ellen Sharp asked. I dont know, but I thought it was because I wasnt into it. I did make some calls with them once after that. But here again, Marcus seemed too embarrassed or ashamed to continue. Well, it doesnt sound to me like Toby was really serious about pushing you, honey, Ellen said, looking at her husband and the Freelings.

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But it is serious! Marcus said, suddenly very emotional, his face taut. It was Toby that day that Damien fell! I know it. Damien never started anything! He had ideas about doing stuff, but he never would have thrown a cantaloupe out a window or anything glass like that. Damien never did things like that! I knew him! And even if he did, Toby never wouldve tried to stop him! Toby never tried to stop anything! Never! Tobys lying! I know it! Im going to tell the police. At this that Ellen Sharp suppressed a sob. The police have already investigated this, honey she said to Marcus, sounding worried. Then theyll reopen it, her husband broke in, his voice breaking. The police investigation had seemed thorough. They had inspected the crime scene scrupulously for signs of foul play, and their interview with Marcus hadnt yielded any significant information. Ellen put her hand on her husbands arm and looked at the Freelings, uncertain what to think. Marcus has always been honest with us, Hope Freeling said to her. But maybe we should discuss this privately. You think Im not telling the truth? Marcus asked his mother, sounding angry again. But Marcus, asked Damiens father, did you tell any of this to the police when they talked to you? No. But why? I didnt want to get in trouble with Toby. Damien was gone, so Toby would be my only friend. But then later when he got back to school he acted like he didnt even know me. Then Marcus began to cry. Both his parents tried to comfort him, but he shrunk away from them. Surrounded by adults, the boy looked panicked, as if he wanted to hide but didnt know where. Its okay, honey, Ellen Sharp said, coming over to comfort him. Of course we believe you, she explained, at which she put her arms around him from behind. Perhaps he sensed the tenderness that the bereaved mother felt in touching a boy so much like the one shed lost, because Marcus gave in to her embrace. Damien was my best friend, he said through his tears. I knew him better than anyone. He never could have done that. Never!

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And so they remained for a while: Ellen Sharp standing behind Marcus chair, leaning over with her arms around him, with Marcus weeping softly; Alex Sharp with his head in his hands; the Freelings, on either side of Marcus looking at their living son in the arms of Damiens grieving mother. The initial investigation of Damiens death had not produced enough evidence for the State to prosecute. There were signs of a struggle, but nothing about it gave any weight to the argument that Toby had pushed Damien out the window, for in fact, he hardly pushed him at all, but had let go of Damien as Damien struggled to reach the candlestick he was holding out the window like bait, and let Damiens own momentum carry him out. The fact that hed injured his finger by accidentally catching it on Damiens belt loop in the process, however, seemed evidence enough for the experts to conclude that as Toby repeatedly stated, he had struggled to pull his friend away from the window from which he accidentally fell. This evidence was hardly overwhelming, however; a number of people in the District Attorneys office werent convinced, but there was no hard evidence to the contrary. In short, any case against Toby Wellington would be so burdened with reasonable doubt that it wasnt worth the States time and money to proceed with ituntil six months after the fact, when the police reinterviewed Marcus Freeling. The boy was so frightened that at his parents behest the detectives agreed to speak to him at home rather than police headquarters. Marcus voice trembled but he told his story clearly and convincingly. The explanation he gave for withholding information when first interviewed seemed reasonable enough from a child his age, and feeling the weight of his testimony confirmed the suspicions of several in the office, the District Attorney decided to bring charges. The fact that the alleged crime scene had remained undisturbed for six months may have influenced this decision.

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Angela Wellington answered the buzzer, let Detectives Salonia and Huff upstairs, and opened her front door with a question. Did you find him? What happened? she asked, pale and tense. Maam? Did you find my son? How did you know he was missing? Did Orlando call you? Your sons missing? Toby Wellington? Now Angela looked exasperated as well as worried. She had received a call from Orlando only fifteen minutes earlier, telling her that Toby had run away across the park in the direction of home. Hed given her only the bare-bones facts of the incident because he was coming right over. She had spent the last fifteen minutes in an accelerating tizzy. When the doorbell rang, Angela thought Orlando had misplaced his key. Yes, hes missing, Angela told the detectives, sounding impatient. He ran away. Isnt that why youre here? When did he run away, Maam? Just then Andr the Cat walked into the room, looked at the detectives, approached them, sniffed one shoe, and walked away, seemingly disinterested. If you didnt know he ran away, why are you here? Angela asked, wishing the cat had stayed. And then, unable to suppress her hostess instincts: Why dont you come in. Can I get you some coffee? Detectives Salonia and Huff exchanged a glance. No thank you, Maam, Officer Salonia said, as the two of them followed Angela into the living room. Though the room was spacious, the detectives looked too big for it. When they sat down, Angela looked at them questioningly. Were here to talk to your son, Mrs. Wellington. We have some questions to ask him about Damien Sharps death. But you say hes gone? I dont understand. What kind of questions? And yes, hes gone. My friend, Tobys teacher, Orlando Floyd, just called and told me Toby had run away from his house. Mr. Floyd will be here any minute to fill me in on the details. Im worried. Tobys never run away or done anything like it before.

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The detectives exchanged another glance and told her that most children come home within hours, but that if Tobys absence lasted into the night theyd take up the search because they needed to see him. You still havent told me why? Angela asked, wishing that Orlando would arrive soon. Detective Salonia seemed reticent. All we can say right now is that there have been some new developments in the Damien Sharp case. Well have to talk to your son first, and then we can fill you in. Angela went white as a sheet. Maam? Detective Huff asked. Do you have anything for us? Angela shook her head and then jumped up to go to the door. Orlando was just coming in. After a whispered conversation in the foyer, she returned to the living room with him, and successfully steadying her voice, informed the detectives that they wished to have their lawyer present with Toby when they spoke to him. The detectives agreed but asked Orlando if he could tell them anything about the circumstances under which Toby had run away. Never one to have much respect for police, Orlando told Angela not the detectivesthe story of the last Cantata and the conversation hed had with Toby afterward, quite pointedly leaving out the background and context necessary for the Detectives to understand. It was only when they appealed to Angela, explaining that a better understanding might help them find the boy if he didnt return soon, that Orlando relented and filled them in. It was one in the afternoon when the Detectives left, instructing Angela to call them as soon as Toby returned, and at nightfall if he hadnt come home by then. The sun went down early in February and Angela didnt want to wait until dark to call for help, but Detectives Salonia and Huff explained that Toby was still far from being considered missingunless, of course, Angela or Orlando were withholding any information. This angered Orlando, but again Angela went white as a sheet. By 5:00 P.M., Angela was frantic. Orlando had been out for several hours covering the ground between the park and the Wellington apartment, but hadnt found the boy. Though the daylight had just begun to dim, Angela called the number the detectives had given her. She had to tell her story to several people,

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each of whom wanted details that were of no possible use to them; they performed no function other than to pass her on to someone else equally uninformed, until finally she reached Detective Salonias voicemail. When Orlando learned that Angela hadnt been able to speak to the detective in person, he cursed the police and put on his coat to leave for the stationhouse, but just then the detective returned Angelas call. He confirmed the address from which Toby had runaway and the direction he was last seen heading, and told Angela thatd get someone on it right away. When Angela asked what that meant, Detective Salonia told her that the department had an excellent track record and that all their manpower and resources would swing into action immediately. Then he said, Sit tight. Again Orlando threatened to go to the stationhouse, but Angela was worried that if he antagonized the police, they might be less diligent in their search, and she begged him to stay with her. He agreed not to harass them, but insisted on going out again to hunt for Toby. How could it hurt? he asked. The police search might scare him away. Ever since the great emotional upset in the wake of the accident, Angela had begun to rely on Andr for comfort in stressful situations, and this particularly stressful one became even more so when she couldnt locate the cat. She went from room to room looking for him and calling his name, but he wasnt perched on any pillow or windowsill, and didnt come out from under any bed or piece of furniture. She supposed hed gone out his cat door, a convenience installed by the janitor, Mr. Nicos, hired after Anton left four years earlier but rarely seen. Angela went so far as to open the back door, step out on the porch and call Andr, something shed never done before, but still the cat didnt appear. She was surprised at her disappointment. It reminded her of her feelings for her menagerie of stuffed animals when she was young and felt unloved. Once back in the living room, she was beset with the universal parental reaction to a missing child: grim images spewed forth in her mind wholly without her consent. She could not put a stop to the pitiable, heart-rending worst-case scenarios she so nimbly invented. And now it was getting dark outside; at least it wasnt too coldnot yet. During the early afternoon when Orlando

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had gone, she had wished he was there to distract her, but now with nightfall when all fears were magnified, she cursed him for not staying to comfort her. For a time she paced from room to room, still calling the cat, but eventually she sat down in front of the television, hoping she could find something so banal that it would interrupt her flow of fatalistic imaginingslike a game show, maybe. Wasnt there a channel devoted to those now? The rerun she found of To Tell the Truth didnt do much to distract her, but she felt if she turned it off or so much as got up, shed fall to pieces, so she kept on watching. Eventually she had herself convinced that even moving her hands and feet would bring on a gut-wrenching attack of worry. But by the time shed seen three half-hour segments of the show, she became interested enough to feel some elation when she guessed who the two imposters were among the last set of three contestants who all claimed to be ex-con men. Then she remembered why she was watching and felt guilty for not worrying herself sick. Thats when Orlando returned, looking haggard and with no news at all. By midnight, a female detective had come to the apartment along with the electronic equipment to trace any incoming calls in case Toby phoned home but refused to reveal his whereabouts. Apparently she was going to stay the night. The temperature had dropped, but only into the low forties. There were nights in February when the mercury fell below zero. Nothing in her experience gave Angela reason to understand why she didnt know where Toby was. This seemed preposterous to her. Though she was thankful for their effort, she felt the police would not go to such lengths if they werent suspicions about Tobys part in Damiens death. Behind the closed doors of her bedroom, she whispered this to Orlando, but he had come to the same conclusion and could say nothing to convince her otherwise. It was a terrible night for Angela and Orlando. They finally fell asleep with their clothes on and woke soon thereafter as the sun was coming up. So did Toby. The first rays of the sun fell directly across his face. Toby didnt know where he was. It took him a moment to regain his bearings, and still another before he remembered why he was

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there. But in those first waking moments, he felt a freedom he hadnt known in years. For those few moments he had no history, no future, only himself, isolated in a still clarity, like the pale sky through which the sun shone on his face. But even when it all came back to him, he felt like a different Toby than the one whod awakened in his bed the day before. True, there was a crushing weight impinging on him, the same weight hed felt for months. But hed learned to accept it now; the Bach hed found in himself had helped. Yet as he sat up and looked around that morning, he felt relieved, as if hed broken loosebut only a little. He was, after all, no more than twenty feet from his own bed. Above it, actually: on the roof, where hed slept the night curled next to his cat. It had been a strange night. Hed never been on the roof before, though hed seen how Andr climbed up there, and always wanted to try it himself. When Orlando prodded him about drawing again, the pressure within him had broken something: thats the way it felt, but by the time hed run almost all the way home, he felt better, but didnt want anybody meddling with him anymore, so he climbed up to the top of the back porch and over to the roof. Getting to the roof that covered the porch was the hard part, and probably dangerous too, since he had to dangle for a moment or two with nothing below him but the courtyard three stories down while he hoisted himself up. But he wasnt up there looking around for more than a minute when Andr appeared and trotted right over to him. Toby was hot from the run home through the park, so he took off his jacket and walked around looking off in every direction for a while. He could see across Lincoln Park to Lake Michigan; he saw the vast Midwestern city stretching out to the west and the white ribbon of highway curling north and south close to the lake shore. After he tired of this he sat down on a raised brick shelf where Andr appeared to be waiting for him. There was part of a large cardboard box that was somehow up on the roof, and Toby had brought that over, folded it up and along with his jacket used it for a cushion on the brick. He was quite comfortable, but thats when things got strange. A flight of crows appeared. Toby hadnt seen or heard them coming, but there they were, flapping their wings and making a

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terrible racket just above him. He wanted to run, but was scared to get too close to the edge with all those birds flapping like they were. And remarkably, he saw that Andr showed no signs of agitation: he just gazed up at them; and the birds were as big as he was. Then things got even stranger, because one of the crows landed right next to Andrwhich meant right next to Toby as wellwhile all the others landed a little way off on the roof and looked directly at the place where Toby, Andr and the crow were sitting. Toby had never been close to a crow before. He hadnt realized just how big a crow was, and how long and sharp its beak was. But Andr was purring. And the crow was doing something weird. It was picking up one foot and then the other, rocking back and forth and cooing. After this went on for a few minutes, Toby felt sure the cat and crow were speaking to one another. This didnt make sense to him, since hed always believed that cats and birds were natural enemies, but there was no denying it: Andr was purring, the crow was cooing, and their heads were close enough together to touch. Toby started to laugh, but then both the cat and crow stopped making their respective sounds and looked directly at him. This shook him up a little bit; the two sets of animal eyes had a fierce intensity about them, but he reached out and stroked Andrs pure black fur. What are you guys talking about? he asked. There was no response, and only a moment later the animals turned away from him again and continued to make little noises at each other. Though he didnt realize it at the time, it was the first time Toby had laughed since before hed pushed Damien out the window. Hed been overjoyed a number of times, even daily, but it took an apparent conversation between animals to provoke laughter. But quite soon then, a wave of that pressure to which hed grown so accustomed swept over him again and he satisfied himself with listening to the animals and watching the sky begin to darken. Soon he was chilly, and when he put his coat back on, he found that the cardboard alone was a comfortable enough cushion for him. Then he lay down on his back with his hands clasped behind his head, and decided to try to recollect every piece of Bach hed heard in the last five months. This was a stimulating and very moving experience, because waves of joy accompanied every piece he remembered. And when it came to music, or at least Bachs music, Toby

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Wellington had a prodigious memory. He began at the beginning with the D major Partita and found he could recall every section of it. Then he went on to the B Flat Partita, the G Major, and then the three partitas in minor keys. After recalling the French Suites, and beginning with the English, he realized that he probably could remember everything and decided to only choose his favorites. So as the stars appeared above him, Toby remembered the Sixth Brandenburg Concerto, the Gloria from the B Minor Mass and the D Minor Concerto for Two Violins. It seemed to him that as each piece ended in his mind, scores of stars appeared, though no new ones came out while the music was playing. By the time hed listened to all this, the sky was replete with stars and Toby was getting sleepy, so he adjusted his cardboard mattress, zipped up his jacket for the night, and ran through the sublime slow movement of double Violin Concerto once again, fell asleep with its serene conclusion and dreamt the following dream. Toby was in a rowboat on a storm-tossed sea. The waves were so high and the spray so stinging to his eyes that he could see nothing but water and believed he was alone in the little craft. He sat in the stern and clutched at the gunwales under a pelting rain, certain that he would capsize and sink to his death in the churning waters. He cried out for his mother, but even in doing so, he realized that she was not equipped to help him. She had always avoided the water, never swam or went sailing when shed had the chance. As Toby looked above and saw that even darker clouds were closing in around him, and he wished he believed in a God that could save him, but as the most avowed atheist will do in such a situation, he prayed to the God he did not believe in. Thats when he noticed that the rowboats oars were moving, and that two dark figures were straining against them, propelling the boat forward through the torrent. It was only when the bow of the boat pitched perilously up before him that he could see that not only were the rowers very small but that they were not human. By some power Toby didnt begin to understand, the cat and crow who were rowing were somehow equipped with the grasping power and strength to man the oars. Neither animal looked back at Toby or in any way acknowledged his presence. If either made any sounds, these were inaudible in the deafening storm. Yet the two rowed on with great power; the rowboat sliced through the

