Session December 30, 2017

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Dan lifted a bundle of mail from the boat and held it towards me

By RC

Everyone said that the Professor, Doctor Cambridge, was a great man and scientist. Some admitted that at times he seemed a little nuts. Me? I had my own opinion, based on one event. It happened like this.

After the good professor had gone off on a steamer bound for Africa, and after he had been there a while pursuing his anthropological research into the newly discovered Ti-Ti tribe—whom only a handful of explorers had ever seen—he began to write letters about his work and findings. The letters themselves were not particularly interesting to me, since I am not an anthropologist; just a lot of stuff about the habits of these people, which were nothing unusual in this area. I sent them all back to the university. However, he included many drawings in his letters, which were really exquisite for their detail, but thoroughly incomprehensible as to what he was trying to get at. One of them, showing a hand in two opposite positions, revealed down to the bones, and two flowers in like fashion, was labeled “Opposition.” Another, which I vividly recall, seemed to be a diagram of a set of lungs—yet, quite bizarrely, with clusters of flowers—and with some kind of beetles all lined up in neat rows above it, and labeled “Nexus.”

Apparently, most of the drawings had to do with the natives, many of whom he had dissected after their deaths. He had told us that the natives were somewhat uncomfortable with this treatment of their deceased, but they were also in awe of his ability to heal their afflictions.

The last boat which came from the professor held the last of his papers. This was the mail boat of the Congo, and routinely made the rounds where I was doing my work, at a little village far downstream. Dan, my assistant—so I had named him, for he was a native whose name was unintelligible—was with me and went down to the boat. Dan lifted a bundle of mail from the boat and held it towards me—kind of reluctantly, as if he had a premonition. This might have been because of what looked something like a blood-stain on the paper wrapping the mail.

My interest piqued, I took the bundle gingerly and set it down on the floorboards of the jeep. Once at home, I laid it on the table and untied the bow.  The letters fell loosely on the table, along with a bunch of flowers. They were some of the same kinds which the professor had been including in his diagrams. As to the diagrams, I instantly perceived that he must have taken one of the natives as his assistant and taught him to draw. These drawings were very similar in style to those of the professor, but obviously not his. They were just as fascinating.  The hands were larger—obviously those of the professor—and had been revealed down to the muscles and bones, and always in either opposition or what he had called “nexus.” Evidently, either the patience of the people had been exhausted, or the assistant just couldn’t resist using the most interesting subject there.

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We say more by the things we do than the words we speak.

By CC

“We say more by the things we do than the words we speak,” said Timothy’s Mother in that prim, superior voice that he so detested.

He stomped off to his room, slamming the door, hoping she understood just how that would translate into language. Well, it was time to deal with this at long last. He was turning 15 next month and had waited long enough. Inside the closet, he heard the scrabbling of claws against cardboard. It was getting bigger. It was probably big enough.

He smiled, remembering what she had said when he found the egg:  “Put that dirty thing down, Timothy! You don’t know what kind of creature it’s from!”

Well, she would have a clue now! He gingerly slid the closet door back a foot and glanced inside. Tater Tot, which he had been calling the thing since it first hatched, glared back at him with its single eye beneath the glistening horn. It was time to show Mom just how loud actions could really speak.

He grabbed Tater Tot from the box in which it had been living. It was almost as tall as he was now and stood opposite him, waiting for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a coke, the diet on which it had been raised. When no food was forthcoming – Timothy hadn’t planned this well at all – Tater Tot raced towards him with his horn lowered. Timothy nimbly leapt onto the bed, avoiding the creature, which smashed headlong into his nightstand.

“Are you OK, Timothy?” he heard his Mom calling from downstairs as Tater Tot struggled to free his horn from the dresser drawer, where it had impaled a stack of comics.  Timothy ran out the door and slammed it shut behind him again. “Oh, all right,” she said, sounding defeated. “I get it.” and walked back into the kitchen.

