December 21

 4:00 –

         George took one step in the strange world of dragons and princesses.  He took a second step, and he was back in Hong Kong, in front of his own flat, on the road leading to the school.  Even better than that, Pete was sitting on the bench by the sports field, reading something with Brittany.  George didn’t stop to wonder what his friend and his sister could possibly be doing, sitting there together like that.  He grabbed Pete, and hurried him inside, up to his room, explaining as quickly as he could while they went.

         He was shocked to learn that it was almost Christmas.  He had been absolutely certain that either no time had passed at all, or that months and months had gone by since that Friday night on the beach. 

It had actually been three weeks.  Three weeks during which he had apparently been moping around, and acting like some kind of zombie.  Three weeks of which he had only the vaguest recollection – as if they had happened in a fog.

         But those three weeks were over.  Now George was ready to get down to business.  “So what have I told you?”

         Pete tried to sort through the odd things George had told him, when he had deigned to tell him anything at all.  “You told me that you were, like, somehow, dating Jennifer.”  Pete supposed that came to mind first because it made him a little nauseous.

         “Yeah.  Jennifer.”  George looked at the ceiling for a minute, as if he were looking for an explanation up there in the white paint.  “Really, really bad news.  But it wasn’t actually Jennifer I was with.”

         Pete tried to follow the conversation.  George had said he was seeing Jennifer, but now he said it wasn’t Jennifer.  That had to be a good thing, right?  George had been confused.  He had just thought it was Jennifer, but it was somebody else.  Anybody was better than Jennifer, right?

“Who was it actually?”

         “Well, it was actually this evil spirit that had taken control of Jennifer’s body.” 

Pete closed his eyes, and swallowed.  OK – evil spirit controlling Jennifer’s body.  That wasn’t better than Jennifer.  In fact, it was insane.  Way, way more insane than metaphysical wiener dogs. 

But not more insane than evil ravens with their talons in more than one world.  Maybe the raven was behind everything:  The mysteriously appearing wiener dogs, the hole in the fabric of the universe, George’s depression, Jennifer’s disgustingness.  Yeah.  It made sense, come to think of it.

         “There’s an evil spirit inside Jennifer’s body?  Doesn’t surprise me.”

         Pete looked at his friend incredulously.  “Yeah, well it shocked the hell out of me when I saw it.”

         “You saw it?  You actually saw the evil spirit?”

         “Yeah, but that’s not the important thing.”

         “It’s not?  You mean it gets worse?”

         “I think I might have killed somebody.”  George’s words came out slowly – one syllable at a time – as if he was forcing himself to say something he didn’t want to say.

         And why not?  Why would anybody like to say something like, “I might have killed somebody?”  This conversation had taken a turn for the truly crazy.  Truly, certifiably, crazy.  George was gentle, and thoughtful, and shy, and just not the kind of guy who would ever hurt anybody.  Kill?  There was just no way he could kill.  No way.

         “No way.”  Pete repeated his thoughts out loud.  “Killed.  Like somebody used to be alive but now they’re not?  Because of you?  Something you did?  To them?  No way.”

         “Yeah, way.  Only it was supposed to have happened on New Years Eve, and it’s not even Christmas yet, so maybe it didn’t happen after all, or maybe it won’t happen, if we just stay away from Lan Kwai Fung on New Years Eve.”

         “Lan Kwai Fung on New Years Eve?  That shouldn’t be a problem.”  Not only would their parents never let them go to the biggest local party scene of the year, they would both be in the States for Christmas break.

         George explained about Ilo accusing him of killing Dillon Moran.  Pushing Dillon to the ground in a mob scene on New Years Eve, and then standing by while he was trampled to death.  George explained how he had looked on the Internet, and seen articles recounting exactly the scene Ilo had described.

         The laughter escaped before Pete could contain it.  Like the nervous laughter when George had exploded that day in English class.  That day, it had been nerves combined with fear, and tension. This time, it was nerves combined with relief.  Pete hadn’t realized how keyed up he had gotten, listening to George’s story.  How close he had been to believing everything.  But this was no big deal.  Not now.  It had been, once.  It had been a really big deal to some people – but not George, and not Dillon Moran.  “Trampled to death?  You’re talking about something that already happened, but not to you.  Some kids really were trampled to death there once on New Years Eve.”

         “It really happened?”

“Yeah, it really happened, but it happened a long time ago, and it wasn’t Dillon Moran.   I mean, yeah, the articles are still there on the Internet.  They don’t go away, but did you happen to look at the dates?  It was way back in history.  Like in the nineties.  Before the handover even.  And yeah, people were killed.  Kids our age even – and yeah, a kid from this school, I think, but nobody you know.  Nobody from his family is even left here any more.  It’s over.  You weren’t there, and you didn’t kill anybody.”

“So Dillon is here?  There’s nothing wrong with him?”

“Sure there’s something wrong with him.  He’s a complete jerk, but he’s not dead, although he’s not here either.  He went off to military school.”