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waves. Toby shouted out to them but his own words were blown away with the sheets of spray that broke over his face. He could not hear his words, but as he mouthed them he wondered at their meaning: it was as if someone else spoke. So far so good! he shouted out. So far so good! But he was certain the animals did not hear him, and if they had they probably wouldnt understand, yet they rowed on, and on, though the storm showed no signs of abating. When Toby first awoke the sky was clouding over. Andr remained at his side and the crow next to Andr. Just as they had when hed fallen asleep, the animals continued to converse, and holding his purring cat close to his body, Toby fell into a dreamless sleep and awakened when the light of the sun washed across his face. It wasnt much later when Toby swung himself out over the edge of the porch roof, descended the back stairs to his second floor back door and quietly went in the house. He was no longer certain why hed run away. You called the police on me? Toby said to his stunned mother as he walked into the living room. Angela had been dozing in a chair next to the officer at the phone. My God, Toby! Where have you been? she asked, rushing over to him. Up on the roof. What were you doing there? Sleeping. Andr was with me, and some crow. Sleeping? Oh, my God! Werent you cold? Are you all right? A crow? She put her hands on his shoulders and shook him a little. Dont I look all right? he snapped. Son, your mother was very worried about you, said the uniformed officer, a woman named Potkowski. Despite everything hed been through in the last half year, Tobys cold, imperious stare remained unchanged, and he cast it directly at the policewoman. She didnt take it well. She glanced over at Angela to see her reaction to the boys disrespect, and seeing

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nothing to support her displeasure, turned away and put in a call to headquarters to inform her superiors that the suspect had returned. Whatever made you run away, Toby? Angela asked, still holding him and knowing full well that even under the most relaxed circumstances it was unlikely that hed give her anything but a perfunctory answer. With Officer Potkowski present, she hardly expected that, but still she felt she had to play the part and ask. Why is everyone asking me questions? he snapped again, pulling away from his mother. Im going back out. Officer Potkowski was pleased that this impudent child had made that statement because it justified her reaction to it. No, son, Im afraid youre not going anyplace, she said with some satisfaction, standing to reveal her full height, which was over six feet. Then she took a step toward Toby, who was backing toward the kitchen. You cant tell me what to do in my house, he said to her, turning to walk away. Toby, stop, Angela said. The police have some questions for you. I told you, Im sick of people asking me questions. So I ran away, big deal! But as he strode toward the kitchen, Officer Potkowski moved more quickly than one might expect of a woman her size, and put her two-hundred-and-twenty-five pound blue-uniformed, black-shoed body between Toby and the door that led out of the living room. Youre going to have to stay here in this room, she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. She was careful not to use inappropriate forceToby, however, wasnt. Theres no telling how he might have reacted had he known why the police wanted to question to him, but believing that they wanted to lecture him about running away, he reacted as we might expect. He slapped the officers hand off his shoulder. In seconds, his rag-doll body had been flipped onto the couch, where he cried as the large, indignant woman told him that if he tried anything like that again shed handcuff him to the radiator.

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THE TRIAL

Marcuss allegations devastated Angela and Orlando. Angela knew Marcus, and had always felt the sweetness of his nature had been a good influence on her son. Though neither she nor Orlando divulged the depth of their suspicions to anyone, not even to their lawyer, their concerns had been silently building for years and they believed every word of Marcus story. A grand jury had convened to hear the District Attorneys evidence. Orlandos old art school friend-turned lawyer, Glen Steinberg, had recommended his partner, Bob Jacobson, as a fine trial attorney; and Angela, so nervous she thought shed become sick, accompanied Toby and Mr. Jacobson to the hearing. Adam Wellington had been traveling for a month before coming home from college for the summer. Hed been driving cross country with his girlfriend and had just arrived home when Angela and Toby returned to the apartment from the courthouse. Although Angela had tried to be cheerful for the sake of her

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perfectly average and scholastically successful older son, her attempts that day were unsuccessful: the ordeal of the hearing had left her face drawn and her mood fragile. She was too upset to even tell Adam the news; and it was only after hed had gone out to meet with some of his friends, that Angela called Orlando. Based on Marcus testimony and that of other witnesses, she told him through her tears, Toby had been charged with murder in the second degree. Everythings been wiped away, she said to Orlando whod arrived shortly after hearing the news. Everything goods been wiped away by this, as if it never happened. Because you know, Orlando? Maybe things werent so good in the first place. No, thats not true, Orlando answered, trying to clarify, not console her. Tobys gift came with too much weight for any boy to carry. Look, he said, we stick with him, okay? We have to be the strong ones here. You do, I mean. The greatest burden falls on you, Angela. No matter what Toby thinks or feels, you have to be beside himeven if he rejects you. And Ill be beside you. But whats going to happen? Are they going to take him away? Angela was standing in front of the living room windows looking out. She couldnt look at Orlando, who was behind her. She hardly noticed the flight of crows that swooped down past the window and flapped up and away above the buildings across the street. Well talk to Jacobson about that tomorrow. I cant imagine anyone taking Toby away, but were going to go crazy thinking about it. What else can I think of? Angela asked, shaking Orlandos hands off of her shoulders. Orlando had no answer for this. Back in the days when hed read about Buddhismor was it Hinduism or something else, he couldnt rememberhe heard that all human suffering results from prolonging the past and anticipating the future; and he supposed that was probably true, but he didnt know how to tell that to a frantic mother. Who knows? If hed tried, it might have done some good, but he didnt; he feared angering her, so all he said was that he was sorry, so very sorry. Then Angela put her arms around him and wept onto his shoulder. It seems unfortunate that the purification of the human soul is so often achieved through suffering. Angela had suffered

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multiple blows: she feared her child was lost, shed heard of Marcus accusations, and now her son was charged with murder. This effectively undermined the remains of Angela Wellingtons unrealistically optimistic nature. On the level on which she lived and breathed, everything was decidedly not all right. Orlando had dared to propose this to her, and now the clock of circumstance had struck. Angela continued to weep on Orlandos shoulder: heavy, solemn tears, for not only had everything good about Toby and his life been wiped away, her own self-deception had been wiped away as well. Our expert source on information reincarnational might have a story or two regarding this karmic culmination in her life, but whats in question here is not the lineage of this crisis, but whether or not Tobys mother was about to draw her curtains, both literal and figurative, climb into bed, and remain there, heavily medicated, as the circumstantial clock ticked on. She stood weeping on Orlandos shoulder for longer than one might expect. Then she said that she too was sorry, and went into her bedroom and closed the door behind her. Fortunately for everyone involved, the trial was to follow swiftly upon the grand jury indictment. One may speculate why the boy reacted as he didwith Toby Wellington, one never knowsbut it turned out that as soon as the proceedings began, he did his best to tune out everything that the prosecutor and the prosecutions witnesses had to say. Everything. As soon as the first witness took the stand, Toby tried to tune in the opening Kyrie section from Bachs B Minor Mass. Surely Toby must have known that in Latin the words Kyrie eleison mean Lord have mercy, but its more likely that it was the contrapuntal glory of the music that he wished to engulf him and mask out the drone of damaging testimony. But his tactic worked only to a limited extent. The Sharps dusty apartment had left an unspoiled crime scene for the forensic team to reexamine in light of the charges brought against Toby. When the prosecutors witnesses took the stand, their words began to penetrate his defenses, and their findings were more damaging than those of the initial report. Feeling that the B Minor Mass might be too great and complex a work to summon up in his mind under these trying circumstances, Toby reverted to the simpler preludes and fugues of Book One of Bachs Well Tempered Clavier, keyboard pieces, like

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the Partitas, in which the independent musical lines stand out with unparalleled excellence. But the lines of testimony insinuated themselves into the music, ruining it for Toby. The words of the prosecutions forensic expert sounded dissonant notes as he reported that there was nothing in the crime scene to suggest that Toby had not murdered Damien. It was a little later that he tried to bring to mind the sweeping opening movement of the Sixth Brandenburg Concerto, but the warm pulse of strings that first began to swell up around him was vaporized at the words of the witness on the stand. It was Marcus himself, and utterly incapable of drowning out the words with music, Toby had no choice but to listen, his eyes cast down at his hands folded in his lap. Marcuss testimony, however, contained nothing for which Toby had not been prepared, and Marcus voice seemed mousy and frail. Marcus sounded like the weakling that Toby had always suspected he was. And though Tobys expression had remained unchanged throughout the proceedings so far, a hint of a sneer might have been detected on his face as Marcus Freeling spoke. It had been a long day. Toby had not eaten and he was visibly shaking with hunger as he left the courtroom. One of the bailiffs thought he should see a doctor. Toby reacted with scorn. On the ride home he didnt say a word. And a long night followed. Unlike most thirteen-year-olds, Toby Wellington was perfectly comfortable with solitude; he thrived on it, in fact, he sought it out. So when he couldnt sleep that night, the feeling that gripped him came as a disturbing surprise. Toby felt lonely, sharply and deeply lonely. Perhaps it was what hed heard in court that day; what the Bach had not masked out, what art could not dissuade. No tears accompanied his loneliness, however; only a hardening of his feelings, of everything he felt about himself and the world. After a probing conversation with Toby, Bob Jacobson had found the boy so poised and convincing that despite the risks involved, he decided to let him take the stand in his own defense. It was just before noon the next day when the time came for him to be sworn in, and it seemed to those who knew Toby that Mr. Jacobson had been right; that Toby might have chosen acting as a career rather than art. His demeanor was a perfect portrayal of wronged but clear-headed innocence. In his story, which was rehearsed at

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length with his lawyer, Toby admitted that he had been the instigator of mischief in the past, though not to the extent that Marcus claimed. He explained further that on the day of the accident, Damien seemed to have snapped. He acted as Toby had never seen him act before: more aggressive, more unreasonable, more determined. After a series of objections from the prosecutor, Tobys attorney reworded his question to allow Toby to tell the jury that at the time, he believed that it was because Damien had just moved into a high-rise building that he got carried away with dropping things out the window from such a great height; whereas before, from the third floor there was no way to do anything dangerous without being caught, and just as Marcus reported, Damien never suggested it before. But Damien was a different person that day in August, or so Toby insisted, with a convincing look of bewilderment. Under Mr. Jacobsons direct examination, he admitted to telling Marcus he would throw him out a window, and also to a few other of Marcus accusations, but he did so with such apparent guilelessness that he was more convincing than even Mr. Jacobson could have hoped. But Tobys skill as an actor proved only superficial. Toby, and indeed Mr. Jacobson, clever as he was, was unprepared for the States strategy. Earlier, the prosecution had called a classmate of Tobys, Erin McKean, who recounted in remarkable detail how Toby had once bragged to her that hed thrown water balloons out a window at passersby, and had gone on to explain even if suspected, hed simply lie about his involvement because people, adults in particular, were easy to fool. Lying, he told Erin, was no big deal. Toby, still trying to lose himself in The Well Tempered Clavier at the time, never looked at pretty little Erin, and may not have heard what shed said. This being established, however, the prosecutor whether through courtroom savvy or insight gained in the discovery processlaunched her psychological attack This Assistant District Attorney, Ms. Bristlemeyer, asked Toby if it was true that after Damiens death, he was very upset. Toby responded that he was, and went on to answer a series of questions describing his reaction to what he referred to as the accident, still playing the part of the bereaved friend with what seemed genuine sincerity. It was when he was asked if hed stopped drawing as a result of his grief that Toby began to lose his focus.

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So you were so upset that you couldnt draw any pictures? the prosecutor asked in the matter-of-fact tone one might use when asking if a sprained ankle kept someone from jogging. And indeed, the trivialization his world-renowned work pushed one of Tobys buttons; though only one. Because Toby never spoke freely about his art. Never. Thats none of your business, he said, fixing his gaze on the Ms. Bristlemeyer, a wiry little woman with a hawk-like face. Well, Mr. Wellington, she answered, even if it isnt my business, I think its the jurys business if you were so upset after Damiens death you couldnt figure out what to draw. I think youre stupid, Toby answered. After a long, calculated silence, Ms. Bristlemeyer rephrased the question in still another demeaning way. So were you so upset you couldnt pick up one of your what? Your pencils? Shut up! was Toby response to this; at which the judge told Ms. Bristlemeyer to watch herself, and told Toby to mind his manners, explaining the meaning of contempt of court. Toby already knew what contempt meant, and was all too familiar with the feeling itself. In this instance, however, the problem was that he couldnt stop himself from expressing it. I dont care about that, he the boy said petulantly. He might have stopped there, but that place under his right shoulder blade had been aching since he took the stand, and his desire to express himself was unfulfilled. I dont care about any of this, he said, gesturing toward the courtroom. The judge had just silenced all the murmuring when Ms. Bristlemeyer continued. Do you care about Damien? she asked. Toby stared at the little woman. She continued. Do you care about Damien Sharp, your friend? What does that matter? Hes dead. The expression on the thirteen-year-olds face was scornful; there was no getting around that. Though in his arrogance, Toby looked imposing, larger than life, and cold, as if fashioned of stone or burnished steel; somehow at the same time he looked like a bitter, shriveled old man, huddled in his loneliness. Once the judge instructed the jury to disregard the

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last exchange and curtly warned the prosecutor to return to the point, he patiently addressed Toby. I understand how an esteemed artist like yourself might be reluctant to talk about his work, but I believe Ms. Bristlemeyer can ask her question in a more respectful way. This tactic worked. Its still none of her business, Toby said to the judge after the tough little woman complied, but the answer to her question is, No. Okay? No. Its got nothing to do with being upset. Sometimes I draw and sometimes I dont. No reasons. Get it? Its none of her business. The tone of this answer was so haughty, however, that the jury members, to the last, appeared to be chilled. A little later, when under rather harsh cross-examination, Toby was recounting his version of the struggle by the eighteenth floor living room window at the Sharps apartment, he contradicted a statement hed made to the police when questioned immediately after Damiens fall. Toby had initially told the police that hed tried to wrest the cantaloupe away before Damien threw it out the window. In court, he said he didnt think Damien was serious about actually throwing it down and was surprised when he did. Though this contradiction might have been explained away by Tobys understandable emotional turmoil when hed spoken to the police, Mrs. Bristlemeyer took aim. She was keenly aware of the emotional turmoil shed stirred up in Toby by questioning him about his art, and he may have been the only one in the courtroom who didnt realize he was being set up when she asked him about his contradictory statement. First you tell the police it happened one way and then you insist it happened differently. How is the jury to know if youre telling the truth about that? I always tell the truth, he answered bitterly. Ms. Bristlemeyer turned up her hands, raised her eyebrows, and looked at the jury dubiously. She had no further questions. Of course, it hadnt been all that long since Erin McKean had made it compellingly clear to the jury that Toby Wellington had little regard for the truth. If it was the District Attorneys plan to discredit Toby, it was successful. Anyone witnessing prosecutions cross-examination of the young artist would have serious doubts about his account of what happened the day that Damien Sharp fell

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to his death. The defenses case, of course, did not focus on Tobys truthfulness or lack thereof, but on the lack of evidence directly linking him to the commission of any crime. As compelling as Mr. Jacobson was, however, the jurys overriding response that day may have been their dislike of the defendant. Although Angela Wellington had gone into her bedroom at three in the afternoon that day before Tobys trial began, and though shed drawn her curtains and climbed into bed, she emerged only an hour later, apparently having summoned her weakened forces in brave defense of her son. Throughout the trial Angela and Orlando sat together holding hands, though this was not visible to others in the courtroom. The two seemed in a state of perpetual shock at what was taking place around them. They looked stunned when Toby spoke with such sincerity and humility; they looked stunned when he spoke with undisguised contempt. The two of them had always been powerless to control Toby, and never before had their helplessness been so apparent. Akbar the Crow, in his great wisdom, may have seen these proceedings as an aspect of Great Cosmic Dance of Consent, but it hardly felt that way to Angela and Orlando. Every word of the prosecutions witnesses wrung at Angelas heart. Early on in the proceedings she began to feel clammy and wet with sweat, and her eyes were soon puffy with suppressed tears. The second day she wore sunglasses to court. Orlandos head began to throb as soon as Ms. Bristlemeyer began to present her case, and the pain became so intense that his vision blurred before the first day ended. Though they sat close together, their eyes didnt meet during the proceedings. The two looked as if they were attending a funeralsomething which was not lost to the courtroom artist, who drew constantly through out the trial. It was she from whom Angela and Orlando hid their nervously entwined hands, but there was no way to conceal their dismayed expressions, which, along with the artists characterizations of Tobys arrogant looks, appeared on all the networks at news-time and in newspapers nationwide. The press descended on the trial with lurid expectations. Toby Wellingtons innocence or guilt was debated at lunch counters, taverns, coffee houses, bowling alleys, book groups,

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church basements, and of course, call-in radio shows for the five days of the trial. The popular verdict, as the pollsters so selflessly announced, was a resounding condemnation of this spoiled prodigy, this beautiful boy, who seemed to the great masses of Americans not initiated in the fine arts, a picture of elitism, of misplaced privilege, dubious morality, and possibly indeterminate sexuality. The public did not like Toby Wellingtonor more aptly, the public enjoyed disliking him Two of the less reputable publications ran the following headlines for the benefit of all grocery shoppers who might need their curiosity satisfied while waiting in line to check out.