Timothy was past all that now. He raced down the stairs calling, “Mom? Mom? We have a problem.” She turned to him just as Tater Tot burst through the bedroom door and came running down the stairs.  Mom took one look at the creature and pulled Timothy into the kitchen with her, arming him with a kitchen knife. “Hold him off while I get the pistol,” she said, racing past him towards the long hallway to the den. Tater Tot zoomed into the kitchen, his head swiveling as the single eye scanned the countertops. He saw a loaf of bread and leapt for it just as Mom returned from the den with a 22mm Ruger and unloaded on it mid-leap.

She wiped her hands on her apron. “Timothy, we have to get this thing out of here. Your Dad will be home in 30 minutes expecting dinner.”

Together they hauled the creature out to the yard and heaped some fallen leaves on him. They heard Dad’s car pulling into the driveway as they raced back into the kitchen. Mom looked at him and said, “What do you think about cheeseburgers?” Timothy nodded, the gesture saying more than words could express.  

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Ivy had gotten a job as a docent at a local museum.
by MD

Jacob presented himself to Ivy looking for work. Ivy had gotten a job as a docent at a local museum. She didn't have the heart to tell Jacob she had no authority to hire him, so she suggested he make himself useful by incorporating himself into some of the exhibits. 

"Maybe someone on the board of trustees will see you and I'll put in a good word for you. That might be just the ticket to turn your talents into a paying occupation," Ivy said.

So Jacob stationed himself each day at a different exhibit, usually disguising himself in such a way as to be unnoticeable until there was a group of spectators gathered, at which time he would suddenly pop out and startle the onlookers. This actually increased attendance at the museum, as word spread of his surprise appearances and the general public embraced the element of shock they provided.

What worked best was when Jacob dressed in the manner of a turn-of-the-century gentleman and stood by the antique victrola. As observers assembled, he wound up the machine, which played marching songs in the background while he pitched the sales of his mother's homemade canned beans.

When one day an actual trustee witnessed this display, he was impressed enough to offer Jacob a permanent position. Unfortunately, the trustee also purchased a can of Jacob's beans, ate them, contracted botulism and died. As a result, Jacob lost his short term job. Ivy was also fired when it was learned it was because of her that Jacob was there at all. 

"Tough beans," was Jacob's insensitive response.

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There are underground passages at the water palace.
by CT

Damian Courtland, usually so urbane and correct, arrived late for our appointment at the museum.

I'd never seen him rumpled or disheveled, yet there he was. 

He collapsed into his chair, struggled to catch his breath, and coughed several times with a sodden handkerchief pressed to his mouth. 

"Sorry to be so late," he said between gasps. "I went to the water palace this morning and explored the lower floors." He paused to cough. "I went one level too far. There are underground passages at the water palace. This one was filled with swift-running water. The current pulled me under and swept me three miles to the river. I walked for an hour to get here."

"Would you like some coffee," I said.

"I'd rather have a glass of whiskey with a splash of coffee, please."

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A most telling incident happened one morning in the spring of 1982.
by RMAF

When I redecorated my bedroom, I put my doll collection up into the attic. I had a favorite doll. I had named her when I received her for Christmas one year when I was seven. I named her "By Golly Miss Molly."  Out of all my dolls, she was the one that somehow I related to. I used to take her nearly everywhere with me. I'd sing her the Whippenpoof song as that is the song my mom used to sing to me and she said her mom used to sing to her.

I missed having "Molly" with me in my bedroom and was contemplating bringing hr down from the attic A.S.A.P. 

My cat had four kittens but oddly, two of them disappeared from their basket. I began searching every room in my house. 

The last place I looked was in the attic. I wondered how could the kittens have got upstairs into the attic? As I ascended the stairs I heard a rhythmic tapping on the floor and faint voices happily singing. What could that be? I was puzzled but kept on climbing the squeaking stairs.

As I got to the top floor, I saw the two kittens twirling a jump rope for Miss Molly. The kittens were happily singing the Whippenpoof song.

I nearly fainted at such an animated sight. I said, "Good Golly Miss Molly! I knew when you were given to me years ago back in my childhood that you were much more than a regular doll. I just knew it!"