Pete watched the tension drain out of George’s body.  His friend had been pacing agitatedly, back and forth, in the small space between his closet and his bed.  Now he sat down on the bed, leaning against the wall behind it.

“You have no idea what a relief that is.”

“Yeah, I can pretty much imagine.”

George went on to explain what it had been like to be in an alternate universe.  He was surprised to find that Pete actually took him at his word.  He had expected to have to argue, and convince, but Pete just sat there in the armless swivel chair at George’s desk, nodding, and asking clarifying questions, as if hanging out with dwarfs and dragons wasn’t particularly unusual.  It struck George as a little condescending, because he knew his friend Pete was very attached to reality.  Sure, he could be flexible, and he was good at seeing things from other people’s points of view, but there was a limit, and George knew Pete’s limit.   At least he thought he did.

“So you’re sure it was an alternate universe experience, not time travel?”  Pete was asking questions like that.  He should have been asking if George was self-medicating, or if he wanted to see a psychiatrist.

        

         The boys tossed a stress ball back and forth, trying to catch it without looking at each other.

        

         “Definitely not time travel.”        

“How are you sure?”

         “Well, lets think about it.” George gave the stress ball an extra squeeze before tossing it back to Pete, with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.  He was used to his mother pretending to believe in nonsense.  He didn’t think he could take it from his best friend.  “Talking trees?  Witches?  Real witches, not Halloween pointy-hat witches!  Dragons?  I’m ready to accept that dragons may exist somewhere, somehow, but not in our world, even back in time.”

         Pete easily fielded the over zealous throw, and responded with a calm, reasonable shrug.  “You can’t discount dragons quite that fast.  Just because we don’t still have them doesn’t mean they weren’t around in the Middle Ages.  After all, they’re in all the stories.”

         “Yeah, well my little sister reads stories about Harry Potter.  Does that mean witches exist?”

         The door flung open, and Brittany shoved her way into the room with her usual burst of energy.  Pete smiled at the way she was standing there with her fists on her hips.  He wondered how long she’d been listening at the door.  Probably since about thirty seconds after George had shut it.

“You don’t know the first thing about what you’re talking about, as usual, do you?”  Her normal routine, when dealing with her older brother, was to begin with an accusation.

        

“Who said you could come in here?”  George’s counter accusation was also routine.  Pete found the whole posturing ritual a little boring.  Pete didn’t have a little sister.  He leaned back as far as the swivel chair would go without tipping over, and threw the ball into the air with one hand, and caught it with the other, over and over, patiently waiting out the bickering.  He really didn’t like bickering.

        

Brittany rolled her eyes.  “You obviously need me.  Historical witches aren’t like Harry Potter witches.  J.K. Rowling writes about a modern world – this world – because she says it’s like cheating to have to go to other universes.”

The boys stared at her blankly – as if they were wondering how she would possibly know what J.K. Rowling thought about anything. 

“I read an article once, OK?  On an airplane.  But if you want to talk about witches in the middle ages, you’re talking about people who were accused of making deals with the devil.”

         George glared at her.  “And how is that different from Harry Potter?”

        

“If you would just try reading every once in a while, you might learn something.”

        

“Do you really think it would solve all my problems if I read Harry Potter?  I mean, I’ve seen the movies.”

Brittany rolled her eyes.  “The movies explain nothing.  The movies are like, the kiddy version.”

        

George was definitely back to normal.  Brittany didn’t know how, or why, but she and her brother were having a normal conversation.  George was being ignorant and rude, but he was hearing what she said, and he was responding the way he usually responded.  By belittling her.  She had forced her way into the room.  Now she had to figure out how to stay there.  She had to keep George interested, without betraying too much interest herself.  Because if they saw that she was interested, it was over for her. 

And she couldn’t be sure that Pete would be on her side, now that George was back.  Yeah, they had spent some time together over the past three weeks, but Pete hadn’t had much patience with her last night, when she had interrupted his alien battling, and he had also made it very clear that he had only been spending time with her because he didn’t have anything better to do while George was being a weirdo.  Between them, George and Pete could throw her out of the room bodily, and they had several times.  If she showed too much interest, or too much hostility, they might strike.  She had to walk a very fine line.  She dropped her fists from her hips, and she tried to drop the attitude.  She didn’t want them to see her curiosity, so she kept her eyes on her slipper, as she traced an arc with her foot on the highly polished teak floor.

“Solve what problems?” She asked innocently, as if she hadn’t heard every word of their earlier conversation while she was listening through the door.

         “Never mind.”  George wasn’t going to explain it again.  “Tell me about witches.”

        

“Well,” she leaned against his desk, not wanting to look too comfortable, but wanting to look like she was too well ensconced to toss out.  This was a subject she knew about, so if she could just keep it interesting, maybe she could stay. “Witches in the Harry Potter books are born with magical powers, and they have to hide their powers from the rest of us.  And all that stuff about burning at the stake wouldn’t have done any good on the Harry Potter witches, because they were genuinely magic, and the fire wouldn’t have hurt them anyway.  It explains it in book five.  And J.K. Rowling’s witches choose if they’re going to be evil, or if they’re going to fight evil. 