TWO-HEADED ALIEN TOBY LEFT ON PARENTS DOORSTEP ANGELIC HEAD AMPUTATED: DIABOLIC HEAD LIVED ON GOD: I MADE A MISTAKE TOBY EXPERIMENT THAT FAILED
The serious news services covered the trial with the impartiality they could muster, but their reader and viewership were not necessarily those who rushed to judgment or had a congenital mistrust of art. It was the consensus of legal minds that the case against Toby was unsubstantiated; it was also the consensus that the jury in this kind of sensational, emotionally charged case was unpredictable. Life for the Wellingtons during this period was intolerable. Orlando remained with Angela and Toby the entire time, and Adam kept to the house and did his best to give his little brother support, something hed never done in the past and did now primarily for his mothers sake. Orlando collected the newspaper before it was delivered, monitored the mail, made sure the television was never turned on, and screened all phone calls. Yet somehow the drift of public opinion seeped into the house like an invisible toxin. Toby was jeered as he came and went from the courthouse with his police

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escort. Placards were thrust in front of him and up to the windows of the car. Though quickly dispersed by the police, occasional zealots shouted insults at the family from outside the apartment building. The value of Tobys drawings, however, increased another ten-fold. In what seemed a pattern of behavior uncharacteristic of a feline, Andr the Cat acted as if he willingly dedicated himself to the well-being of everyone in the house, most particularly Toby and Angela, but Adam and even Orlando as well. Whenever anyone appeared to be more agitated, tormented or depressed than the others, the black cat hurried to his or her side, established contact and purred with unusual force and resonance. There were times when the animal repeatedly switched humans, comforting Toby for a period of a quarter-hour, than Angela, then back to Toby, and again back to his mother without any break in between. When Adam sat disconsolately staring out the window, the cat leapt up on his lap (something the animal had never done in the past) and commenced to purr. Even when Orlando sat with his head in his hands, Andr ministered to him, surprising the man greatly enough to bring a tepid smile to his face. The cat seemed tireless. Uncharacteristically, he never napped when the humans were awake. Mostly, he slept with Toby, but somehow had the instinct to hop up next to Angela when she suffered her recurring nightmares about being cornered by faceless people with dogs. On the evening before the trial ended, Angela and Toby sat alone at the kitchen table after dinner. They had ordered in from The Jade Palace, but neither had eaten much. Do you remember when I tried to draw that elephant, Toby? Angela asked, trying to hold back her tears. Yes, mom. That was pretty pathetic. Angela smiled. When you showed me how to do it, did you have any feeling about what you did? Toby seemed to be thinking seriously about it. I was just a kid, mom. I dont remember that much. You took a dark blue crayon and drew a beautiful elephant on a piece of my stationery. It was meant for you to color in.

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I was coloring? Yes, and you werent very good at itand youve never done it since. Maybe you should try. You might be better. Toby showed signs of a smile at this remark, but then grew pensive again. I remember something about it, he said. I remember that blue crayon and I remember how the elephant looked. It was in another book and I remembered it. And it didnt feel like anything special for you to just draw what you remembered like that? Toby looked at his mother earnestly; she couldnt remember ever seeing such a look directed at her. She had seen that expression on his face when he drew and when he listened to Bach, but when it was directed at her, it felt distinctly warm, not a sensation usually attributed to Toby. Maybe everything would be better if I wasnt so special, he said. Angela remembered what Orlando said when she made comments like that. Lifes a package deal, dear, Angela said. If you didnt have your talent you wouldnt be Toby, you wouldnt be my son. Maybe it seems like without that gift things wouldnt be so complicated, but you are complicated. You have a wonderful, complicated mind. It must be so terribly difficult for you now. Im so sorry. Its almost too difficult for me to bear and Im just your mother. But youre only thirteen, Toby, and youre going to have a chance to grow into it all. Am I really? What do you mean? Angela pulled her chair closer to the table. Toby sat across from her leaning forward, his chin on his fists. I dont feel like theres going to be any future. The starkness with which he said that chilled his mother, but she understood how a boy on trial for murder could feel that way. She remembered that Orlando had told her that she had to be the strong one. Honey, I cant get you through these next days. But I promise you this will turn out all right What does that mean? Toby snapped back. What do you mean all right? Those people hate me. Toby sat up straight, narrowing his eyes. Why dont you admit that? Why dont you say it might not turn out all right?

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Is this what its come down to? Angela wondered. Is this what motherhood has come down to? Youre probably right, dear, she said with as much clarity as she could summon up. Is that what you need to hear? That youre probably right? I might not know any more about this than you do, but maybe I do. And Im hopeful. As a person, Im hopeful, Toby. Not just as your mother. You dont need mothering now, dear. You havent for a long time, but Im available if you do. Angela could see tears well up in Tobys eyes at this; whether it was the sound of the truth that elicited them or relief or self-pity she could not be sure. Is that fair? she asked. Fair? he said. Maybe I could have used a better word. Toby didnt respondor perhaps his stony silence was his answer. But Angela was not to be sold short. Do you remember what you drew after the elephant? Toby didnt say a thing, but he cast his eyes down. You drew a lion. I drew a lion in Mr. Floyds class, he said, still looking at the table. The first day. Thats right, but you also drew a lion with that blue crayon on my light blue stationery. After you drew the elephant. And before you drew the giraffe. I still have it someplace. Its probably worth a hundred-thousand dollars nowthe blue lion. Angela laughed. Maybe we should sell it and buy a lifetime supply of chocolate ice creamfor your whole class. Do we have any ice cream? Toby asked. Angela got up and walked over to the freezer. Ill go get some if we dont, she said, feeling her motherhood, at least, temporarily restored. Send Mr. Floyd, Toby said. Hell go. Angela found it charming that her son still refrained from calling her lover by his first name. But of course, in Tobys mind, Orlando was still first and foremost his teacher. As she had so many times in the last few days, Angela wanted to hug her son at any sign of normalcy, but lifes a package deal, she remembered, hoping to forestall any debilitating wave of sentimentality. And at the moment she was somehow proud of her boyor was it of herself?

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HOMELAND SECURITY

Alarm was in the air the afternoon I found Toby Wellington had climbed onto the roof. Not only had I never seen the boy under the sky, but his emanations were also unprecedented: he glowed with a pulsing silver sheen with deepening scarlet hues at its core. He seemed at once agitated and rejuvenated. No vestigial images remained in his aura, so I couldnt determine the source of his mood, but I approached him gladly and made myself comfortable in my customary spot where he joined me as naturally as if he were a frequent visitor to the rooftop. A certain compression of the roof currents made it clear that Akbar and his followers would arrive before long. The Wellington boy was frightened at their approach and seemed alarmed when Akbar settled next to me. Akbar had a good deal to report, however, and before long, I pressed my fur against Tobys body to stabilize him and turned all my attention to the venerable old crow.

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Pay careful attention to this, Andr, he began, since you may find it pertains to coming events. One might say something is in the works. A worldwide occurrence, mind you, but one that will reflect itself personally as well. A number of planetary cycles are culminating simultaneously: cycles of planets in relation to the position of the earth, planets that like the constellations of the zodiac, affect the subtler planes of life here, and thus human life. It is the nature of culminating planetary cycles to bring the developments of the closing period a climax, to exaggerate the trends of those periods and throw them temporarily out of balance, and it is a time when the destructive forces of the cosmos help clear the way for the new era, of whatever magnitude that may be. I took a moment to fit myself more closely warm space between Tobys right arm and his side. When Akbar saw that the boy and I were both settled, he continued. According to the venerable Hindu tradition, the balance of the cosmos is maintained by the interaction of three Divine forces, or three Gods, if one prefers: Brahma, the Creator; Shiva the Destroyer, and Vishnu, the Preserver. Contemporary humans tend to relegate the power of Shiva, the Destroyer, to the diabolical or undivine, one of the factors that leads to the unbridled materialism of much of the modern world. But regardless of this misunderstanding, humans, like all other species, depend on this power for their very being. When I asked Akbar just what cycles were ending and which ones beginning at this particular juncture, he was less specific. Let me only say that it will be a time for an advancement in trust, a growth of acceptance; and that these in themselves are among the evolutionary trends that culminate in the recognition of the Divine in all things. That all acts are acts of love? I asked. Yes, Akbar answered. Or not. Of course the old crow didnt smile at me in the moonlight as he said this, but I believe if he could have, he would. There was a great deal of tension in the Wellington home before the infestation began; but when Toby arrived home late that afternoon along with his mother and teacher, the atmosphere began to crackle

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with a discharge of the most sinister nature as a hideous, slovenly horde of astral rabble rushed in in their wake. These degraded embodiments of negativity not only clung tenaciously to the subtle bodies of the humans on whom they preyed, but hung in the recesses of the rooms, in corners near the ceiling, under beds, and behind doors waiting to invade any thoughts and feelings made available by the absence of other such petty demons. If I hadnt previously formed bonds of compassion with the humans who inhabited this place, I would have backed away. Never in my feline experience had I encountered such an invasion, such an army of the grotesque, the source of which was an arena outside the Wellington home, that place where Toby, his mother and his teacher were apparently held captive during the days. These drooling, decaying, obese, skeletal, filthy, stinking embodiments of human hatred, prejudice, envy and scorn poured through the front door and continued to penetrate the Wellingtons home through the windows, through electrical appliances and through the plumbing. Its not in the nature of adult cats to make alliances with other adults of their species, but if Id had the opportunity I would have seized it, for it seemed beyond my skills as a predator to rid the premises of these specters on my own. Perhaps joined together with three other cats I might have defended those to whom I felt responsible, but as it stood, I had no choice but to divide my efforts, leaving those whose auras I could not patrol to suffer as they would. The demands upon me were so great that the joy I customarily feel in the pursuit and killing of such pests was largely lost. The boy, Toby, was apparently the focus of the attack, but his mother, being by far the weaker of the two, suffered more acutely from her smaller share of the parasitic attacks. Still, my strongest bond was with the boy, and it was he whom I defended most staunchly. Never during the duration of the invasion did I stop to think that in an earlier phase of my life I might have lingered on the back porch, hunted strays until I was sated, and left the premises. Nor do I yet fully understand the tenacity of my allegiance to these humans, but I remained in a state of consistently aggressive defense for seven full days, and then seven more as the threat diminished and the invaders I killed were less and less frequently replaced by others.

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There was one particular strain of bugaboo that for a time seemed to be able to replicate itself ad infinitum. This was a scaly, winged, reptile like ghoul with sagging, festering skin and the face of a young but malevolent looking human female. From what I could gather, these hideous embodiments were inner manifestation of the human degradation known as envy, though contrary to popular superstition, they were not green but pink. I must have slain hundreds of these incorporeal monsters, mostly clinging to the aura of the boy, Toby. One I recall in particular, screeched out as I dismembered it with my claws, insisting that she was royalty and her name was Barbie. Unlike his mother, older brother and teacher, Toby reacted furiously to these unseen threats. It is difficult for me to know how they appeared to him; perhaps as debilitating thoughts, physical or psychological threats or memories of such threats, and though he was at times overpowered, he reacted with an admirable outrage, particularly when compared to the others whose submission was unflattering. In fact, had Toby Wellington been a feline, I would have gladly joined forces with him in doing battle with these pernicious pests, if only for his courageously defiant spirit. After Akbar told me about the culminating planetary cycles and their refreshing, if unsettling, effect on worldly matters, he went on to tell me something that many modern humans would find fundamentally unacceptable, particularly the esteemed so-called scientific community and those religious zealots who comprise its vociferous opposition. This bit of information he passed on to me concerns one of the most hotly debated matters in the purview of either of these unenlightened factions: namely, the tremendous huff about their beliefs, on the one hand in evolution, and on the other in creationism. These opposing camps, Akbar explained, are equally incorrect and correct in their beliefs about humanitys origins; their share in ignorance and understanding is uniquely the same. Akbars reason for explaining this to a cat remains unclear to me, since the truth of the matter neither applies to me and my kind, nor has any chance of being accepted by humans until a higher stage of their development is reached. Still, the story is simple enough.

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According to Akbar, the animal world did develop, or some might say evolve, much as modern science supposes, butand heres the other side of the storyas the animals evolved into creatures much like humans, the spirit of humanity, or some might say the divine spirit, descended into ever more dense planes of life until it met the upwardly evolving animal form, thus creating man. Again, I can only wonder at Akbars reasons for relating this to me at this juncture of my life. Perhaps he felt this knowledge of the grand scheme of things would empower me in the difficult times that lay ahead and lend perspective to the human tumult I would witness. Spirit descends into matter to enlighten it, Akbar said on another occasion. Spirit descends into matter to learn to love it, to lose itself and find itself anew, richer and fuller. People think that they are longing for God, when it is actually God who is longing for them. Akbar walked away then and left me with his followers. Again I noticed the one crow that had a patch of white feathers above his eyes that ran back along the crown of his head. I had not spoken to him before. He introduced himself as Veritas. As spokesman for my brethren, he said, I thank you for your service to our mentor. Though this reminded me of Akbars words when he thanked me on behalf of the League of Initiates, this crows words still surprised me. You give him the opportunity to become more of himself, Veritas explained. I still didnt fully understand. You magnify his radiance. I looked at Veritas expecting more, but I sensed that he would not elucidate any further. Something else was on my mind, however, something Id felt would have been an inappropriate question to ask Akbar. Can you tell me how old your leader is, I asked. Akbar was off on the far side of the roof, but all other heads turned in my direction. Veritas looked stunned, as if surprised I asked. He looked at me very closely for a moment but made no reply.

