Episode Transcript
Welcome to a half hour of mind Wag short stories
from the world the Spectator. Now, this is Michael Hanson
with a mineweb story this time that comes from the
(01:15):
book Cork three, which was edited by Samuel Delaney and
Marilyn Hacker. This is titled Nature Boy and it's written
by Josephine Saxton. He could hear what his mother was
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doing from where he lay on the lawn. She was
sitting at her desk doing calisonics. Arms out, arms up. No,
she wasn't to not be fully shot her. She had
just been into the kitchen to get herself a huge
spoonful of honey to take away the taste of knox
Obomica bitters, which she took at the advice of spirit
guides to stimulate her pituitary. No, oh, Arthur, stop it.
(01:59):
She was actually right letters as secretary to the League
for the Further Reformation of Women's Rights in the Society
for the Protection of the Female Orgasm and the Rise
of Sappho, a secret society that was trying to get
lesbianism outlawed so that its case could be publicly fought.
Arthur noticed that he was chewing the ends of his forelock,
which was too long, and this reminded him to stop
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his thoughts. It was not, of course, entirely possible to
stop all thoughts, but it was certainly possible to put
the brakes on and stop filthy fantasies. Just get it right.
His mother was a nice, normal old lady, and she
was doing her minutes for the women's institute. Right. Oh,
and that reminded him the society for the complete annihilation
(02:43):
of menstruation. It wasn't fair that he should be tortured
on such a beautiful day as this by horrid thoughts.
To day dream was fine, but to think up things
like that about his mother was positively unhealthy. It came
in phases, the tendency to think wicked things about her.
It would seem that some part of him was getting
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revenge because she had not allowed him to go alone
on holiday, just the once alone, but he had never
been anywhere alone. He would forget where he was, and
it would be dreadful for him to be lost at
the seaside, Yes, quite dreadful. And mother had her own
problems depressions. Well, you might know, it isn't my fault.
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Crippled by hormones but she hadn't really said that at all,
nor had the spirit guides, because she never had anything
to do with mediums in that trash. Be content. One
can worship nature just as well here as anywhere, For
the tawoak all to one's self, and all this land private. Lucky,
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Feeling easier, he relaxed deep into the flatness of turf,
imagining that it absorbed him partially like a feather bed
his fate. Ever kind of day, hot, quiet, sweet, light blue,
Not even one virgin cloud marred the flat blue. It
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shimmered scorching sun. Nature, Let me be one with you.
Kept on saying that for about thirty years, especially in
the summers, And it will happen finally, in the end,
I shall be transmogrified. A rose bush or a lady beach,
either would do looking straight up, not sinking, but floating,
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neither here nor there, waiting for something to appear in
the sky. How wonderful, how impossible? All dream of a
silver ship or a flower or a goddess in the sky. Listening.
People think these days are quiet, but listen. A field
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mouse rustles the blades of grass at the edge of
the lawn, turn head and stares straight into those little eyes,
whiskers twitching, and he senses that I will do him
no harm. Explosions too, aqualiga seed cases launching missiles twenty
four inches shiny black bullets containing everything necessary for the
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production of another cosmos called aqualiga. Arthur began to feel calmer.
The heat could excite the brain cells at times. Soon
he thought, soon I will go for a walk in
a nice cool wood feed my being on shadows and
bluebells and beeches and oaks. Oak. Nature was a great
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healer of the emotions, and yet he had come to
her through intellect, measuring, counting. He would perhaps have gone
to university, become a biologist or something if it hadn't
been for his nerves. Smiling at his privileges like this
glorious day when others were working, he was glad of
his nerves. A euphemism, though preserved for the sons of
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rich mothers. A cattle tick would wait eighteen years maybe more,
before it smelled blood and left to drink. What did
it feel like to be a cattle tick waiting less
than a tree branch? Miracle of mysteriousness. Cattle ticks surely
were not trapped in mere behavior, but had a sense
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of destiny. A gentle Sussius of nose blowing frightened the field.