“In history, on the other hand, witches were all evil because what they did to get their power in the first place, if you believe they existed at all, was make a deal with the devil.  They were just ordinary people who wanted power, and they told the devil he could have their soul after they died, if they could have the power right now.”

         “Why would anyone do that?”

        

“I don’t know.  Maybe they’re not thinking about the long term?  Maybe they thought the power could keep them alive forever?  Maybe they thought they could say they’re sorry at the last minute?”

        

“Maybe what they wanted to do with the power was so important it seemed like eternal damnation was a small price.”  This was Pete’s idea.  He was talking in his usual calm, quiet voice, but Brittany noticed that he was looking intently out the window.  She wondered if he was thinking about the hole in the fabric of the universe.  Had he been having dreams too?  Did he understand that the end of life as we know it could be individual, not just world wide.  That he could loose every one of his friends and family, in an instant, starting with his soccer ball?  Would he actually consider giving his soul to fix it?

         George just shook his head, dismissing that whole train of thought.  “Seems pretty crazy.”

         “Yeah, well maybe it happens and maybe it doesn’t, but do you believe in the devil?”  Pete was asking both of them.

Brittany felt like the temperature in the room had just dropped significantly.  And had it gotten darker?  Maybe the sun had gone behind a cloud.  She nodded solemnly, but George answered out loud.  “I’m only just now getting around to thinking I might believe in a God.”

Pete caught Brittany’s eye.  He had seen her nod.  He knew why she had nodded.  He was thinking about the raven too.  “All I’m saying is that if there is a devil, you can kind of see him working that way, can’t you?”

“Can we get back to the point?”  George asked.

Certain that Pete hadn’t forgotten the wiener dog story, and the fact that they had read it together, like a team; Brittany was ready to go out on a limb.  “Only if you guys tell me what the point is.”

George went right back to big brother mode.  “Or you could leave.”

Brittany plunked herself down on the ground, legs criss-cross-applesauce with her arms folded across her chest.  She was not leaving.

“She could help, you know,” Pete suggested.  “She is pretty smart.”

“Yeah,” George turned on her.  “How do you know all that stuff?”

“It’s interesting.  And I’ve got friends back home whose parents won’t let them read Harry Potter, because of what their church says, so I wanted to find out what’s up with that.”

“OK.  Maybe you can help.  Picture this scenario.  We’ve got a talking tree, who says he used to be a man, but this witch turned him into a tree.  We’ve got a dragon.  We’ve got kings and queens, and they say they rule big countries, countries as big as from ‘where the sun rises, to the eastern shore,’


Brittany gave her brother a funny look.  "Um, the sun rises in the East."


Pete nodded.  "At least it does in this world."


"So I'm definitely talking about an alternate universe!"


Pete shook his head.  "Or else you're confused." 


George's excitement subsided.  "That's entirely possible."  He took a deep breath.  "But my original point is that there seem to be kind of a lot of these kings and queens, and countries, so how could they really be all that big?  Does that sound like anything you guys know about from actual history?  Here on this planet, in this universe?”

Pete and Brittany both agreed that it did sound a lot like Europe during feudal times, which Pete had been studying while George had been staring into space for three weeks.  Middle Ages people had certainly believed that it was possible to give your soul to the devil in exchange for powers.  If that were true, why not use the power to turn people into trees?  There were enough stories about dragons to think that they just might have existed, and maybe their bones were made out of something that decomposed faster than normal bones, and that’s why we haven’t found any remains.  And it seemed reasonable that Middle Ages people would describe 100 miles, or even 50 miles as if it were a lot.  A little bit of land would have seemed a whole lot bigger, when a horse was the fastest way to travel.  Very powerful kings could have kingdoms right next to each other, and never know the other existed, if they were separated by mountains, or a serious river.

 

George continued,  “Also we’ve got no technology in this other place.  So the question is, are we talking about time travel, or are we talking about an alternate universe?”

Brittany wanted to know how the kings defended their kingdoms with no technology.

George scoffed at her.  His sister was being a little kid again.  “What, you think people couldn’t fight a war before the airplane?”

Had her brother always been such an idiot?  “Before the airplane they had catapults, and bows and arrows, and even swords and clubs.  And guess what, brain-boy – that’s all technology.  A man makes a tool.  It’s technology.  So are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

Pete threw her the stress ball.  “George has been there.”

*   *   *

        “Dad, where did mom go?” the boy asked as he put the plastic Santa figure into the diorama.  The boy was a little bit puzzled because the plastic Santa was dressed the way you would expect Santa to dress.  Red pants, red coat.  OK, so one of his white plastic fur cuffs was missing.  They were detachable.  He liked taking things apart and putting them back together.  He must have forgotten to put Santa’s left cuff back on last year.  He still looked like a perfectly normal Santa – nothing like a drunken wino.