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THE VERDICT

It was just after two in the afternoon. It had been five days since the trial had begun, and the case had been turned over to the jury. The Wellingtons and Orlando Floyd had arrived back at the apartment and didnt know what to do about dinner. Orlando suggested he drive over to the Jade Palace for some take-out when there was a knock on the front door. Angela peered out the peephole and gasped. Go away! she shouted through the door. You dont have any business here! She broke down sobbing and ran to her bedroom. Go away! Orlando yelled toward the door then. Youve got a lot of nerve! he added as he followed Angela away, hoping to console her. That someone from the press would harass Angela at home, and on this very day, nearly brought Orlando to tears as well. But Toby, angry but fearless, flung open the door. He didnt recognize the tall, broad-shouldered man who was his father.

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As soon as she heard the door unlatch, Angela streaked out of her bedroom, pulled Toby away from the door and seized Tobias by the shoulders. Go away from here! she cried. Mom! said Adam, who had come out of his room and was staring at Tobias. Its okay! Angela knew that Adam had kept in contact with his father and had never interfered. She knew Tobias had visited him at Princeton. Its not okay! shouted Angela, livid, her face flushed and fists clenched. If you want to see your father, its fine. But not here! Toby stiffened. Orlando had never seen Angela in such a rage, or in any rage, for that matter. Neither had Adam, or Toby who showed no reaction to his mothers outburst. He stared at his father; his expression was blank. Though it had been many years since Toby had let his mother hug him, hed always taken her side whenever Tobias was mentioned, and never expressed any desire to see or contact him. His mother didnt like the man and he was a flawed, inadequate person who didnt understand art or care that Toby was a great artist: that was all the boy needed to know. Neither he nor his mother knew just when Tobias had been released from Federal prison. Adam had kept this to himself. I came to show support for my son, Tobias said, still standing in the doorway, his way barred by Angelas fuming presence. Though still handsome, he looked like hed aged more than seven years, his face was creased and his hair nearly white. This is not an appropriate way to do it! snapped Angela, who seemed to have aged greatly herself, though in only in the last weeks. She looked like a woman in mourning. Tobys got enough on his plate now! He doesnt need a surprise visit from you! She turned to Adam. Im sorry, dear. Im sorry you have to see this. Adam stood as tall as his father and resembled him as much as Toby resembled Angela. Adam was already talking about studying law. He nodded to Tobias in what seemed a familiar way. Had he known Tobias was coming? Had he asked him to come? But Angela hardly cared. Nor did she care if Tobias had reformed or even been reborn during his years in the penitentiary. Her only concern was that her ex-husband leave them alone during these most terrible days of their lives.

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Though Orlando remained sitting in a chair at the far end of the living room throughout this encounter, he had the sense to withdraw into himself and hope to appear as innocuous as possible while remaining available in case Tobias became abusive with either Angela or Toby. Hed never heard that Tobias had a violent nature, but this was no time to test that out. And Tobias, who had spoken calmly at first, was now showing signs of agitation. The press has poisoned the atmosphere. Theyre making a laughing-stock of my son! he said angrily to Angela. Im not going to let you impede my right to see him! I dont want to see you! Toby shouted. He was standing rigid, just behind Angela in the apartments foyer. I dont know you! Just like my mother said: we want you to go away! Tobiass face fell, though might have expected his sons response. Hed tried to contact Toby on his birthday every year, but his cards had been returned unopened with Return to Sender written in Tobys distinctive hand. You put him up to this, didnt you? Tobias said to Angela, but even as he said it, he yielded a little and began to turn back in the direction of the open front door. I did no such thing, she said, a note of mockery in her voice. If you had any feeling for who you son is, youd know that no one puts Toby up to anything. At this she put her hand on her ex-husbands shoulder again and pushed him in the direction of the hall. Before he backed all the way out, he waved tentatively to Adam and looked earnestly at Toby. Im sorry I havent been here for you, Toby. I want you to know Im praying for you. Orlando felt a pang of sympathy for the man. Toby, apparently, did not. The mention of prayer disgusted him. He looked at his father with that expression of contempt that hed apparently mastered in court. The front door closed then, but Angela went out onto the second floor landing. At first only harsh whispers could be heard through the heavy front door. Then Tobias raised his voice. It was unclear what he was saying to Angela, but his tone was bitter and he was shouting: something about ruination and creating a monster. Then Angela gasped and began to sob again, but this

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sobbing came from a deeper place than outrage and anger, it was a deep, soul-wracked sound that had a soul-wrenching effect on her younger son. With the quickness of a cat, Toby flung the front door open, and seeing his mother in tears, drove his left shoulder directly into his fathers chest, sending him hurdling backwards down the staircase. Toby stood for only a moment looking down contemptuously at Tobias, a fifty-one-year-old man sprawled on the lower landing. Then he turned on his heel and entered the apartments foyer with a smug look of accomplishment on his face. Angela stood there in horror before rushing down to her exhusbands aid. Fortunately for Tobiasif anything could be deemed fortunate for him at this timethe staircase was thickly carpeted and it was only eight steps from landing to landing. When Angela got to him, his face was wracked with pain but he was already trying to get up to see what hurt the most. Apparently it was his back. Angela offered to take him to a hospital or call for an ambulance if he felt he needed it, but nearly in the same breath she pleaded with him not to report this to the authorities. Tobias Wellington saw his ex-wife looked so broken, weak, worn down and utterly defenseless, that despite his morass of conflicting feelings, running from love to outrage to a broken paternal heart, he told her not to worry about that, stood up fully, shook the wrinkles out of his suit, and limped on down the stairs, listing slightly to the left. (He was injured more seriously than he realized at the time, however. Despite back surgery and countless visits to the chiropractor, he continued to suffer lower back pain for the rest of his life, along with a recurring dull ache from a simple fracture of the heart.) The event she had just witnessed was so brazen, so unequivocally conclusive, that Angela felt the last vestige of hope (or perhaps selfdeception) she held for Tobys innocence dissolve. A part of her felt it was still standing there, gaping in disbelief at what shed seen. When she re-entered the apartment, her feelings had become so volcanic that she believed she was having a nervous breakdown: that she was about to collapse onto the floor, tear out clumps of her hair, rend her garments with no regard for her surroundings and weep inconsolably until she died. Fortunately for heragain, as in

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her ex-husbands case, the word hardly applies people who have actual nervous breakdowns dont think in terms either so predictable or theatrical, and what Angela did when she walked back into the house was look at Orlando, wipe the tears from her eyes, shake her head and ask him if hed still go out and get some dinner. It was only a short drive to The Jade Palace from the Wellingtons. It had been at least a year since Orlando had dinner with Parker Blum at Mr. Lees restaurant; his old friend seemed to have disappeared. Orlando hadnt been in by himself since before the trial. Mr. Lee had apologized to Orlando that he hadnt acted more quickly. But you awright now? You call 911 yourself? It took a moment for Orlando to realize that when Mr. Lee was talking about. When Mr. Lee last saw him, Orlando was fleeing in terror from a murder of angry crows, and in answer to Mr. Lees worried cries of Mr. Froyd! Mr. Froyd! Orlando, exhausted and frustrated, had shouted, D-O-O-CTOR! D-O-O-CTOR! back at him. The good gentleman, however, had thought that Orlando needed a doctor and wanted Mr. Lee to call 911. Flustered, Mr. Lee had not. Orlando apologized for the mix-up when he entered the Jade Palace that daythe day the boy accused of pushing his friend out an eighteenth story window had just pushed his father down a flight of the stairs. I am sorry for you trouble, Mr. Froyd, said Mr. Lee after Orlando had sat down by the window. Orlando smiled weakly in acknowledgement of his friends concern, but stared out at the park across the street, where he saw no crows. Not much later then, he took the fragrant brown paper bag from Mr. Lee and nodded goodbye to his friendwithout having created any dialogue bubbles at all. After Orlando returned with the food, Angela told him that while he was gone, Andr had come in the back door, looked around the living room, puffed up like hed seen a ghost and run back out again. Toby was in his room and had asked if he could eat in there. Adam had asked to be excused, and after giving his mother a very considerate and seemingly sincere hug, left the house. Despite the

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madness, Angela hoped the family could all eat together (she considered Orlando family now), but had not an ounce of strength to try to convince anyone of anything. Wisely, as an alternative to a breakdown, Angelas nervous system had ordered a system restart, but in a strictly functional capacity. Angela felt as if she had been administered a large dose of Valium; she walked, talked, and managed her bodily functions admirably, but no more. Her numbed state rubbed off on Orlando by the time theyd finished dinner: he too, like Angela, felt ready for bed, no matter that it was only seven in the evening. As Orlando lay beside Angela in her bedroom and stared at the delicate pattern of cracks in the ceiling, the silence in the house reminded him that since the beginning of the trial, Toby had not listened to a note of Bach. This made him inordinately sad at that moment, and he was thankful that Angela hadnt noticed his tears because he didnt want to break what seemed such heartbreaking news to her. The following things did not take place in the Wellington household during the next days: They did not show slides of family vacations, laugh at the happy memories and tease each other kindly about how much younger they looked and how oddly they dressed. They did not tell knock-knock jokes. They did not play Parcheesi, Sorry or Monopoly tournaments to pass the idle hours until they were punch drunk with drawn cards and rolled dice and unable to remember who had won what. They did not play twenty questions. They did not make cookies, brownies, pies or even Jello. They did not dress up in funny hats and play charades. They did not play Pictionary or Scrabble, or build houses of playing cards. They did not clean out all the closets and charitably pack up all they no longer needed for Goodwill or other worthy organizations. They did not read aloud to one another chapters from the Harry Potter series, scary stories by Edgar Allen Poe or the tales of Rudyard Kipling. They did not root for the Chicago Cubs or the Chicago White Sox. They did not listen to the music of Johann Sebastian Bach. They did not enter Tobys studio where his twelve most recent 3 x 31/2 foot drawings were framed and prepared for his third show at the Cimino Gallery in New York. They did not call grandparents, uncles, aunts, old friends or roommates. They did not do any internet surfing or

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shopping. They did not go out of the house. No one vacuumed, swept or dusted. Those who could, did not shave; she who might have applied make up, did not. No one answered the telephone. No one turned on the radio or the television. No one attempted to play with the cat. They did not speak about anything beyond the physical necessities of life which were few: no one even said Pass the salt, since pointing to the salt took less effort and avoided the risk of sorrowful intonation. No one looked in each others eyes or intentionally touched each other. Nor did they try to console each other. Nor did they laugh. Nor did they shed tears in each others presence. Time passed like water slowly freezing on a lake. In New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Tokyo, Berlin and Madrid, where the largest numbers of Toby Wellingtons drawings were collected, speculation abounded on just how high prices would rise if he were found guilty. In Las Vegas, betting abounded and the odds-makers scrambled as the days and hours passed. It was Thursday. Adam had remained at home after Bob Jacobson called to summon Angela, Toby and Orlando to the courthouse to hear the reading of the verdict. When they arrived home, what passed for a celebration followed. Angela smiled and held Tobys hand high when she told Adam that his brother had been found not guilty Apparently, there hadnt been enough evidence presented to remove reasonable doubt. Angelas smile, however, like Orlandos, was weighted with more than exhaustion Several days before, Orlando had gone out on an ice cream run, but when hed returned with four pints of Hagan Dasz Chocolate, Angela and Toby had become depressed again and didnt want to eat. Now that the verdict was in, Angela brought some of the ice cream out of the freezer and the three of them sat down at the dining room table. But no one said a thing. The ice cream was too hard to scoop from the cartons, and it was only after a frustrating, protracted struggle that Orlando managed to fill three bowls to an acceptable degree. The ice cream, of course, was excellent, but Toby ended up giving most of his to the cat, and neither Angela nor Orlando could come up with any appropriately celebratory things to say. Soon after, Orlando went home to change clothes, Toby went in his room, and Angela sat alone in the kitchen crying before deciding to take a nap.

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As Andr the Cat knew, it was still a while before the Wellingtons home infestation of public negativity dwindled away. And it was only then, about a week after the verdict, that Angela Wellington again applied make-up to her gaunt but still beautiful face and began to relax and even smile a little despite what shed seen and heard. Adam was away again visiting his college roommate in Boston, and perhaps in contact with Tobias too, wherever he may have been at the time. Orlando had gone to New York with Tobys twelve large drawings, since Ms. Cimino was as much a businesswoman as an aficionado and wanted Tobys third show to open as soon after the trial as possible. Despite the cataclysmic upset in his life, Toby remained an artist of the most genuine sort in that he had no regard for his completed work, and thus no desire to travel to New York for his shows opening, despite Ms. Ciminos pleading and a promised opening slot on the David Letterman show. One might be surprised that Toby declined the television appearance, particularly since he had begged to be allowed to appear in the past. But this was no longer the same Toby Wellington. His first request after his innocence was declared was that he be home-schooled. Though it is unlikely that a spirit as tenacious as Tobys can be broken, the malice of public opinion and the sensationalism of the press had penetrated his armor, and the only place he wished to go was the roof. I dont think Ill make much of a teacher, dear, Angela replied to Tobys request. The two were sitting on the kitchen having breakfast. Thats not really what I had in mind, Mom, he answered, pouring himself a second glass of orange juice; a good sign, thought Angela. We can afford a tutor cant we? And I just have to stay in school till Im sixteen and then I can quit, right? No, dear. That might be the letter of the law, but you dont know what you might want to learn as you get older. This is something youre going to have to listen to your mother about. I can look into the possibility of a tutor, though. But it makes me sad that youll be away from your friends. As Angela said this she felt the corners of her mouth turn involuntarily down. Toby looked down at his near empty plate of pancakes. Then up at his mother. She noticed the first traces of heavier growth on his cheeks and chin, but also saw something else in her

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sons face, something that summoned up images of him as a small child. Was it vulnerability? Defeat? Fear? Ive never had any friends, mom, he said. Angela was about to say Sure you have, dear, but having already decided that Toby was too old for such coddling, she restrained herself. Yet still, Angela was not about to abandon her son to such loneliness. Maybe you havent, Toby, but that doesnt mean you wont in the future. This is a good time to look ahead. She was shocked by the look she saw in her sons face then. She clutched the seat of her chair under the table, for it wasnt only sorrow that filled Tobys eyes at that moment, but what seemed a dark wisdom, the gravest of certainties. There was nothing Angela could say to what her son held within himself. She could tell him that she loved him, but she doubted whether hed know what she really meant. She could tell him shed do anything for him, but he already knew that. So she offered him still more orange juice, telling him that after such a stressful time he needed as much vitamin C as he could get, which may or may not have been true, but the truth had become of only slight consequence to Angela Wellington, who slid the pitcher of juice over to where Toby was sitting, poured herself another cup of coffee, walked to the kitchen window that overlooked the buildings gloomy inner court yard and gazed out. She saw Andr descending the back porch stairs from the third floor, and watched as he pushed his cat door open with his glossy black head and walked in. Orlando returned two days after Tobys show opened in New York, and as expected, ten of the twelve works that were for sale sold the night of the opening for astronomical prices, and the first reviews recognized what Orlando and Filomena Cimino already knew about Tobys latest work: that it had qualities never before seen in drawings of any kind, that it bordered on what one critic called the realm of magic in art. What this young artist has accomplished here is unprecedented, the critic went on. When the heretical seventeenth century mystic and engraver, Ambrose of Hollard, speculated that with the ingenious arrangements of lines and shapes alone, things never conceived in Gods