Moss Away turned his attention from the gunfire in the
herbaceous border. Hey fever, hormone trouble. Who sneezes and hawks
on a day like this? Only his mother? Surely, damn
it was not good, never a good sign that he
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should overhear himself denigrating her like this. It had been
like this last summer before the incident. As if to
going down black clouds on his thoughts, he leapt up
quickly and went over to the French windows. Hello, Arthur, dear,
what are you doing? Nothing? Much thought I would take
a walk in the wood and gather some bluebells for you.
What a lovely idea. I'd come with you, But I
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half minutes to write out, tell Janety at five please,
and missus Clark won't be coming over. She rang to
say she has a headache, another victim of hormones. Bites
the pillow Paul women's ailments working for him on a
subatomic level, keeping them with their heads down, weeping into lace.
Steady Arthur, the heat and since n would Saul harm
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me me who loves you? So I am the only
true pantheist for hundreds of miles around. What dear nothing?
I mean, yes, see you later. You should come out
to day. Mother. It's too good a day to stay indoors.
But I have to write to the Prime Minister about
premenst real tention. It's very He went into the kitchen,
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wondering what it was that his mother had really seven,
got as near to Janet as he could to inhale
the odor of hot flower and raisins. Master Arthur, you
should ask, yes, Janet. Mother says he had five plays,
and missus Juno has a headache and won't be coming
to the feast what she rang earlier? Just mother and
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myself for tea Janet a wasp settled on a lemon pie.
He bent closer and saw it suck at a minute
bead of syrup that it oozed up out of the
meringue topping. Oh, the irreparable sadness to come when Janet dies.
She was terribly old. What other housekeeper would be able
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to see inside his forty year old shell to the
real person within would tolerate him stealing scones to the
point of saying, Master Arthur in shocked tones. He slunk
out through the kitchen garden, taking peapods as he went,
in a few strawberries. Father would have been very angry
about that, but he was dead, long since swept up
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into the bosom of nature. Since he had gone, the
measuring of nature's dimensions had gradually ceased. That had been
very good at putting out nuts to catch moths, butterflies
too were pinned down and labeled. Rainfall measured, humidity marked
three hourly studying bees, ants, leaves, houseap rises, the nitrogen cycle,
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dozens of notebooks, observations, readings from biology texts. Father had
known all the peripheral facts about nature, all except for
the en. But what did one call it? The mystical heart?
Something like that. Arthur was not good at finding phrases
for things he had rather experience than account for. Father
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had lacked awe. The path to the wood led through
a haunted thicket. The grew around a pond. A rissokie
lived here, although Arthur had never seen her. The whole
estate was full of sprites and spirits and elves, but
the Rissokee was Arthur's favorite. She was a wicked and
vengeful creature with blank eyes and long mossy hair. And
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she waited by the pond, ready to pull in the unwary,
the spirit of a drowned maiden, Agnes Bondsworth, aged nine
years to be exact. Here was her home, not the
village churchyard. His best slipped into the green weed one
summer day long ago. Hello Agnes. He murmured and made
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in her obeisance, and fingered his leaf of wormwood, always
in his trousers pocket. Dad had been very good on mythology.
He would have been appalled at what he would have
called it ascent into the superstition. But the sun was
filtered in the woods, and as Arthur approached the grove,
his spirits rose in him. Gladness, peace, life on all levels, miraculous.
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He greeted his favorite birch tree, stroking its silvery body,
and pointed at an alex. Don't prick and scratch me,
or I shall make you into Christmas crowns sacrifice. He
bent over all games, gone, supported himself with hands and knees,
and fought back tears of rage. No, no, all that
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it was sick and wicked, he could still see the
blood slow and thick soaking into the mold at the
roots of the tow. Ok. So means a little of it,
and yet such a horribly meaningful act. And it worked.