        “She needed some time to herself.”

        “You told me that already.  But where did she go.  Where is she being by herself?”

        “If she wanted us to know she would have told us.”

        “You don’t even know where she went?”

*   *   *

         Been there?  OK, so Brittany must have missed that during the thirty seconds or so it had taken her to sneak up the stairs behind them.  Been there?  Actually been there?  But where?  In history, or in an alternate universe?  She had been arguing for history mostly because George seemed to be arguing for an alternate universe, and because she was used to taking the opposing side in any conversation with her brother.  But she had been assuming that he was talking about a story, like the wiener dog story.  Not about some place he had actually been.  Not something he had actually done.

         She had been sitting at home, enduring Renee’s stupid seventh grade romantic melodramas, and spending about ten minutes a day reading about anthropomorphic canines, as Mr. McAllister called them, while her brother had been killing dragons, fighting monsters, and kissing princesses?  His poopy fit had really been an extreme case of guilt because he thought he had been slaying medieval knights who were really people from his actual world?  People he actually didn’t get along with in real life?

         OK.  If he could deal with all that, he could handle the wiener dogs.

         Pete agreed.  They didn’t even have to consult to know that they both wanted George in on the Weiner Dogs.  He could handle it.

*  *  *

I lacked the courage to continue.  My husband lacked the creativity to perceive my misery. 

I lacked the courage to continue.  My replacement for my husband lacked the character to fend for himself, and his beautifu; little girls.  Lacked the morality to face the world on its own terms – legally and chemically.

*  *  *

         George read the story from the beginning, but today’s installment, wasn’t there yet.  It was almost dinnertime.  It was getting dark outside.  Pete checked his digital alarm clock.  The glowing red numbers said 5:40. None of the other installments had come this late in the day, after it was already dark.  He remembered that it was nearing Winter Solstice – the shortest day of the year, and he shivered.  Maybe something had gone wrong.  Maybe the evil darkness of the Raven was taking over – preventing the story from getting through. 

Getting through what?  Getting through from where? 

Pete didn’t know.  Maybe there was something he was supposed to do. 

But if so – if he and his friends were somehow involved – did that mean that Brittany was right, and that they were just characters in a story?  The same story as the wiener dogs? 

No.  Absolutely not. 

He had thought about that kind of stuff when he was in seventh grade.  He remembered.  “What if the whole world as he knew it was inside a shoebox, and we’re somebody’s hobby – somebody who makes trees and mountains for us, and carries the shoebox around with him to show his friends, who maybe had their own populated shoeboxes.” 

But no.  He had grown up since then.  Put away childish things. 

NO!  Now he was thinking Bible quotes!  That was worse than being immature! 

He was not a toy in a shoebox.  He was not a character in a story.  He was a real person – part of the real world.  He could cope!  He would cope!

*  *  * 

But he couldn’t just let me be, either, once I left.  Why couldn’t he let me be?  Did he get too used to me taking his daughters to school, and making there be food on the table?  Why did he have to follow after me?

*  *  *

         “So what have you done so far?”  George’s question made it seem as if he was reading Pete’s mind – well, maybe not the part about shoeboxes (at least, Pete hoped not the part about shoeboxes).

         Brittany answered.  “Well, Mr. McAllister told us that we should ask questions, and make connections.”

         “Mr. McAllister knows about this?”

         They explained about Mr. McAllister.

         George shook his head slowly, “That dude is everywhere.”

         They wanted to know what he meant, but he told them never mind, and asked about the questions and the connections.

         George listened carefully, while they explained in detail, but he thought they were wasting their time with the stock market, and the cooking.  “It’s all about the other world thing.”

         “Well of course it is,” Pete answered, calm as always “but that’s obviously impossible.”

         “No, I’m telling you it’s not.  There are other worlds.”

         “Or other times.”  Brittany wasn’t going to let them forget about other times.

         George sighed in frustration.  “Obviously there are other times, we study them in school, but if they are times you can get to right now – if they are still going on, and we can actually cross over to them, then they have to count as other worlds, don’t they?  If they happened in the past, and they’re all done and gone, then we couldn’t get to them, could we?”

         Pete and Brittany reminded George that they couldn’t get to them no matter what – whether they were in the past or right now, because people couldn’t get to other worlds. 

George reminded Pete and Brittany that he had gotten to one.  He continued.  “Early on, the rambling wiener dog talks about the space/time continuum.  Also he mentions Einstein more than once.  Whatever that is, it’s got to be the key, and Mr. McAllister said something to me about string theory.  That’s the stuff you need to be looking up on the Internet.  String Theory, and the space/time continuum.  That’s what you’ve got to research if you want to get to the other worlds.”

         “You think we’ve got to go there?  To the magnetic North Pole in Fawn and Chloe’s world?”

         “Do you think we’ve got to do it before Christmas?  That only gives us a few days.”

         “I think I’ve got to get back to the Princess.” 