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Domain may be made to appear as if Newly Created before us, he may have had this recent collection of Wellingtons work in mind. For in these large India ink drawings on white board, lines and shapes are arranged with such structural harmony, such musical resonance that static forms appear to move and life seems infused in images by an alchemy of arrangement. It is this critics belief that the slightest deviation from the intricacy of Wellingtons design would render these monumental drawings bland and lifeless. One can scarcely guess at what may come next. As Orlando expected, The Drawing Lesson, received the greatest plaudits. The same critic declared that The Drawing Lesson was the first true masterpiece of the new century. That Orlando himself was depicted in this masterpiece as a veritable Drawing Master flattered him more than a little. Yet the mixed messages of these weeks had a disturbing effect on thirteen-year-old Toby Wellington. After he had appealed to his mother for home schooling, she found him even more withdrawn and unwilling to disclose anything about his inner life than before. Yet even after hearing Angelas report on Tobys state of mind, we probably cant imagine Orlandos stunned delight when he arrived exhausted and worried from New York, because hed hardly come through the door when Toby approached and asked if he could arrange for six more 3 x 31/2 foot mounted white drawing boards to be delivered to the apartment. Orlando Floyd was elated as he drove downtown to the School of Fine Arts. He knew his colleagues on the faculty there would be elated as well when they learned that hed asked old Mr. Janus, known affectionately for decades at the school as the Canvass Master, to fabricate Tobys drawing surfaces out of the finest and most durable materials available. Orlando decided it would be premature to call Filomena Cimino at her gallery before hed seen Tobys new work, but she too would have been elated at his decision to begin to draw again. The elation of all these individuals, however, including Angela Wellington who felt a relief only a

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mother can appreciate, would have been subdued or even stifled had they known what Andr the Cat knew at the time. We know that it had been painfully clear to everyone close to Toby that the trial and the attendant publicity had taken its toll on him. Andr, of course, unlike the humans in Tobys very limited circle, knew exactly what form the boys problems were taking during that period, since hed taken it upon himself to hunt down and destroy the unrelenting psychic manifestations of those troubles. As we also know, he was as successful as one cat could be in his defense of Toby and his family. Cats ordinarily live in the present and dont dilute their awareness in anticipation of the future, a quality to which evolving humans aspire. Andr, however, beginning to develop qualities above and beyond those of the standard feline, became an exception to this rule and hoped that once Toby was rid of the bottom-feeders that infested his aura, he would be on the road to psychological recovery. The development of such compassion in a cat may have been unprecedented in feline history, but the assumption Andr made couldnt have been further from the truth. Toby remained in his studio; he even slept there as old Mr. Janus worked through the night to prepare the drawing boards for the brilliant young artist The smooth, lustrously white boards, mounted and backed by braced aluminum frames were delivered from the Museum School the next morning. Orlando had come in one of the schools vans along with a young staff member who carried the boards into Tobys studio; clear north light streaming through its high windows. But once everything was in place, Toby asked if Orlando and the young man could do one more thing for him. He asked if they could also bring the stereo from the living room into the studio. The boy didnt ask his mothers permission, but he knew shed never object. Once the furniture in the studio was rearranged and the speakers positioned on either side of Tobys work space, he closed the door without a word. Andr was not in the room. One might suppose that Tobys ability to faithfully recreate music in his mind might supplant his need to actually listen to it, but apparently his inner broadcast system was disabled when he drew, because soon after he shut his door and set pen to paper, the

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Gloria of the B Minor Mass burst through the walls of his room with all its trumpets and glory. Gloria in excelsis Deo. Glory to God in the highest, the words rang out with the brilliance and joy of Bach and his most exuberant and powerful. The apartment shook and continued to shake as the Gloria, a substantial section of the Mass that begins and ends with a bang, was repeated again and again and again. This was a Friday morning. Not only had Toby never worked to music before, but this was the first time in years when hed worked in his studio at home. He had started at ten in the morning, and by three in the afternoon, the thirty-five minute Gloria had repeated nine times. Although there are quiet, more serene passages for soloists within the Gloria,like et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis, and on earth peace and to men goodwillthe overall effect at such high volume drove Angela out of the house at one oclock. Orlando accompanied her out and to her car. She needed to go for a drive, but Orlando felt he should stay in the apartment, despite his headache. It was when he got back upstairs that it occurred to him that Toby might be transcribing the music, somehow drawing it out on paper or that something equally extraordinary was taking place. Soon after this, the music stopped abruptly, in mid phrase. No sound came from the studio. After fifteen minutes of silence, Orlando began to be concerned, but at the same time, the two Tylenols with codeine hed taken for his throbbing head kicked in and the very idea of concern left with his pain. A little later, he heard Toby taking a few steps, stopping, taking a few steps and stopping again. After only five hours of work, Orlando assumed that only a portion or a stage of the entire drawing which had been complete, but he knew Toby was stepping away and assessing things. When Orlando went into the kitchen to make himself some coffee, he heard Tobys studio door close, but was surprised when the boy appeared in the kitchen. Orlando kept his eyes on his coffee makingAngela bought pre-ground coffee, but Orlando was still scrupulous in his preparation techniqueand Toby, his parka on, walked past him without a word, went out the back door, up the stairs and then up to the roof. No one had observed Toby gaining access to the roof before, and when Orlando saw that in pulling himself up, Toby hung by his hands alone three

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stories above the pavement of the buildings inner court, he quaked at the thought of telling Angela about itsomething he might have avoided several years before, but was now honor-bound, or perhaps more aptly, love-bound to do. At dinnertime Toby came down, ate a hamburger with Angela and Orlando and went to his room, Andr at his heels. Although he thanked his mother for dinner, Toby acknowledged neither Angela nor Orlando in any other way. It seemed clear to them both that he was in some sort of creative trance, though there was something disquieting about his look, something that prompted one to turn away. That evening Orlando told Angela about Tobys risky maneuver at the top of the back porch. She didnt react as Orlando expected, however; perhaps, he thought, she was becoming inured to bad news. She did say something about asking Mr. Nicos to install a ladder, a suggestion that would probably not go over well with the buildings owner and insurance company, but she left it at that. The two fell asleep on the sofa watching a movie. On Saturday morning at ten it all began again. Again it was the Gloria, Glory to God in the highest with its trumpets and driving strings; again the volume was high, but things were different in the Wellingtons apartment building on weekends: neighbors were home. The Wellingtons former downstairs neighbors, the Lamberts, had moved to Arizona several years earlier and had been replaced by a crotchety couple, named Blunt, who lived in the eight room apartment so their three children away at college would have their own rooms to come home to. These people had never cared for the Wellingtons, had been scandalized by the trial, and only moments after Bachs glorification of God blasted down through their ceiling, both Mr. and Mrs. Blunt were pounding on Angelas front door demanding that the music be turned down. This was not an unreasonable request. But though her words could hardly be heard over the glorification, Angela refused. Perhaps it was her first chance to fight back after the emotional pummeling at the trial, but she was uncharacteristically defiant. A portion of the considerable wealth that Tobys drawings had brought him was earmarked for creating and sustaining his working environment, and with only a few words exchanged with Angela (and an unprecedented wink), Orlando Floyd asked the outraged Blunts if he could speak to them downstairs in their

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apartmentit would have been impossible to speak to them in the Wellingtons apartment without competing with Bach, who certainly had more important things to say. In any case, Orlando believed that he could offer his solution to the problem more effectively in the Blunts own space. Fifteen minutes laterduring the Cum Sancto Spiritu, Together with the Holy Ghost, in the glory of God the Father, Amen, the stirring conclusion of the Gloria, with trumpets abounding againhe came back upstairs, winked at Angela for the second time in their years together, hugged her, led her out to the back porch and described the all-expensespaid week-end arrangements he had made for the Blunts in one of the citys finest hotels. This, if the music were to continue blasting from Tobys studio for the next two days. Orlando hoped it would and it did. Orlando and Angela knew the family that lived upstairs would present less of a problem, if any. These people, Mr. and Mrs. Brooks and their two children, had always been friendly with Angela, and as art lovers themselves, showed reverence for Toby, yet Angela agreed with Orlando that if it was necessary to buy them off like the Blunts, they wouldnt hesitate. They didnt seem to be home at the time, however, and just as on the day before, the Gloria continued to resound through the Wellingtons apartment and beyond as the Blunts headed downtown to their suite in the Hilton. Toby worked in his studio for five hours just as hed done the day before. When he finished, he headed out the back door, again, just as the day before. As his teacher, Orlando made it a point never to interrupt Tobys concentration, even after hed finished working. But no such protocol applied to mothers, so Angela stopped him in the kitchen before he went out. She wanted to broach the problem of hanging three stories above the concrete without a net, something that had begun to worry her. She also wondered how he was feeling, but his look showed such impenetrable focus that she backed off and could say nothing more than Be careful, dear, as he went out the back door. Angela had to force herself to stay by the window and watch him climb up the roof, and once hed completed the maneuver, she felt certain hed one day fall to his death. But people can be certain about most anything.

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Moments after Toby climbed up to the roof and sat down in his accustomed spot, Andr joined him and leapt up onto his lap, purring. Toby had found that Andr purred more powerfully on the roof than in the apartment, and it was Andrs purr that Toby sought whenever he had the chance. It seemed so long ago that Toby first found he could achieve catness, but the older boy still thought of his communion with Andr that way and appreciated it no less. In fact, Toby felt it was Andrs purr alone that made it possible for him to carry the weight that bore down on him more onerously every dayand Andr always cooperated.. Youre my first and best friend, Toby said to him that cloudy March day on the roof, just as hed said to him a number of times recently. Then he bent over, put his head down so he could rub his forehead against Andrs, something hed seen cats do with each other, and which he believed was a sign of affection. Andrs purr increased in intensity at this and Toby closed his eyes and smiled, just a little. Meanwhile, something sadly ill-advised was taking place directly below Toby and his cat. Orlando Floyd was about to buckle under the pressure of his hopes and concerns. He believed that Toby had worked long enough to at least come close to finishing one of his new 36 x 42 inch drawings. In the past hed had glimpses of Tobys works in progress. All this work, of course, had been done in the large studio-classroom at the School of Fine Arts, a public room in which Orlando had business to attend to unconnected with Toby and his art. Here at Tobys home, the situation was different. Toby had closed the door to his studio, and this act had meaning, a definitive one. So when Orlando opened the door to Tobys studio, he knew he was violating a trust. He felt something sink in the pit of his stomach and a flush behind his ears; the way hed felt in the past when hed hidden the truth from Angelabut still, he couldnt resist a peek. Hed only open the door a crack. And thats all it took. In that moment, Orlando saw what looked like nothing hed seen before, something so dense it was nearly black, something very disturbing and somehow even monstrous. He knew that the angle from which he glimpsed the large piece compressed it onto a tighter mass than when viewed properly, but as he immediately closed the door and stepped away, ashamed of what hed done, he couldnt shake the impression that

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what hed seen, whatever it was, was the work of a deeply disturbed. Orlando was stricken. His hopes were dashed. But he vowed not to say a word to Angelaat least not until shed seen it herself. Once Orlando Floyd had glimpsed Tobys work in progress, his attitude toward the boy, and even his own life, changed for the worse. As he sat in the Wellingtons living room with the Gloria from the B Minor Mass shaking the very air around him to its atomic nuclei, two short sections of the piece, the only two of the nine parts of the Gloria with somber meanings and tonalities, seemed to dominate the music to the exclusion of all its exultation, serenity and joy. The words pecatti mundi, the sin of the world , seemed particularly pointed to Orlando, and ominously portentous. This was on Sunday, the second day of the Blunts stay at the Hilton (that same Hilton across from the Art Institute where Orlando and Angela had shaken the air with their own exultation until they moved their lovemaking north to their respective apartments), and the Brooks family was either still away or had suffered stereophonic brain damage and were rendered unable to protest. Orlandos darker outlook on life was exacerbated by his own feelings of guilt and disloyalty, and after betraying the boy, he was so ashamed that he looked at him like a frightened, beaten dog. Its unclear how Toby reacted to this change in Orlando, though its doubtful that it cheered him up. Of course Orlandos weakness of character and his foreboding glimpse had no effect on Tobys work. He continued to toil away at whatever he was making through Sunday and on into the next week. When he wasnt in his studio with the same music blasting, he was on the roof with his cat, despite the weather, or in his bedroom, also with his cat. He asked to take his meals alone in his room, and these, Angela concluded, he shared with Andr since the cat didnt touch the food in his bowl. On the occasions when Angela and Orlando saw Toby, any suspicions they might have had about his troubled state of mind were confirmed. The boy maintained his look of intense focus combined with a most profound sorrow. Though Angela knew nothing of Orlandos indiscretion, she too had the sense that her son was creating something behind closed doors that would shake her to the roots.

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Once Id fulfilled my role as predator and rid the Wellingtons abode of its vermin, I had looked forward to living among humans with comparatively unburdened psyches. My expectations were incorrect. Those embodiments of human prejudice, envy, and spite that plagued Toby Wellington by attaching themselves so tenaciously to his aura proved to be masking another condition, one I was less prepared to combat. For once I had finally dismembered the last of these petty demons, I saw that the natural brightness of Tobys emanations had been partially occluded by a hovering darkness that he himself was generating. Indications of his natural brilliance and vigor pulsed and flashed through this encumbrance; nothing in the boys nature had been changed, but something pernicious had arisen around it. When I had observed that this condition was more than transitory, a new, unwanted sensation gripped my midsection. Whenever I came into Tobys presence, I felt this to one degree or another. Most often I felt it only slightly, but enough to convince me that just as this darkness engulfed him, this new sensitivity to it had taken hold of me. I did not feel any less empowered by this unique sensation, this ache; if anything, I felt more responsive, more eager to come to his aid because of it. And whenever he came into my presence, I devoted all the power of my purr to the dispersion of this darkness. Unfortunately, my efforts to counteract a force so deeply rooted in him were only temporally successful and only to a shallow degree.

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ANYTHINGS POSSIBLE

Eventually, all waiting comes to an end, except perhaps the wait for the end of time. Nevertheless, in Orlandos anxious state, waiting to see Tobys new drawing seemed endless enough, and during those several long days, he appeared to have aged as rapidly as Angela had during the trial. But the waiting period ended undramatically as such things often do. It was a Thursday, a week after Toby had begun to work with Bachs accompaniment, when Orlando noticed that Tobys studio door was wide open and the door to his bedroom was as well. Reluctant, even a little frightened to see what was in the studio, Orlando went to Tobys bedroom first and looked in. There, he saw Toby stretched out full length on his bed, face down, dead asleep, with Andr purring away on the pillow next to his head. Orlando knew that whenever Toby wished to be undisturbed he closed doors behind him, so he steeled himself as he could and strode into the bright studio to see what the troubled young genius had wrought. At the first sight of the dark jumble of lines on the 36

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x 42 inch board, Orlando moaned in a way one might expect from a mortally wounded man. There was not only disappointment but pain in the utterance, as if his hopes had nerve endings that had been seared by fire. But in the time it took him to take a few steps into the room, things changed. Decidedly. Oh, my God! he exclaimed. What is this? Angelas timing was perfect. Having left the apartment to get away from the blasting Bach, she opened the front door just as Orlando exclaimed What is this? and came rushing into the studio to see what it actually was. When she first glanced at Tobys creation from the doorwayat that same oblique angle from which Orlando had seen it in his surreptitious peekshe moaned as mournfully and as briefly as had Orlando, but then, in a cadence slightly different than Orlandos, she cried: Oh! Good Lord! Look at that! Do you see it? Orlando cried. Those Those eyes? What Orlando Floyd beheld in front of him was the head of Apollo, a magnificent god, whose face shown and whose eyes flashed with such power and illumination that Orlando nearly flinched under his gaze. Yet all this appeared to leap forward at Orlando from a surface that initially appeared to be no more than a dense compression of swirling lines, like an immense thumbprint with no discernable shapes within it. The jumble of lines, of course, were Wellington lines, each distinctive and elegant in itself, but when first seen, and particularly from the angle at which both Orlando and Angela had first seen it, appeared to be no more than a dark cloud of dismal import. But something was wrong. Angela was looking at Orlando, perplexed. What eyes? she asked. Apollos, he replied, incredulous. Or whomevers. Maybe its God with a capital G. Angela stood back a little from the great, massive thumbprintGods thumbprint, as one observer would sayNo, she said. Her eyes really arent showingtheyre mostly covered by her hair, but she may be the most beautiful woman Ive seen. With maybe the exception of Botticellis Venus, but maybe not. I had no idea Toby could draw such an exquisite nude. I Im just so moved by it I And at this Angela Wellington actually wept; she wept because the beauty of the figure that stood out alive

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among those dark swirls of lines touched everything beautiful in her; and that this wonder had been somehow created by her deeply troubled son moved her even further. The following phrases and others like them rang out and were frequently repeated in the animated discussion that followed. You mean you cant see that? You mean you dont see her head, her beautiful body? Hows that possible? Its right there! I have no idea what youre talking about! How can I possibly make it clearer: theres her head! I just dont see it! I wonder what he sees? Do you thinkmaybe? This scares me a little. My God! I wonder if theres more?