He had felt relieved and happy and sweetened some mile.
It had worked, and he needed help now. Stop thinking
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about it, please, either a tiny shrew a poor simulectrum
for a human being. He began to gather bluebells. When
he had a nice fat bunch. He sat against his
favorite tree with the idea stone in sight in the
center of the grove leading to the oak. It was
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a shady grove with a smooth floor, bordered by wild
red campions like blood spots, the great tow at its
farther end, and dramatically lit by sun, probably even pre Druidic.
And when he died there would be crowds paying money
to come and see to pay the death duties. It
was a hard thought to nature. He often wished he
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had been born in the time when his place had
belonged to wonderful beings, probably Atlanteans. Hazy pictures of marvelous
people conducting rites in the grove often haunted Arthur. His
favorite dreams took place at the dawn of time. He
was sure there was some special reason why this historic
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place belonged to his family. Maybe at his feet he
noticed a toad apparent. Then came a colony of red ants,
and he watched them, smugging the knowledge that most people
would think these creatures chaotic, and he knew otherwise they
were well ordered, civilized. He tried to concentrate on the
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movements of the small ants, but could not eradicate the
image of a hungry tree sucking eagerly at the blood
that soaked in around its roots. In a moment, he
would get up and go back for tea. He must
not stay here too long. A small sandaled foot suddenly
crushed the ants. Utterly Horrified, half risen, intensified, he looked
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up into the small, pale face of a little girl,
raveled hair and withered bluebells framing the very direct gaze.
Why did you do that, you horrid child? He was
drying the mouth with emotion. I hate ants, She hated ants?
So simple he had to try twice before his voice
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would sound. What what are you doing here? Anyway? This
is private property. I know I like playing here. What
you going to do? Insolent lower class cheeky. On an
otherwise perfect day, he was pestered with village brats. He
had noticed too, his abject terror. She re eyes, the
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pointed chin, horribly bold. What you're going to do? Push
you in the pond. He had said, no, no, nothing
like that. It was just fantasy, and name was killed.
They had told him not to think about it, never
to speak of it. But time did not move on
days like this. Suddenly he was glad the child had
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trespassed here. For now nothing bad could happen. Some things
could only occur when he was alone. One must not
frighten children. Few people would ever understand. In any case,
you shouldn't kill things just because you hate them. Answer,
We're very clever creatures, she leered, showing a space in
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her front teeth. Go one home, this is my wood.
He shouldn't have said that I want to play here. Well,
I damn well want to play here too, So go away.
He needed her to stay. What was he saying? Let's
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play together? What cheek? What an hot girl? Fancy asking
him to play a middle aged man. Perhaps she was
not quite normal mentally. Many of the village children were retarded,
So his mother said, let's be friends. Oh dear, what
could one say when a person said that, Well, all right, then,
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well what were you playing at? I am the queen
of the twees? What were you playing at? Idea stones? Oh? Heavens,
he had told her, he had never told anyone before.
How do you play it? He now had to tell her, Well,
why not you put your head down on that stone
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over there, and then you get an idea. Then you
have to do the idea magic. Yes, she accepted that
children were innocent. He felt fearful chivalry. He must send
her home and go home himself, he must. But the
girl was very enthusiastic. Her mean little face was rating,
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and she had thrown down her bluebelts and stood by
the stone, waiting. It wouldn't work for you? Actually see Well,
I'm queen of the trees. Ain't I see that big
tree up there? That's my palace. He could not answer,
but did crawl on hands and knees over to the stone,
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recalled the last idea the thing had given him. Sacrifice.
Please please know nothing like that. Just pretend just to
amuse the child, But think how it would be. A
shrew had wrought wonders with his unhappiness what Then He
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laid his head on the stone, more from weariness than
anything else. Tired after all by the heat and the
strain of meeting a stranger, in the doubts of everything.
