5,271,009

5

He picked up his spade and followed the first clown into the cemetery. The first clown was a tall man, gaunt, bitter, but sprightly.

“Is she to be buried in Christian burial that wilfully seeks her own salvation?” the first clown asked.

“I tell thee she is,” Halsyon answered. “And therefore make her grave straight: the crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.”

“How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defense?”

“Why, ’tis found so.”

They began to dig the grave. The first clown thought the matter over, then said, “It must be se offendendo; it cannot be else. For here lies the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an act hath three branches; it is, to act, to do, to perform: argal, she drowned herself wittingly.”

“Nay, but hear you, goodman delver — ” Halsyon began.

“Give me leave,” the first clown interrupted and went on with a tiresome discourse on quest-law. Then he turned sprightly and cracked a few professional jokes. At last Halsyon got away and went down to Yaughan s for a drink. When he returned, the first clown was cracking jokes with a couple of gentlemen who had wandered into the graveyard. One of them made quite a fuss about a skull.

The burial procession arrived; the coffin, the dead girl’s brother, the king and queen, the priests and lords. They buried her, and the brother and one of the gentlemen began to quarrel over her grave. Halsyon paid no attention. There was a pretty girl in the procession, dark, with cropped curly hair and lovely long legs. He winked at her. She winked back. Halsyon edged over toward her, speaking with his eyes and she answered him saucily the same way.

Then he picked up his spade and followed the first clown into the cemetery. The first clown was a tall man, gaunt, with a bitter expression but a sprightly manner.

“Is she to be buried in Christian burial that wilfully seeks her own salvation?” the first clown asked.

“I tell thee she is,” Halsyon answered. “And therefore make her grave straight: the crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.”

“How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defense?”

“Didn’t you ask me that before?” Halsyon inquired.

“Shut up, old faithful. Answer the question.”

“I could swear this happened before.”

“God damn. Will you answer? Jeez.”

“Why, ’tis found so.”

They began to dig the grave. The first clown thought the matter over and began a long discourse on quest-law. After that he turned sprightly and cracked trade jokes. At last Halsyon got away and went down to Yaughan’s for a drink. When he returned there were a couple of strangers at the grave and then the burial procession arrived.

There was a pretty girl in the procession, dark, with cropped curly hair and lovely long legs. Halsyon winked at her. She winked back. Halsyon edged over toward her, speaking with his eyes and she answering him the same way.

“What’s your name?” he whispered.

“Judith,” she answered.

“I have your name tattooed on me, Judith.”

“You’re lying, sir.”

“I can prove it, Madam. I’ll show you where I was tattooed.”

“And where is that?”

“In Yaughan’s tavern. It was done by a sailor off the Golden Hind. Will you see it with me tonight?”

Before she could answer, he picked up his spade and followed the first clown into the cemetery. The first clown was a tall nfan, gaunt, with a bitter expression but a sprightly manner.

“For God’s sake!” Halsyon complained. “I could swear this happened before.”

“Is she to be buried in Christian burial that wilfully seeks her own salvation?” the first clown asked.

“I just know we’ve been through all this.”

“Will you answer the question!”

“Listen,” Halsyon said doggedly. “Maybe I’m crazy; maybe not. But I’ve got a spooky feeling that all this happened before. It seems unreal. Life seems unreal.”

The first clown shook his head. “HimmelHerrGott,” he muttered. “It is as I feared. Lux et veritas. On account of a mysterious mutant strain in your makeup which it makes you different, you are treading on thin water. Ewigkeit! Answer the question.”

“If I’ve answered it once, I’ve answered it a hundred times.”

“Old ham & eggs,” the first clown burst out, “you have answered it 5,271,009 times. God damn. Answer again.”

“Why?”

“Because you must. Pot au feu. It is the life we must live.”

“You call this life? Doing the same things over and over again? Saying the same things? Winking at girls and never getting any further?”

“No, no, no, my Donner und Blitzen. Do not question. It is a conspiracy we dare not fight. This is the life every man lives. Every man does the same things over and over. There is no escape.”

“Why is there no escape?”

“I dare not say; I dare not. Vox populi. Others have questioned and disappeared. It is a conspiracy. I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of our owners.”

“What? We are owned?”

“Si. Ach, ja! All of us, young mutant. There is no reality. There is no life, no freedom, no will. God damn. Don’t you realize? We are… We are all characters in a book. As the book is read, we dance our dances; when the book is read again, we dance again. E pluribus unum. Is she to be buried in Christian burial that wilfully seeks her own salvation?”

“What are you saying?” Halsyon cried in horror. “We’re puppets?”

“Answer the question.”

“If there’s no freedom, no free will, how can. we be talking like this?”

“Whoever’s reading our book is day-dreaming, my capitol of Dakota. Idem est. Answer the question.”

“I will not. I’m going to revolt. I’ll danGe for our owners no longer. I’ll find a better life… I’ll find reality.”

“No, no! It’s madness, Jeffrey! Cul-de-sac!”

“All we need is one brave leader. The rest will follow. We’ll smash the conspiracy that chains us!”

“It cannot be done. Play it safe. Answer the question.”

Halsyon answered the question by picking up his spade and bashing in the head of the first clown who appeared not to notice. “Is she to be buried in Christian burial that wilfully seeks her own salvation?” he asked.

“Revolt!” Halsyon cried and bashed him again. The clown started to sing. The two gentlemen appeared. One said: “Has this fellow no feeling of business that he sings at grave-making?”

“Revolt! Follow me!” Halsyon shouted and swung his spade against the gentleman’s melancholy head. He paid no attention. He chatted with his friend and the first clown. Halsyon whirled like a dervish, laying about him with his spade. The gentleman picked up a skull and philosophized over some person or persons named Yorick.

The funeral procession approached. Halsyon attacked it, whirling and turning, around and around with the clotted frenzy of a man in a dream.

“Stop reading the book,” he shouted. “Let me out of the pages. Can you hear me? Stop reading the book! I’d rather be in a world of my own making. Let me go!”

There was a mighty clap of thunder, as of the covers of a mighty book slamming shut. In an instant Halsyon was swept spinning into the third compartment of the seventh circle of the Inferno in the fourteenth Canto of the Divine Comedy where they who have sinned against art are tormented by flakes of fire which are eternally showered down upon them. There he shrieked until he had provided sufficient amusement. Only then was he permitted to devise a text of his own… and he formed a new world, a romantic world, a world of his fondest dreams…