7:00 –

The sun had gone down.  They had eaten dinner.  George’s family had eaten spaghetti Bolognaise; Pete’s family had eaten Singapore noodles.  It was thoroughly dark outside.  They met at the streetlight, and opened the notebook. 

No new installment. 

It was as if December 21 wasn’t going to happen.  They knew December 21 was happening in their world, and that it was edging toward a close, but was December 21 happening wherever, or whenever the story was being written?  Or was there nothing to write?  Had December 21 failed to happen in the world of Fawn and Chloe?  Had the raven won?

         “It’s about the other worlds, I tell you.”  George was adamant.  “If we understand about other worlds, we’ll know what to do.”

         “How can we understand about other worlds?”  Pete asked.  “We’re just kids.  We can’t understand something that even scientists don’t understand.  There’s a reason we don’t have tourist cruises to Ancient Athens, or Fairy land.”

         Brittany wasn’t going to give up so easily.  “Maybe we can’t figure out exactly how to do it any more than we can run the stock market, but we can learn about it.  We can ask questions.  We can look on the Internet.”

8:00 --

Pete:  OK, I looked up the space/time continuum, but it doesn’t help us much.  Continuum, by the way, means a group of things where the things change very gradually from one to the other, and there’s not much difference between the things next to each other.  So a space/time continuum might mean a gradual change from space to time where they’re really both part of the same thing. 

Does that make sense? 

       I didn’t think so either.  Much.

Turns out, Edgar Alan Poe, the one who wrote the Raven poem, was actually the first one to go on record suggesting that space and time are one thing, and he said it in an essay he wrote way back in 1848.  So is it significant that he created the Raven?  Or was the Raven already there and he just wrote about it?  It’s like the beast in Lord of the Flies.  Does it exist if we don’t believe in it?

George:  Whoa, Lord of the Flies.  Should I read that?

Pete:  Why bother.  You’ve already taken the final.

George:  Yeah, that’s what Jennifer said.

Brittany:  I read that a parallel universe is created every time somebody makes a decision.  So if you read the book in this universe, there’s another universe where you don’t read the book.  Is it a good book? Lord of the Flies?

Pete:  (after a pause) I’d have to think about that.  Is it relevant?

Brittany:  Maybe not.  Anyway, the parallel universe thing has something to do with everything being potential until we make a choice.  And that choice seems to make all the unchosen potentials go away, but they’ve done these experiments where they shoot electrons at two slits that prove that the other potentials don’t really go away at all – they still exist – so they might go into other universes.  We just know about the potentials that we observe.  In fact, by observing, we change them.  We make them choose.

Pete:  Make what choose?

Brittany:  The electrons.  They choose.

George:  What electrons?

Brittany:  I haven’t taken physics yet.  Isn’t everything made of electrons?

Pete:  Let me try.  You’re saying that the electrons, or the choices that we see – they exist for us.  They’re the choices we made.  But the ones we don’t see – they exist somewhere else for other people.

Brittany:  For alternate us’s, actually.

Pete:  That sounds a little like if a tree falls in a forest does it make a sound?  And I don’t want to get into another thing about do we exist, or are we characters in somebody’s imagination.

Brittany:  Right, we exist.  I’m OK with that now.  I can “grow up”.  But the tree.  It’s not like “does it make a sound?”  It’s more like “has it fallen at all” before we find it?  Before we observe it on the ground.

Pete:  Of course it has, because the moss is already growing on it, and the beetles are already living in it, when we find it.

Brittany:  Does the observer have to be human?  Could it be a beetle?  What about all the monitors the rabbits have set up everywhere?  Maybe they force things to exist because the rabbits are watching those things.

Pete:  Dude, I don’t like those monitors.

Brittany:  (thrusting the notebook into Pete’s hands) You need to draw a time line.

Pete:  A time line of what?

Brittany:  A time line of choices – so we can think about the universes.

George:  Since when can Pete draw?

Pete:  (drawing rapidly) Tell us about String Theory.

George:  I don’t really understand it.

Brittany:  Does anybody really understand it?  I mean, aren’t they still trying to figure it out?

George:  OK, I’ll try.  We’ve got four dimensions that we know of, right?

Pete:  Four?  I thought three.

George:  A line, a plane, a cube, and time.  The cube isn’t an abstract idea.  If you want to find a cube, you have to go to where it exists in space, and time.

Brittany:  Huh?

George:  Picture one of Joey’s Lego cubes.

Brittany:  OK.  It’s red, and it has four little bumps --

Pete:  Is it lying in the middle of the floor?  Am I going to step on it?

George:  (ignoring him) Now picture throwing it onto the sports field.

Pete:  I like that. 

George:  If you wanted to find it out there on the field, and you looked five minutes ago, it wouldn’t be there yet, and if you look tomorrow afternoon, it will have been chopped up by the lawn mower.

Pete:  (grinning) Joey wouldn’t like that.

George:  Yeah, that’s why you need to know the fourth dimension – time – not just space.