The five other drawing boards that Toby had ordered were leaning, pristinely white, against the wall, and Toby himself still slept soundly in his room. Orlando and Angela left the studio several times, both to check on Toby and to re-enter to see if their visions evoked by Tobys drawing would change and on the chance that theyd be able to see what the other had seen. But nothing changed. Toby showed no signs of stirring and Orlandos head of Apollo, the Greek God of the Sun, Music, Poetry and more, continued to gaze out at him, just as Angelas Goddessperhaps Aphroditethe Greek Goddess of Love and Beauty, stayed sumptuously where she was and oversaw her own realm. No matter how she strained and refocused her eyes, Angela could see only the vaguest hints of the face Orlando saw; and as much as he wished to, Orlando saw no naked Goddess with flowing hair. But as the two of them studied the astonishing drawing, if a drawing is what it should properly be called, a little more did become clear to them, however. As Orlando studied the radiant face of Apollo, the background behind itthe remainder of the massive thumbprinttook on a sinuous, flowing pattern he had not seen at first. This pattern, he told Angela, mirrored the lines of the face,

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just as the disparate elements of all Tobys compositions reflected each other in congruity and resonance. This pattern depicted nothing, however, although it supported the face of the god in a way as innate as if it had been created by nature. Angelas studied impression was similar. Once the image of Aphrodite was fixed in her mind, the Goddess appeared to be floating or levitating on a field of sinuous lines that reflected the lines of her body and hair in a way so perfectly organic that it looked as if she had grown there. And in her vision as well, nothing was depicted in this background, though to Angela, it seemed to show the atmosphere of paradise. Soon Angela and Orlando had begun to speak excitedly of bringing others into the studio to discover if anyone else saw what they saw so clearly standing out from those swirling lines. Orlando planned to call colleagues from the Museum School. Angelas plan was simpler: she had heard the Brooks family troop upstairs a little earlier, and she hoped to bring the entire family down for a viewing. It speaks well of the two of them that they didnt come up with some pretense for waking Toby. Theyd been pacing the living room floor in excitement and chattering for over an hour before he walked out of his bedroom and looked at them groggily. Would you like some coffee, Toby? Angela asked. I can make it nice and sweet so youll like it, and then we can talk about that stupendous thing youve made. Okay? Whenever Toby had just awakened, Angela found him as approachable as when he was still a toddler. Approachable and responsive. Sure, mom, the tall, handsome boy answered docilely, following her into the kitchen. Angela started the coffee. It didnt take long at all to brew, but she couldnt wait. Orlando and I both looked at your new drawing and we each saw different things, dear, different beautiful things. Angela detected the beginnings of a smile on her sons face. Then she described what theyd seen. Toby nodded. Well? she asked, taking advantage of her years of experience with her son: those times when she nursed him, carried him, picked him up when he fell, rocked him to sleep, took him by the hand to the zoo and to

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pre-school. Talk to me, Toby, she said. Tell me what it means. Tell me what you see. Can I have the coffee first? It wakes you up, right? Minutes later, Toby held the warm mug of creamy, sugary coffee between his hands. Angela had never asked him a question like that before. Orlando wasnt in the room. She said it again. Talk to me, Toby. Tell me what you see. I started off meaning to draw the music. Because I can do that. Mom? Do you believe in reincarnation? I havent thought that much about it, dear. I suppose its possible. Do you believe in it? I think so. Because when I was drawing that music, it felt like I remembered writing itthe music, I mean. I dont remember being another person or anything like that. Only the music. I remember being that. So I just drew it. And after a while I started seeing faces and even figures in what I was drawing, but I knew that if I paid any attention to them, I couldnt draw exactly what I heard, or what Id written, or whatever. So I forgot about them even though they were staring out at me, and I just kept doing it until I was finished. Toby took his first sip of coffee. But once you were finished, did you still see all the faces and figures? Uh huh. Some of the same ones and some different ones. Toby took another sip. But mom, he said. I dont know if I can do any more. The other five, I mean. Everything seems too hard. Everything? Toby nodded. Everything about your life? He nodded again. Sweetheart, Angela said, I wish I could help, but you know, when things are too much for me and people tell me what I should do to make them better, it just gets me mad. But what do you do? This conversation was unprecedented. Angela could scarcely believe her son had asked her advice. Shed just lied to him to put him at ease, saying that people offering her advice made her mad. That wasnt true. But now she was moved. What I do, Toby? she replied I try to imagine things I love. Not try to fix thingsthats importantjust try to find things

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that I love, little thingsand just have them. It usually helps a little. Sometimes a lot. Sometimes I imagine I have all the roses I want, but roses without thorns, and that I have them on my bed, hundreds and hundreds of them, and the fragrance is so beautiful it overwhelms me. I usually make them all red; Ive tried different colors a few times but it didnt work as well as deep, deep red. I just have them. You might want to try that with Bachor with cats, maybe. Just have all the cats a boy could ever want, black cats that love you, all of them. Toby looked at his mother with a smile that captured sadness and something elseit might have been love, Angela couldnt be sure; nor could she be sure if what her son felt was for her alone or something beyond her understanding. What is it, dear? she asked, though she didnt expect him to answer and he didnt. It was a little later, after Toby finished his coffee, that she asked him if she and Orlando could invite others over to see his picture, and he told her she could do whatever she wanted with it, that he didnt want to look at it or think about it anymore. The initial tests that Orlando and Angela conducted had somewhat surprising results. Angela invited the Brooks family downstairs and first escorted Jennifer Brooks into Tobys studio while rest of the the family waited in the living room. Jennifer was a younger woman with whom Angela felt comfortable. Orlando sat quietly in a chair in the corner. Jennifer Brooks seemed a little awestruck at the invitation into the famous prodigys inner sanctum, but when she first laid eyes on Tobys creation, she turned to Angela, perplexed. I dont But she didnt get to the word understand before she did understand. She gasped politely, covering her mouth with her hand. Oh, my! she said. What is it Jennifer? Angela asked. What do you see? Jennifer Brooks again looked perplexed; not at Tobys work, but at Angelas odd question. Still, Angela looked at her quizzically. I I think its the Virgin Mary, Angelas neighbor answered, a little shyly. I didnt realize Toby was religious, but

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this this is just magnificent, and shes so serene. This is such a beautiful thing, Angela. Im a Christian, but not really a religious woman, but this Ive never seen anything quite like it. The way it just comes out of, of nowhere. This is inspiring. Dont you think so? Oh, I do, Jenn. I do, Angela answered. And Id like to see what Phil thinks. Jennifer looked at Angela a little dubiously. Im afraid Phils not religious at all. But he loves fine art, so sure. Angela asked Jennifer to stay put while she brought Phillip Brooks into the studio. Hed been drinking Angelas excellent ice tea, which shed brought into the living room on a tray. When her husband entered, Jennifer was looking rapt at the sacred image before her. Whoa! Phillip Brooks said as soon as he saw the drawing. Toby drew that? Now both Angela and Jennifer looked surprised. Isnt that a little, uhold for Toby? Phillip asked. I just hadnt seen him do any nudes before. But thats just shes just gorgeous. What? asked his wife, indignant. Its the Holy Virgin! Not like Ive ever seen her! If thats the Holy Virgin, I wouldve stayed in church! Here Angela felt it was best to intervene. She explained that she and Orlando had also had different reactions to the drawing. Apparently, Phillip Brooks had seen a figure quite similar to Angelas vision of Aphrodite. The nude that he saw was centered in the drawing in the same place as Angelas goddess, and differed only in the position of her head and hair. Phillip was quick to explain that it was not a lascivious nude, but an elegant one with a radiant smile and flowing hair, though her hair didnt cover her face or any of her elegant body as with Angelas Aphrodite. Phillip was a professor of philosophy. He called it a secular nude. Jennifer Brooks was glaring at her husband. Before any further opportunities were lost in a family spat, Angela asked the Brooks if they thought it would be appropriate for their daughters, ten and seven years old, to look at Tobys drawing and tell them all what they saw, if anything. Still annoyed with her husband, Jennifer agreed, apparently believing that her daughters with their unsullied minds would not be gawking at any secular nude,

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which, in her husbands eyes, she believed, may have as well have been a Playboy centerfold. Apparently, their marriage had recently hit a rocky spot. Phillip Brooks looked a little edgy as he waited for his wife to return with the girls. Jennifer brought them into the studio at the same timeDora, ten, and Dawn, sevenand there couldnt have been more of a contrast in their reactions: Dora stared blankly at the dark jumble of swirling lines and said, Huh? But Doras Huh? was drowned out by her younger sisters cryor was it that a yowl? The little girl looked like shed mistakenly pulled open a drawer at a morgue. When her face was finally pried away from her mothers protective embrace, she described an apparition that many church-going seven-year-olds would have identified as Satan; though it may not have been The Great Adversary himself: the leering visage with horns might have been more correctly identified as the lusty, Old World god, Pan. In any case, whether the horned boogey was a fiend or a god, he gave the child a substantial enough scare to cause her to dampen her little undies. Dawn was not forthcoming with many details about what she saw, but from what Orlando could gather, her vision among the dark swirls of Tobys pen was located approximately if not precisely where Orlando had seen his own glorious vision of Apollo. It was unfortunate that the Brooks family left in disarray when theyd so graciously come downstairs to view a newly created work of art. A little later, Angela brought a plate of cookies upstairs for the girls as a peace offering, but Jennifer Brooks told her somewhat frostily that she was trying to get Dawn to calm down enough for a nap and that sugar turned Dona into a holy terror. She did accept the cookies, though, but smiled a smile that made it clear that once the plate was returned, Angela shouldnt expect to see her soon. Uncharacteristically, or perhaps not at this point in her life, Angela Wellington felt no remorse at all. Orlando invited three people to come to the apartment late that afternoon after they finished work: two faculty members, one, the most esteemed of his colleagues; the second, a young man from New York, recently hired; and the third, Theresa Gomez, a woman who cleaned the classrooms and offices, whom Orlando had

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befriended years earlier and considered the most sensible person on the premises. The three arrived in the aforementioned order. Since Toby wasnt anywhere about to witness the comings and goings, Orlando assumed he was on the roof with Andr. The seventy-five-year-old professor of painting, Timothy Bacon, had been the schools greatest advocate of Tobys work save Orlando. He came to the door of the Wellingtons apartment excitedly, his blue eyes keen and clear and his full head of snowy hair radiant. Typically, his manners were courtly, but he showed no interest in small talk and asked to be shown the new drawing immediately. By that time, Orlando knew what kind of reaction to expect when people first approached Tobys latest creation. Like the others adults, Professor Bacon stood looking both befuddled and disappointed for several seconds until it seemed the sun rose behind his blue eyes. He looked at Orlando, astonished, then back at the drawing. Perhaps it was his great eye, his true connoisseurship or the wisdom of his advanced age that kept him silent as he absorbed the image that seemed to move him so. Several minutes passed before Orlando felt it appropriate to break the old professors concentration. Timothy, he said, weve found that different people see different things in this picture... Angela sat on the loveseat looking eager for still another reaction to her sons newest achievementor feat, perhaps. Professor Bacon didnt appear to be at all surprised. Ive always suspected this could be accomplished, he said. What I see is very simple. It is the modest facethe head and shoulders, actually, of a beautiful young boy, or it may be a girl. It is perfectly ambiguous. The face is innocent, yet theres a shade of sorrow to itnot enough to cloud it, but enough to make me feel it hides a secret. Not with a secret smile like Mona Lisa. No, with a secret longing, which to me is just as compelling. He put his hand to his heart and looked purposefully first at Angela and the Orlando. And despite this this arcane complexity of the surface, it gives the appearance of the most simply conceived of all of the boys compositions. I dont see any of the brilliant trickery, the ingeniously created effects of reflection,

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repetition and sequence here, even though this is surface this map this this riddle is trickery elevated to the realm of magic. The professor looked at Angela alone now, with calm eyes and a fatherly smile. I suppose everyone will see some part of themselves in this, he said, nodding at the drawing. But I promise you, Mrs. Wellington, the gift of this creation will last far longer and penetrate far deeper into the soul of humanity than the popular frenzy that has tormented you and your son. Then he sat down next to Angela on the loveseat, took her hand and asker her and Orlando to tell him what the others had seen so far. Quite soon, the fabric designer from New York arrived, and after Orlando introduced him to Angela, they all watched his reaction to Tobys drawing unfold in the predictable sequence. The exceedingly well-dressed young man looked confused and disappointed at first glance at the seeming jumble of lines and then astonishedbut in his case, not happily so. He was disturbed by what he saw, so much so that in deference to Angela, he was reluctant to tell then what it was. But eventually, he described what he called a looming, warlike visage with streaming hair and sharp features that brought to mind an angel of destructionan Exterminating Angel, as he put it. It was a face of retribution, of malice. The young man explained he was both drawn to it and repelled by it. Though chilling, he said, it was exquisite. Orlando wondered if the trendy young designer had been looking at too much fantasy fiction bookcover-art. Once the designer fully described this deeply distressing imageone that no one else was able to see, of coursea discussion began among the four in the studio about the wondrous nature of what was propped up there on that drawing board in front of them all. They agreed with Professor Bacon that theyd believed such a thing was theoretically possible, and they were still expressing their amazement that it had actually come to pass, when the doorbell rang again and Orlando escorted Theresa Gomez into the room. Theresa knew everyone except the young man from New York, but before she was introduced, she took one look at the large drawing, dropped to her knees, crossed herself repeatedly. Once, she finally began to speak English, said that the Virgin Mary herself

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was floating just above the surface of the drawing, and she thanked the Almighty for bringing her into a room with the Mother of His Son. She went on to tearfully thank the Virgin for her blessing. It was a few minutes after that, when Theresa had calmed down, that Angela and Orlando heard the back door open and close. Then they heard Tobys footsteps lead to his bedroom, where he closed the door, only to open it soon thereafter to let Andr in before closing it again. Orlando, Angela, Timothy Bacon, Theresa Gomez and the young man from New York looked at one another in silence for a moment then. Though each clung to his or her own tastes and beliefs, in a rare moment of companionship, the four more sophisticated art lovers looked to Theresa in acknowledgement, for it seemed to all of them that it was her reaction to Tobys extraordinary drawing that most completely expressed what they truly felt. It was the next day that Orlando and Angela first discussed the diverse reactions to the drawing with Toby, who still remained detached, reasserting that he was finished with the drawing and didnt care what anyone thought or what became of it. As disquieting as this was to his mother and teacher, they tried to keep the conversation upbeat. Actually, Toby, Orlando said, youre not quite finished with this picture. You havent named it. Toby shrugged. Call it anything, he said. Angela laughed. Anything? Thats a peculiar name. Dont you think it deserves a little better? Though Angela was doing her best, there was such a sense of defeat in Tobys demeanor that she could hardly keep smiling. Anything? Orlando repeated. Why not call it Everything or Anythings Possible? Wouldnt that be better? What do you think, Toby? he asked, trying to refrain from sighing as he suggested this. Anythings Possible, Toby said flatly. Thatll be fine. Neither Orlando nor Angela was thrilled with the title; it seemed a little flip to them both, but they didnt want to approach Toby about it again. He left the room without saying a thing.