You had to be very sure of a thing and
not see the other side of a question. Then you
were happy. That was the trouble. He fumbled in his
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pocket for a leaf of wormwood, the talisman against rusulkies
and such lack. If this child were really only Agnes's shade,
things would be simple. But she was flesh and blood,
and she came and later had on the idea stone too.
He had been younger even than her when he had
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first discovered the properties of the stone. It had given
him some wonderful games to play, and some awful things too,
which were of course the real things, the great ideas.
What she going to do? Push in the pond, the
stone told me. What you going to do? Sacrifice you
to the towel, The stone told me? How how though
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his man knife. Even lying down like this, he began
a sickening faint. Oh, please let something into her vene
hang on to the fact that this was only a game,
and she was queen of the trees. One could not
possibly harm such a one. She would be sacred herself. Yes,
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that was right. But who was really queen of the trees,
who owned all these acres? His mother? He was the
boss of everything, Tea at five, things like that, all
those secret societies. His mother should get out more. She
would lose her wits, having fantasies like she did writing
letters to the Prime Minister about hormones. They would take
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her away and Janet would die, and who would look
after him? Then? Mother, Please don't go. I'll do something
awful if you leave me. I will, I will. He
opened his eyes wide, grasped the knife in his pocket.
It was all perfectly clear, no doubts. In this moment,
the correct time had come. Everything was determined, no problem,
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just like every time he came to the stone, very clear,
plans of action. Open the knife without her noticing. First,
she leapt up with a delightful squeal. I've got an idea.
He did not answer her. He was concentrating. I said,
I've got an idea. He looked into her face, and
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she looked away. First bent down and stood up up again,
this time holding over her head a jagged chunk of
glistening gypsum Arker could not open the knife. He could
not move at all except around his mouth, twitching, trying
to shell out for her to stop. Silence paralyzed, bloodstream thundering,
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sweat pouring. This was true terror. She was going to
hit him with that rock. Her arms thithered with the
effort of holding the heavy thing high over her head.
It blotted out the sun, then revealed it. It blotted
it out. It was almost too heavy, for she could
not hold it much longer. Hurts were drawn back with effort.
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Her eyes were very wide open, concentrated the shrew, the
little shrew he had killed. He knew now what it
had felt. He had wandered at the time time standing still,
A string of moments suddenly, like beads clashing simultaneous. A
row of depths hissed, the large one at the end,
For that rock could crush deep into a skull. She
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drew in a great breath to aim well, to throw hard.
The air whistled in her chest, great glee in her face. No, No,
The sun flashed bright like white gold. There was quiet
in the woods for a while, until a breeze stirred
up a couple of thrushes, and also ludicrous and genteel
over the sound of crushed bracken. The little Queen of
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the trees made an oof sound of working out the
best way to reach one of the gates into the road.
Then she stopped and turned around, yelling mad lady, mad lady, Yeah,
yeah yeah, and then ran like a hare full of daring,
never to be caught, the crazy lady that nobody had
seen her. She looked ordinary, and so had the man,
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just ordinary. Oh there you are, Arthur. Why didn't you
answer me? I thought I heard a scream? Whatever is that?
A dark stain marked the idea of stone. Arthur managed
to move enough to sit up and turn the Queen's
rock over, and they both stared in fascinated disgust at
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a crushed toad, adhering to its underside. A violent death
is the risk of guardians. Time began to move again, inexorably,
causing Tea to be at five.
Speaker 2 (22:39):
A little as I'm sure gluals rested loose bros le
(23:07):
a little knock lurals read it? Where that did me?
Speaker 1 (24:08):
You've heard Josephine Saxton's Nature Boy. It's from Quark three,
a quarterly of speculative fiction, edited by Samuel Delaney and
Marilyn Hacker. This is Michael Hanson speaking technical production for
mindwebs by Leslie Hilsenhoff. Mindwbison, a service of University of
(24:30):
Wisconsin Extension
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