Pete:  To keep Joey from throwing a fit.

George:  Right.  So we can account for four dimensions.  But string theory says there are really eleven dimensions, or maybe ten.  It all depends on whether M theory and string theory have really been combined or not, because you see --


Pete: Just get to the  point. 


George:  Right.  Thanks.  The point.  If you were a flat line, you wouldn’t understand what a cube is.  You would be trapped in two dimensions.  We’re trapped in three dimensions, or arguably four, and we don’t understand what the higher dimensions might be. 

Pete:  Maybe wiener dogs.

George:  Maybe dragons.

Brittany:  Maybe evil ravens.

Jennifer:  Maybe spirits.

8:30 --

Pete slammed shut the notebook.  Where had Jennifer come from?  What did she want?

“You can’t get away from me.”  She was standing with her feet shoulder width apart, and her hands on her hips.  The way Brittany stood when she was feeling aggressive.  No – the way Brittany stood when she was feeling like she needed to look aggressive.

“Why would my brother want to get away from you?”  Brittany asked, pretending that she had not heard everything her brother, and Pete’s mother had said about this girl.

Jennifer dropped her hands from her hips.  “No reason,” she murmured as she moved towards George, stroking his upper arm.  “I can’t think of any reason, but he keeps disappearing.”

“Who are you?”  Brittany asked.

Jennifer looked up into George’s eyes.  She was wearing sneakers, not platform shoes, so she could actually look up into his eyes.  “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

George took a step away, but her hands did not dislodge from his arm.  “I hadn’t planned to,” he answered.

“I don’t understand.”  Jennifer looked hurt.

“Why are you here?”  Pete asked.

Jennifer shook her head.  “I’m not sure.  I just know I needed to see George.”

“Do you often do things without knowing why?”  Brittany asked.

Jennifer’s facial features shifted, as if she were trying to choose between being offended, and being puzzled.

“Who are you?”  Brittany persisted.

“You look like Jennifer,” said George as he tried to disengage his arm from her fingers.  Unfortunately, he had to use his own fingers to accomplish this, and they ended up facing each other, holding hands.  All four hands.  Pete thought that they would have looked like one of those couples on a commercial, spinning around in a field, except for their facial expressions.  Their faces didn’t look like idyllically happy couple faces.

“Of course I look like Jennifer.  I am Jennifer.  What, are you, stupid?”  Only Jennifer could be mean and flirtatious at the same time.

“Are you really Jennifer?”  George looked into her dark eyes, trying to discern whether there was something malevolent lurking behind them.  They didn’t make his stomach dance anymore, but they were still pretty.  Could it be the actual girl – without the evil spirit?  Could she really have come here just because she was confused?  Could talking to her be the right thing to do?  Bring her over to the light?  If Pete was right about today’s date, it was now after he had met Jennifer on the beach, but before Chinese New Year, and before the party at Luci’s; therefore it was before the giant, and before the dungeon, and before the great betrayal.  Could that be?  Could it also be before the spirit took over Jennifer?  Or could the spirit be in there already, and not yet expelled, trying to work evil in some new way?

“George, Brittany.  I need you inside.”  George’s mom was calling from the window.

George dropped Jennifer’s hands, and jumped back.

“Pete, you’d better go back home too.”

         Pete looked up at George’s mom, puzzled.  It was definitely not a school night.

         “I think she needs your help packing.”  George’s mom explained.

         “Right.  No problem.”  Pete got it.  He knew that they had been packed for days, but Jennifer didn’t know that.  George’s mom was trying to give him an excuse to get out of there.  Looked like nobody liked Jennifer.

         The boys quickly headed for their respective doors, but Brittany stayed behind.  She might as well take a chance.  She whispered, “Are you here to help?”

         “Well you’ll never know now, will you?”  Jennifer turned, and strode away into the night.

9:00 --

         “Maybe this time.”

         Pete opened the notebook again.  The page was blank.  Again.

         “Try sneaking up on it,” Brittany suggested.

         The boys looked at her.

         “Open it to a couple of days ago, and turn page by page.  Maybe something will be there when you get to today.”

         Shrugging, Pete opened to December 18.  Page by page he turned, past Little Bunny Foofoo on the eighteenth, past the rabbits and their monitors on the nineteenth, past Manchester, the elf-vark, and the intoxicated Santa Claus on the twentieth.  And they held their breaths. 

And he turned the page.

         And nothing. 

Nothing on December 21.  A blank page.  Brittany grabbed the notebook and closed it again,

and opened it,

closed it,

and opened it,

closed it and opened it,

closeditandopeneditcloseditandopenedit.

Nothing.

“You try.”  She shoved it at George.

Nothing.

“We should go to bed.”

10:00 --   

Brittany was cold.  Cold.  She clutched the bedclothes more tightly around her.  Cold.  Couldn’t stop shivering.  Dark.  The trees were dark.  And perched on the trees – dark feathers.  Yellow eyes.  Sharp talons gripping the branches.  Flexing, and gripping again.  Trees looming.  Looming closer.