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One month later, Tobys drawing was installed alone in a small gallery at the Art Institute with a purple velvet rope in front of it and a museum guard by its side. People stood in line. They came from all over the country, and as the news spread, from all over the world. It was bigger than the museums King Tut exhibit, bigger than the Monet exhibit, bigger than the Picasso exhibit, much bigger. It was a showing of another order entirely. The line backed up out of the gallery, out through the museums front entrance, down the broad steps flanked by the two lions and off several blocks down Michigan Avenue. Due to the controversial nature of the drawing and its creator, however, several skirmishes broke out in the line and on the Museum steps. To maintain order, Chicago police were called in to support the Museums security force, though other than a few black eyes, scraped knuckles and cases of bruised self-righteousness, the public maintained appropriate decorum. The reaction to Anythings Possible at the museum downtown was much the same as it had been at Tobys studio at home, but on a grand scale. People were awestruck, moved to tears, some felt inspired, some felt blessed, some claimed their lives had been changedand as we shall see, the bounty of this visual wonder would soon be shared world wide, even for the least fortunate. Among Tobys acquaintances, Anton Vanic visited the gallery; as did Chase and Hope Freeling; the timid Ms. Pincil, the art teacher at Tobys private school; Mr. Jacobson, of course; Ms. Bristlemeyer, the hawk-faced prosecutor; Mr. Lee, whom Toby had met on several occasions; Officer Potkowski, who came to see what all the fuss was about, and even the Blunts, the Wellingtons crotchety downstairs neighbors. The Wellingtons former janitor, pious man that he was, crossed himself in the presence of the picture; the Freelings wept; Ms. Pincil looked decidedly frightened. Bob Jacobson put his hand over his heart; Ms. Bristlemeyer squinted; Mr. Lee grinned broadly; Officer Potkowski left wondering what all the fuss was about; and the Blunts decided that theyd best pay their upstairs neighbors a visit. Tobias Wellington Senior was conspicuous in his absence; he

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dearly wished to visit the museum, but the condition of his back made travel next to impossible. Alex and Ellen Sharp did not attend the showing, nor did the doorman on duty when Damien died. Adam was in town just after the picture was installed. Angela wanted to be with him when he saw it, and he was glad that she accompanied him. He seemed frightened at first by what he saw and didnt want to tell his mother what it was. Of course, hed heard all the stories of inspiration and awe. Maybe he was embarrassed, maybe worried about his mothers feelings, maybe even his brothers, but Adam saw his fathers face in Anythings Possible. He finally told Angela but made her promise not to tell Toby. Angela was touched by this; she thought this was sweet. She also thought it was sweet that the face Adam saw was smiling benevolently at his son. All three of Orlandos old friends came to the showing. All three, as a matter of fact, asked Orlando to accompany them. Orlando was happy to do this, particularly with Parker Blum, who had only just returned from a year-long pilgrimage to Nepal. He was dressed in monks robes, and did seem particularly patient, considerate and non-judgmental under the recent Buddhist influence. It should go without saying what great being he saw when he looked at Anythings Possible. Olivia Piper called Orlando and asked to have coffee with him before viewing the drawing. She didnt bring him a gift, but while sipping coffee at the Bohemian Caf admitted that indeed shed had a crush on Orlando for over twenty years. This, however, did not prepare Orlando for the shock of hearing that it was his own face that Olivia saw in Tobys wonder-work. Glen Steinberg, whom Orlando had reconnected with only recently, seemed most deeply moved of the three old friends. He wept at what he saw, explaining to Orlando that it was too personal to reveal, but that he planned to visit the drawing often again. Orlando knew, however, that Glens parents had recently died within two months of each other. After he said goodbye to Glen out on the museum steps, Orlando felt perhaps the strongest surge of pride yet for his studentor was Toby his teacher? Or just his friend? The newspapers, magazines, television news magazines and talk shows, of course, were brimming with news about the

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wondrous picture. The results of a number of polls were published. One taken by a national press association in conjunction with a major network yielded the following results.

Among the children 5-12 who saw an image 35% saw disturbing images 65% saw amusing or uplifting images Among children 13-17 who saw an image 8% saw disturbing images 92% saw amusing or uplifting images Among adults 36% saw uplifting images of a religious nature 26% saw uplifting images of a mythic nature 11% saw uplifting images of a sensual nature 9% saw uplifting images of a personal nature 4% saw uplifting images they considered amusing 2% saw uplifting images of themselves 12% saw disturbing images (satanic, ghoulish or warlike) Among the 1,700 Adults interviewed 68% said their opinion of Toby Wellington improved after seeing this picture 21% said their opinion of Toby Wellington worsened 11% said their opinion of him was unchanged Among the adults interviewed who had believed Toby Wellington was innocent of murder 94% still believed he was innocent after seeing the picture 6% now believed he was guilty Among the adults interviewed who had believed Toby Wellington was guilty of murder, 59% still believed he was guilty after seeing the picture, But 41 % now believed he was innocent!

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Clearly, the results of this poll suggest that not only did the images generated by his drawing do well in the eye of the public, but that Tobys image had also greatly improved.. But whereas image may be everything when it comes to art, when the life of a human psyche is involved, image may be The Great Deceiver, perhaps even The Great Adversary, for Toby Wellington had not improved; his state of mind had become far more critical than anyone other than Andr and Akbar imagined.

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A PEACEABLE KINGDOM

In this world triumph is always accompanied by tragedy, Akbar said to me on the night of the Summer Solstice. But theres a fundamental difference between the two. They may be opposites, but triumph tastes more of the wholeness of reality than does tragedy. Darkness is the absence of light; cold the lack of warmth. The sun is always shining; it is only we in this world who turn away. And whereas we may all share in this triumph, we neednt all share in its opposite. We were on the roof together, Akbar and I. Toby Wellington was with us as well, though he could not take part in our conversation, something that both the crow and I chose to regret, as Akbar put it. Akbars followers were in a scattered group a little way off to our right. I saw that Veritas was closest to us among them. The night sky was covered in a dense layer of clouds. When wed only just met, Akbar said to me, I told you how the drawings Toby Wellington created were root systems of

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radiant of multi-dimensional organisms; that they were the means of nourishment for a form alive in the more rarefied planes of our world, and that in creating these drawings he was doing far more than creating great art. For all great art anchors archetypes: those models of perfection to which all humans aspire and will someday embrace. This creation is Toby Wellingtons mission, this is what he seeks to do, what he aspires to accomplish by his very nature. But there is a mystery here of which you must be aware, Andr. What humans call time is a line. Seeing it that way, as humans do, is not an illusion. But time is also and plane, and time is a solid, and time has its own imponderable dimension of eternity as well, and in all of this together, in the wholeness of time, the whole of reality, there is no seeking without finding, no aspiration without fulfillment. None at all. But how can that be? It makes no sense. Observation contradicts that at every turn. Anyone but a fool would reject the idea that humans already are what they seek to become. But you see, in this shallow world they call home, this world where their mission is to bring light to the darkness, this world where they have the opportunity to love every bug, every pebble, every possibility, every memory, every fear and misguided thought, time is indeed a line, but they draw that line, Andr. Thats the answer to the riddle. They write the text. And they hide themselves from themselves so that they may forever invent anew. Humans are both the creators and the created, and the link between them as well. And your friend Toby Wellington has electrified that like in an unprecedented way. By means of what hes done, the truth may reveal itself more fully, the Cosmic Mind may come to know itself a little betterbut thats enough, because in the world of the infinite and everlasting, the slightest bit is enough. The crow stopped. Despite the cloud-covered sky, he glistened with a particularly intense blue-black radiance. But as I said, Andre, here triumph is always accompanied by tragedy, whether the tragedy is seen or unseen. Always. In what humans so hopefully call a Win/Win situation, it is loss that loses. And though gain and loss are as naturally bound together as two sides of the same leaf, they do and must seem separate here in this world of limited dimension.

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Sometimes the losses bound to human triumph are dispersed through the population: in a lack of opportunity for others, for example, as when a great discovery is made, excluding others from that particular adventure and struggle. Or the loss may show itself in a reactionary upsurge in superstition, or a fall from grace of a former idea and its adherents. But not so with Toby. We can feel the painful personal losses generated by Tobys great gift. They are concentrated within him alone. Akbar hopped a little closer to the boy who was leaning back, propped up on his folded sleeping bag, listening to my purr the and modulated cooing of the crow. There was something tender in Akbars approach to Toby, and this generated a pleasant warmth in the vicinity of my feline heart. There was a subdued rustling among the twelve crows to our right. Ive worked to support the life of Toby Wellington since his birth, Akbar said, but only indirectly. You, on the other hand, have cleared virtual boulders from his path, as have his mother and Mr. Orlando Floyd, with whom Ive been working with since the first day he met his brilliant, treacherous student. This surprised me. Though it seems foolish in retrospect, I hadnt realized that Akbars interest in Orlando Floyd was anything but cursory. Of the three of you who worked to support Toby in his mission, Mr. Floyd needed the most help, and once Id tested his mettle to be certain he could withstand the boys indomitable temperament, I had to resort to extraordinary measures to draw him on and maintain his powerful imaginative drive. He has proved to be a man of great strength and characterand even more so because he doesnt envision himself as such. I confess I didnt inquire further about what extraordinary measures Akbar took with Mr. Floyd because I was so interested in what he was going to say about me and my role in this mission. As it most often happens within families, Akbar continued, individuals related by blood grow by synergy. And here, the support his mother provided Toby throughout his series of tumultuous experiences fulfilled her own evolutionary needs, though she never thought of it in those terms. You are fortunate to live with her. She is blessed with a naturally loving nature and has become a woman of great fortitude, even wisdomwhich I believe

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you know, spending as much time as you do in proximity to her head. Though Id been aware that Akbar had extra-sensory powers, I was shocked by his intimate knowledge of my habits. Not embarrassed, mind you, as a human might be; cats are incapable of such wasted emotion, but I was surprised that the crow had enough interest in my life to make such an observation. It was at this point, as if summoned, Akbars troupe walked across the rooftop from where theyd been standing silently, and with only the slightest rustle of feathers and clicking of claws on brick, arranged themselves in a loose half circle behind the aged crow. I saw Tobys colors darken and felt him become tense, frightened by the company of large black birds coming so close to him under a starless night sky, but I knew no harm would come to him, so I amplified my purr and pushed my body against his in a way he understood to be reassuring. I had no idea why Akbars disciples had approached and were looking at him with such a magnetic, palpable intensity. Now this is very important, Andr, the crow said to me. With Orlando and Angelas help, Toby has created the root system for a living model. A model of a Peaceable Kingdom, a model on inner realms of a harmonious, interdependent life of coexistence, coexistence on and with this planet in what we call the future. That remarkable quality in his final drawing which makes everyone who sees it to come away with a gift suited to their own particular psyche is reflective of what this living model displays. This luminous organism is alive within us all of course, since the plane consciousness on which it thrives interpenetrates our own world. And on that stratum of pure mindthat stratum that will be realized in humanitys futuregain and loss have lost their oppositional sting, so just as in Tobys drawing, every individual may have their own needs met without ever depleting the soul of the luminous, living gift. That is the promise that Toby Wellington has given the world. Here Akbar paused, as if to let me fully absorb his meaning. As you already know, Akbar went on, by supporting Toby in his monumental effort, Orlando and Angela also enriched their own humanity. But your achievement, Andr, is greater than Orlando and Angelas, and greater even than Tobys. If stories are

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told of this in the future, they will be stories of your accomplishment, Andr, not Tobys. But the stories wont be told now, and neednt be, since you have no false sense of self and therefore require no recognition. And that is precisely what makes your life so remarkable. For ages, you see, through fires and through floods, humans have learned compassion by burning off and dissolving their false sense of self, and they still do and always will. Thats the way they operate. The opportunity to do this is humanitys gift and makes incarnation here so treasured. And until now, it was believed that no other species could achieve compassion since no other species suffered such illusions with which to struggle. But in what youve already done, my feline friend, you have led the way for your magnificent, proud species. And youve achieved it through force of character alone, and this, Andr, is unprecedented in the history of spiritual evolution on Earth. Stunned, I shrunk back from him. But Akbar, I said, in disbelief, in wonder, surely, you have achieved compassion. And you are a crow. No, Andr, Akbar said after hesitating only a moment and in a voice more grave than any Id known. This was the voice of my bones, my ancestors, my prowess; it was the voice of what hovered behind my very awareness. I am not a crow, Akbar said. And at this I felt an urge to look away from him, to shrink back further, and I did. Ive only chosen to take the form of a crow, Andr, he explained. I am the Moon. At this, the clouds parted at mid-heaven as if torn apart by the hands of God. Akbar and his followers vanished from the rooftop, and within the circle of a searing aurora, the Full Moon, revealed, shone down with a light so glorious and electrifying that for an instant the city burst out and dazzled as at noon on a sundrenched day. Toby Wellington covered his human eyes with his hands and buried his face in my lustrous coat. I buried my own in his fragrant, soft brown hair.