10:00--

A beautiful girl waited at the end of a long hallway.  The carpet was muted red; the walls were beige silk.  Her hair was long, and champagne-silver.  Strands of it floated around her face in a breeze George did not feel.  She reached out her hand.  He glided towards her.

Champagne-silver became dark curls, bouncing in the non-existent breeze, but George could not stop. 

He dug his heels into the carpet, but it only rumpled beneath his feet. 

He fell, but he kept on gliding, and there was nothing to hold on to. 

Nothing stationary to slow him down.  He was gaining speed – not slowing down. 

Dark curls floating. 

Dark curls flying.  Flying into the air. 

Teeth falling.  Rotten teeth. 

The beautiful girl – disintegrating. 

Rotting away. 

Scabs. 

Wrinkles. 

The beige silk walls – shredding away. 

Falling back into nothingness. 

Into blackness. 

And still he rushed on. 

Closer. 

Closer. 

She opened her mouth, and he plummeted toward it. 

Plummeted toward the black void where her rotten teeth had been. 

He could have touched her lips, which had now grown to gigantic proportions.  Grown large enough to swallow him. 

Could have touched her lips

If he hadn’t pulled his arms tightly around himself, squeezing his body into a fetal position. 

And out of the darkness flew a raven.

George woke up.  He was sitting bolt upright in his bed, covered with sweat. 

And the stench!

He ran to the bathroom, gagging.  But he couldn’t vomit.

10:00--

The creature lurched towards Pete – stiff legs – stiff arms.

Lurched out of the darkness.

Stiff arms extended toward him, at ninety degree angles.

Gauze bandages trailing

Dust rising with every step.

“I want to eat your brains.”

Its voice was deep, and dusty, with a vaguely European accent.

Pete grabbed the end of a bandage, and the creature twirled, and twirled.  Dust swirling

And the bandage unraveled in his hand.

Unraveled into dust. 

Yet he kept pulling.

And the swirling.

And the swirling.

And the bandages were gone.

But still the swirling.

Where the creature had been – nothing.

Nothing but the swirling blackness.

The empty void of nothingness

Nothing.

And he was falling.

Falling.

Through the void.

Through the rabbits’ wood,

Through the reindeer’s practice field,

Through Santa’s workshop.

And it was black. 

Black.

And out of the black --

The Raven.

11:00--

Brittany couldn’t go back to sleep.  She tossed and turned.  She threw off her covers.  She tossed and turned again.  She opened her window.  Maybe some fresh air would help.  She pulled her covers back on.  Again, she tossed and turned.  She opened the notebook. 

Still nothing.

There should be something.

What was going on with the wiener dogs, and with Santa, and with the mysterious author?

“What’s wrong with you?”  She asked the blank page.  “Why don’t you write?  We care, you know.  We care about Fred, and George, and Malchisedech, and Martin.  We care about Manchester, and Fawn, and Chloe.  We care!  It matters to us.  Why have you stopped writing?  Don’t you care any more?  You made them.  Have you stopped caring about them?  Don’t you care what happens to them?  Don’t you care what happens to all of us?   Why don’t you write?”

11:00--

Pete couldn’t go back to sleep.  He tossed and turned.  He threw off his covers.  He tossed and turned again.  He opened his window.  Maybe some fresh air would help.  He pulled his covers back on.  Again, he tossed and turned.

What was going on?  Why was there no story?  He wanted to open the notebook, to look again, but he had left it with George and Brittany.  He turned on his light, and looked around on his desk.  The first pages had just turned up out of the blue.  They hadn’t been part of the fancy cloth-covered notebook with the moons and the stars. 

Some had been in his English notebook. 

He tore through his backpack, and found his English notebook.  He ripped it open. 

Nothing.

What was wrong with the stupid author?  Why wasn’t he writing?

“Why aren’t you writing?  Who is the stupid Goddess of Whimsy?  Is she the author?  Why isn’t she helping the elves?  Why isn’t she stopping the Raven?  What about the rip?  The end of life as we know it?  Why don’t you write?”

  11:00 –

George couldn’t go back to sleep.  He tossed and turned.  He threw off his covers.  He tossed and turned again.  He opened his window.  Maybe some fresh air would help.  He pulled his covers back on.  Again, he tossed and turned.

        

“Write, will you.  We want to know.  What is the Raven?  Have I met him before?  Do I know the Raven?  Do I have to stop him?  Why don’t you write?”

11:00 –

         The man sat at the computer holding a plastic deer. 

Why don’t you write? 

Why don’t you write? 

Why don’t you write?

         Mistakes.

         So many mistakes.

         Starting this story had been a mistake.  He didn’t know where it was going. 

He didn’t know how to make a normal life for the boy. 

For his son. 

Without his wife. 

But she had made other choices.

         She had woken up every morning to find the day closed shut, in front of her.  That’s what her letter had said.  She had written a letter before she left, and put it on the kitchen table.  At his place.  Eleven pages she had written about why she was leaving them.  Eleven pages. 