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ACTS OF GOD

It was one month later. The moon was full again. Except for the few days when it had rained, Toby had been spending most of his time on the roof. His mother had agreed to let him sleep there as long as the weather permitted. She had been very concerned about him; not about his choice to retreat to the roof, but about his appearance, because Toby Wellington appeared to be getting somewhat smaller. Orlando had noticed this as well. True, the boy was carrying himself differently: his shoulders were slightly hunched, his head bent forward, but beyond his slumping posture, the thirteen-year-old seemed to have actually shrunkjust a bit. His head, in particular, looked to occupy a little less space, as if compressed. Angela and Orlando had discussed this with some alarm, but reason convinced them that it was not a medical problem, but a rather psychological malady that suggested compression. The great reception that Tobys masterpiece had received at the Art Institute of Chicago showed no signs of diminishing; and though the heated flap regarding Tobys contract with Filomena

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Ciminos New York gallery had finally cooled off, the fiery Italian woman herself would continue to burn and threaten litigation for some time into the future. With Tobys distracted, disinterested agreement, Angela Wellington had sold Anythings Possible to the museum for an undisclosed sum. This arrangement fulfilled the humanitarian need both she and Orlando felt about the drawing and its mysterious power to inspire and uplift so many people of divergent beliefs. But both Orlando and Angela felt with a depressing certainty that Toby would not be drawing anything new in the near future. Of the six prepared drawing surfaces he had ordered, five remained untouched, and Toby had stacked these against the wall in his studio with their bright white surfaces hidden from view. And Toby seemed to be disappearing before their eyes. As a loving, responsible parent, Angela felt compelled to ask her son what was disturbing him so deeply; she did this periodically, just as she had when his mood had first begun to decline, despite knowing that this boy of hers simply wasnt equipped to answer questions of that sort. She had concluded, in fact, that Toby had not come into this world fully equipped, that he did not have the emotional tools to live as others did. And she suspected that this deficit was directly connected to his unworldly artistic gift. Angela Wellington had become a very perceptive woman. Andr the Cat was the family member who most definitively understood Tobys psychological make up, however, since Akbar (as crow) had taken care to clarify this for him. Akbar explained to Andr that Toby Wellington had been born to create art, to transmit the unique understanding he was to acquire as an infant, and thus anchor a great vision for humanitys future evolution. But as with the destiny of all things great and small in the flatland where we humans are born and die, Tobys Wellingtons destiny was both fixed and unknown at oncea paradox impossible for us to resolve, but the likes of which has in fact created us all along with everything we know. Or, as this reporters acquaintance, the source of all knowledge incarnational, once put it: Any question that can be answered isnt worthy of being asked. So: here we have Toby Wellington, designed to create art and nothing more. And as weve seen, Toby was one cold artmaking machine; he left some bodies behind, but hed eventually make amends, karmically, that is, and grow from it himself. Toby

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Wellington, in fact, was such a cold art-making machine that the only love he knew was the love of beauty; he had no natural capacity for love of other sentient beingsuntil, and this seems to be the unforeseen of the unforeseen, a misanthropic black cat came into his life and unintentionally changed it forever. For Toby Wellington could have continued on his surly way, creating masterpieces and disregarding the feelings of others and the effect he had on them, he could have continued on that wayuntil he had a taste of love, that is, and that brought consequences of a wholly unexpected sort. Toby was on the roof with Andr that night of the full Moon, as was the Moon itself in both its luminescent and corvine forms: which is to say, there wasnt a cloud in the sky and Akbar (as crow) stood at a slight remove watching the boy and his cat. Akbars disciples were also present. Toby had reached his breaking point, but if his cold heart had not been opened by his furry black friend, he would have been at no such place. For although Toby had learned what it meant to love another being, this surprising capacity had not been installed with a coping mechanism for one of loves unwanted attendants: guilt. And the guilt that Toby felt for the murder of Damien Sharp, was like a bleed in the brain. A bleed enclosed within a stone-hard skull. The pressure had made him appear to shrink. He came equipped with no release valve. Toby had never said he was sorry and never would. He was designed to create art that would change the worldno apologies required. So neither Angela nor Orlando could imagine this boys suffering, and neither can we. When Toby went to the roof that night, he had planned to jump off. He had left a note on his drawing board along with one of the five remaining boards prepared for drawing. In the note he told his mother that life had become too hard to live, that he hoped he would be happier somewhere else, and that he loved her. He had never told her that he loved her before. Perhaps this was a new development. On the 3 by 31/2 foot surface of the board he had quickly drawn a picture of his mother, looking precisely her age but as truly beautiful as she was, and with her, on her lap, lustrous Andr that Cat, looking his age and truly beautiful as well. It was the most spare drawing Toby had done in years. It had been created with the greatest economy of line yet to be seen in his work, but as a drawing of the two beings Toby loved,

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it was as expressive and exquisite as anything hed done. It in itself was an act of love. But once night had fallen and Toby was alone on the roof contemplating his own end, he wasnt so sure. He was sure that he wanted the unbearable pressure of his guilt to end, but he wasnt sure that he could jump. And what does a boy only a few days away from his fourteenth birthday do in such a situation? What does he do to pass the time until his resolve can build to a suicidal pitch? He cant go back downstairs and talk to his mother or Orlando Floyd, not because he wouldnt wish to, but because he cannot speak. He can no longer form words. If he could, hed be talking to his cat. The pressure he feels in his skull is too great for speech. Its not too great for Bach, however. But Toby does not, as one might expect, choose a mournful piece of Bach, of which there are many. Nor does he choose a plaintive piece, like the Kyrie eleison from the B Minor Mass, a piece Toby knows as well as any in Bachs vast output, one in which the composer so poignantly asks for Gods and Christs mercy. One might think that on such an occasion a piece like that would be appropriate. But on that starry night of the full moon, Toby Wellington chose a little piece of Bach to pass the onerous weight of time: time as a line, as we know it and draw it. Toby chose a little prelude and fugue from Bachs Well Tempered Clavier. Among the forty-eight preludes and fugues in the watershed work, some are somber, some are turbulent, some are dreamy; in fact, one of the qualities that makes this piece so great is the wide emotional landscape created while repeating the same form across the full gamut of tonal harmony. But the prelude and fugue that Toby chose to play and replay in his mind that night was neither somber, turbulent or dreamy: it may be the prettiest of the group. It was the thirteenth, the F sharp Major prelude and fugue; two little pieces of music without a burdensome note between them: the music of guileless, unburdened youth, perhaps, a lovely, clever little prelude and fugue that would surely win the W.T.C. Miss Congeniality Award; sweet, happy, unselfconscious music for a spirit nearly broken, composed by another spirit dedicated to the glory of God alone. For his part, Andr simply purred. There were no more hideous embodiments of human negativity to hunt down and

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dismember. There was only the boy at his side that he had come to love, though as a feline, it would be a while before the idea of love, the more personalized form of compassion, would become a part of his psychological vocabulary. But as we know, he was doing quite well for a cat, and he stayed pressed against Tobys body until hours later when the boy had heard the last of Johann Sebastian Bach and rose to his feet. Toby stood so close to the edge that he teetered. The whole of his monumental accomplishment and the whole of his monumental remorse rose up in him like a last tide of torment that few if any boys not-quite-fourteen could be expected to bearand he could not bear it, but neither could he jump. He could not. It seemed he had already done his part. He was finished. Perhaps the weight of a moonbeam alone might have sent him, like Damien Sharp, plummeting down, and in a certain sense it was a moonbeam that tipped the balancebut in another more visceral sense, it was hardly a moonbeam, but the furious beating of a crows wings, inches behind his head that sent him tumbling at last to his merciful end. Once again from our source of all things incarnational: Two souls walk into a bar. One soul asks the other: So how was your life? It was great. The best, the second soul answers. Really? How so? Well, you see, it only lasted thirteen years, and I never had a worried day. I never reflected on anything, never had any responsibilities, never worked a day in my life, and never did anything but play. It was a breezea little touchy for the last hour or so, but hell, I fell eighteen stories and it was over in a flash. Really! the first soul says. How bout that! I lived thirteen years too! But most of it was awful, believe me. Awful responsibility, overwhelming, way too much for a kidand work, let me tell you, it never seemed to end. And pressure! Unbearable. I practically never played and the last time I tried, I ended up in

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one shit-load of trouble. The soul shook his incorporeal head. But I fell too, just like you. Only three stories, but it was over before I knew it. I envy you, though. I wish I had a life like yours. The second soul looks at him. It wasnt just the life, he says. Ive had lives start like that before. No: it was that sweet, short whole of it. And that sudden endbefore all the trouble could even get started! The first soul looks wistful. Ill ask for one of those, next time around. Good luck, says the second soul. Its something everyone should try. Let me know if I can do anything to help. Ill be glad to lend a hand, he says, clapping the other soul on his etheric shoulder So. So what are you drinking? Those little things, Toby said to the girl, sitting there with him in the sand. What did we used to call them? Stars? Thats right, stars. And didnt we ascribe wondrous qualities to them? Didnt we think they burned and that they were so big they could swallow us whole? The girl held up a handful of sand, and as it sifted through her fingers, each grain came alive like a star: white, electric blue, golden and pink. And as the constellations touched the beach, the sounds they made were like the songs of birds, but not birds: bells. Those, Toby said, pointing to the wisps of cirrus cloud above them. Now those we called watersoaring water. The girl, whod once in a dream held a wrinkled, brown paper bag, smiled. Raising the hand from which shed sifted the stars, she drew it across the air above her head in an arc, and there followed wispy streamers drawn down from above, which she swirled around herself in rings that rung out in hollow, flute-like tones. Bells and flutes, said the boy who looked like Toby once looked, but had no bird-like scar on his hand. And those, he said, pointing to the sky again where a flock of the blackest birds swooped down toward the slate-grey water of the lake. Did we call those puzzles? Or charms?

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The girl looked uncertain. I dont remember, she said, but watch at which she held up her open hands to the black flock, which in turn tumbled and fell like blossoms off a tree into her hands and all about her. Look, she said of the fallen birds, you can take them apart. It doesnt hurt. And she did, and out of the black feathers came little waving flags of all colors, and crystals on sticks, and marbles, white and black. Theyre for playing, she said. For those who didnt have a chance. But what about those who did? asked the boy who once looked like Toby. Whats for them? Everyone gets the same. Its all one life. And that was all one dream. Thats not what I was told, said the boy. Really? she stood up then, revealing herself to be very, very tall. And she began to laugh. Her laughter rolled out of her like the jagged peaks of the mountains across the lake, like the white-capped waves that broke its surface. And the boy who someone said once looked like Toby began to laugh as well. And his laughter was like the water lapping at the shore, like the sunshine dazzling on the lake. But the boy could no longer find his companion. He looked up, but saw no one, so he began to dig. And there in the sand he unearthed a flock of sheep and a choir of celestial voices; he found promises hed buried and forgotten, and shards of stories hed wanted to tell. And deeper still, he found skeletons of himself with strange inscriptions on the bones, and a rusted old machine for making colored sparks; he found an ancient telescope that saw into the future, and a kitten who had been waiting a moons age to be born a man. Then someone called to him from a house behind the tall grass that grew along the dunes. Her voice was like the music of dandelions and poppies. I will dream some day that she is my mother, said the boy with the sweet face and light brown hair. And by now the girl who was gone had become the clouds that reformed above him, denser now, with laughter raining down from them. To think, said the boy still sitting in the sand, that I could have forgotten all this!

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But then the womans voice called out again and he remembered something else. Something white with yellow trim. And then something more: something in F sharp and the palest green, and something that tasted of fresh starlight. And when he stood to cross the beach to the house in the dunes, he remembered things of another order entirely. He remembered the lesson of the flying fish, the testament of the lilies, the words to the colors of the rainbow, the face of the Man in the Sun; he remembered the formula for fitting lost pieces together, the key to the meaning of numbers, and the identity of the rain. He remembered the punch-line to the joke about the rabbi and the marsupial; he remembered the melody of song that everyone forgets and finally, when all seems lost, recalls. He remembered how Adam and Eve lived happily ever after, and how he himself was the creator and the created, the artist and the art. The house in the dunes beckoned him on, and there within it, was a catalogue of paradox, a gallery of lifetimes, a museum of eternities. There within were all the cats a boy could ever want to have, and his secrets, coiled like colored streamersand he had only just arrived!

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PRENATAL CARE

Definitely not Bach, Angela said. Orlando laughed. It was two years later, in July, on what would have been Tobys sixteenth birthday. Angela and Orlando had moved to another apartment, again close to Lincoln Park and the lake, highceilinged and spacious like the apartment where Angela had lived for years before Tobys death. There, in the new home shed made for herself lived her husband, Orlando; her son Adam, on the occasions when he was in town, and her beautiful black cat, Andr. The child she was expecting (at the age of forty-one) was due in October. One can easily imagine the tremendous public stir created by Toby Wellingtons death. But just as the world had officially determined that Toby was innocent of murder, the world now held the erroneous belief that he had accidentally fallen to his death. Angela had burned Tobys note regarding being happier someplace else, having showed it only to Orlando, and had told the detectives

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who once again visited her at home that Toby was fond of doing reckless things on the roof. Though there was some suspicion at police headquarters, in the interest of good taste, the chief of detectives concluded the investigation summarily. Toby Wellingtons reputation had greatly improved, after all, and the city fathers wanted to be sure that the great attraction at their venerable museum was in no way besmirched. Angela kept a few of the early drawings that remained in Tobys studio. The others she sold for prices that embarrassed her despite her planned philanthropic use of much of that money. Of course, she kept Tobys final drawing. She and Andr were now framed and hung above the fireplace in her new living room. In line with a suggestion made by Orlando shortly after Tobys death, mass runs of a reproduction of Anythings Possible were made, and these were distributed for sale around the world at little or no expense at all to anyone who wished to have the uplifting religious, mythic, personal, sensual, humorous or narcissistic images in their dwellings or workplaces (which would be 88% of those who saw images in the picture)and of course there was nothing stopping that 12% who saw satanic, ghoulish or warlike images from plastering their walls with those if they so chose. The reproductions were available in full, half and one-third the original size; and those of decreased dimensions generated no fewer visions than the drawing on permanent display at the Museum of Fine Arts. There was a size for ballrooms, prison cells and mud huts. That this philanthropic effort, this world-wide dispersion of a map of human destiny satisfied the precise intent of The League of Initiates was of course unknown to Angela and Orlando, but when it comes to philanthropy, the gap between what one knows and does is of little or no significance. The sorrows of Angela Wellington have already been chronicled here, and her grief at Tobys death was much like one might expect. It was a grief of the seemingly bottomless sort, and remained acute for an appropriately little eternity. The only thing that differentiated her misery from that any grieving parent was her knowledge that Toby himself had been suffering unbearably, and that being who he was, she didnt have a history of a warm, mutual bond with him. Orlando`s sorrow did not run as deep as Angelas, but since as weve seen, Tobys work was so bound up with

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Orlandos purpose in life as a teacher, he was hurt in ways Angela was not. Toby Wellingtons chilly affect notwithstanding, he had become Orlandos closest friend in art and now in music as well, and the loss of this companion, distant though he was, was one from which Orlando Floyd would never fully recover. But when we join the happy couple, they are neither thinking philanthropically nor grieving: theyre thinking about their baby: their baby boy, still blissfully swimming in maternal anteroom of The Kingdom of Heaven, and specifically, theyre considering one particular aspect of his all-important prenatal care. Orlando has just returned from a short errand. He has the prenatal device in his hands. Angela is sitting on her bed, leaning back against pillows, the great dome of her belly exposed to the air. Orlando loads his purchase into the device, flips the switch and places it against Angela, within inches of their embryonic baby boy. Suddenly a womans voice rings out; it is innocent and sweet. Its definitely not Bach. Row, row, row your boat, Gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, Life is but a dream the woman sings through the little portable CD player. Angela smiles. Thats the ticket! she says, smiling at Orlando. Thats the ticket! she says again, looking at the enclosed slip to read the other nursery rhyme titles on the disc. Seeming satisfied, she leans back and listens: Orlando, too, is satisfied with their childs first musical experience, satisfied and hopeful, but theres someone in the room who apparently doesnt share the opinion of the parents-to-be. And he, of course, is the hero of our story, the star of our show. He leaps up on the bed. With his gleaming black head he butts the mini CD player off Angelas mound of a belly and replaces it with himself: equally black but far warmer and more lustrous than the electronic device. Then of course, he commences to purr, an activity, which as we know, is to human prayer and canine howling as a bonfire is to a volcano. So Andr purrs, and the baby boy gestates, and Angela and Orlando forget what they will and remember what they must and row and

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row, and carry on with the task of drawing the line and writing the text as all good people forever have done and will do. And somewhere the Moon is rising and somewhere it is setting. Somewhere the star clock turns and chimes the hour. It is the hour of birth and death, of folly and forgiveness, and all else glorious and true as the night is dark and the moment is forever. And so Andr purrs, and the baby boy grows, and the Moon will not forget, nor the stars, as visions of paradise unfurl to the sweet, dark music of the end.

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