No options. 

No discussion. 

She was going. 

No excitement.  No adventure.  No joy.  Just endless housework, and plodding childcare. 

Eleven pages.  She must have thought about it.  And thought about it.  For days she must have thought about it.  Perhaps weeks.  She was bored.  She was trapped.  Trapped, and bored.  For eleven pages, she described the boredom. 

That morning, she had asked what he wanted for dinner.  “Spaghetti,” he had said.  “With red sauce out of a jar, the way I like it.”  And then he had come home to find eleven pages, where the spaghetti should have been. 

Bored and trapped, she was.

         She used to laugh.  Such a beautiful laugh.

         And the adventures!  Going to the top of the mountain to draw the spring flowers.  Rolling down a sand dune into the river.  Driving to a restaurant 40 miles away because she had heard the clam chowder was good there.  Diving into the lake over and over to look for mermaids, and submerged chests of gold.  Dressing like pirates to hunt – oh, it didn’t matter.

         He tried.  He tried to keep life going.  He tried to think of things they could do, he and the boy.  But sitting still and pretending to be rocks didn’t have quite the same ring to it as dressing up like pirates, and following a treasure map.

         “Why don’t you write?”  The universe seemed to be shouting at him.

         Well, why didn’t he write?  What was wrong with him?  Why couldn’t he think of anything for the silly deer to do?  It was the twenty-first.  Three shopping days left before Christmas.  The boy had gone to the calendar over and over, only to find the box empty.  There had to be a solution.  There were only a few more days.  A few more days left, to save Christmas, explain the Raven, get Santa sobered up, and to do something about Manchester, and the elf dispute.

         Why don’t you write?

         “All right!  All right!  I’ll do it.  I’ll write something.  I don’t know what, but I’ll write something!”  And he began to type.

11:50 –

         Pete, Brittany and George sat underneath the streetlamp in front of the sports field.  They all agreed that it didn’t matter how late it was.  Very soon, they would be flying on airplanes for about 20 hours.   Not taking exams, not slaying dragons, just sitting there in the economy section, hoping the movies would be bearable.  It’s not as if they needed to be alert.  It’s not as if they could sleep anyway, what with the nightmares.  Brittany opened the notebook, not because she really expected anything to be there by now, but just for something to do.

December 21, 2004

“Manchester, is there a way to call all the elves together?” asked Akelmeyer.

“Well, I could call an emergency meeting of the guild.”

“Do so, immediately.  I can’t explain exactly how, but I believe I can communicate directly with the ‘Goddess of Whimsy.’  Maybe she can have some influence on their behavior.”

Just the,n another reindeer bounded into the foyer.  The door was still open, letting frigid arctic air into the room, but the temperature remained comfortable.

It was Vixen, and she was holding a large, leather-bound book with gilt edges, and ornate lettering on the cover.  The title read, Evil Raven Book of Dark Magic and Assorted Tofu Recipes.  “We found this by the Blind Mice’s log, and thought Santa should see it right away.”

“Santa is, ah, indisposed,” said Manchester.

“If I may,” said Fred, clearing his throat.  “This, I believe will make our task easier still.”

Vixen hesitated.  “I thought Santa…”

“It’s quite all right.  These dogs are here to help.  I trust them.  Besides that, I don’t have a better plan.  Now, if you will excuse me, I have to organize a meeting.”  Manchester turned on his heel, and headed down a flight of stairs at one end of the foyer.  Akelmeyer followed.

Fred took the book, and, accompanied by his small entourage, laid it out on a large table, in the large room off the center of the foyer—the room in which Santa was now snoring loudly from a supine position in an overstuffed recliner.

“Oh, my,” said Vixen, upon seeing Santa’s present state.

“He is the victim of dark magic; you mustn’t judge him,” said Fred, “and, as I said, he may be a great boon to us in our task.  I have a theory about the water, and a plan to…”

Fred trailed off as he began to page through the book.  He eventually began reading headings aloud.  “Causing ingrown toenails…hmm…causing bad smelly shoes…keeping the display on the VCR from doing anything besides blinking 12:00 over and over…vegetarian shepherd’s pie…bending the speed of time…

“These do not seem to follow any order whatsoever…Wait!  ‘Bad water’…here it is!  ‘Reversing the effects of enchanted water which itself reverses the effects of ordinary enchantments or lack thereof in a contained community of mythical beings during the month of December.’”

Fred, with the aid of Malchisedech, Martin, and Vixen, carefully set about following the instructions, which involved concocting and saying incantations over a beverage that was essentially lemonade.  They then proceeded to roust Santa, and administer the cure.  The effect was profound, and indeed magical; Santa changed immediately in appearance, demeanor and odor.  He exuded, suddenly, a deep wisdom, and inner calm; a joviality, and an almost supernatural understanding of events, past and present.  “My word.  We have quite a problem,” he announced.

To Be Continued . . .