Every Boy Should Have a Man

14 Mike

When Mike reached the age of 119 and a half, he weighed a slim 302 pounds. He had never been a big eater and thus had always kept his weight down: he stood 9’6".

He was 119 in man years, which was the age of forty or so in the reckoning of the oaf. He had the appearance of a very tall, powerfully built gentleman of middle-age years with a full red beard. He walked with a back that was erect and proud despite his years, for as an oaf, he was still in the first third of his life.

As an oaf in the world of oafs, he would have been called shorty.

Down here, they called him big man, listed him in Guinness, wrote textbooks and newspaper articles about him. A marvel of nature. A mystery of science. Ageless. A big oaf — and that last was not said as a compliment. It was said because he had never been able to excel at the sport of basketball — never been able to excel at any sport despite his gift of great size.

Solitude suited him. There were too many questions down here, and he didn’t like being a celebrity anyway — too many cameras, too many reporters, too many questions.

And his family was gone — mother, stepfather, brother, sister, and even the son that he loved — fi, fi, fi, the life of man is so brief.

And so Mike moved to the mountain to think — to the mountain, whose snowy peak touched the clouds that hid the portal between his world and theirs.

His home was on the mountain, and he had lived there three years, three man years, one oaf year, before he made up his mind to see his plan through to the end.

He had decided at last that he was more oaf than man, even though that other world had passed away. He had been there with his stepfather on that last trip through the portal so many years ago. He had wept when he saw the devastation, because even back then, in the back of his mind, he had lodged the plan to remain there forever.

Before he had crossed through the portal, he had been planning to tell his stepfather these words at the end of their silver conquest: Now, you go back to Mother and brother Bob and sister Janet and tell them that the big boob loves them, but he just does not fit. I just do not fit, Father. I am a freak in that world of yours and I am not going back. I will remain up here with those of my own kind, and I am changing my name to Tlotl. You and Mother will just have to learn to deal with it.

And Mike, who wanted to be called Tlotl, knew that his stepfather, a wise and reasonable man, would have understood and supported his decision.

Jack would have nodded and said, Just help me get that silver back through the portal, kid, and you do what’s best for you. I’ll tell your mom. She’ll learn to deal with it. We’ll come up and see you from time to time. Don’t you worry about us. Live your life the way you see fit.

Instead, when they got up there, the world of the oaf was in its death throes, and his dreams of living in a place where he was not a freak, but a common oaf with a common name, were gone forever.

So he married a woman and tried to live a normal life. The only good that came from that was his son, and now the son was gone, having inherited from his mother that peculiarly human disease called short lifespan and succumbed to it at age eighty-one (in man years).

The life of a man is so brief.

The life of an oaf is so long and so lonely.

But here on this mountain, the lonely, loveless, companionless freak had developed a final plan. He would go through the portal one last time and die up there.

It is fitting that my bones should rest up there. I shall set out swimming in the great eternal ocean and swim until the strength leaves my body and I surrender my life to the murky deep.

He reached up and found the secret latch to the door into the lower firmament and he opened it and pulled himself up and in.

He rested on the bottom rung of the nine miles of stairs and tugged thoughtfully on his long red beard as he gazed at his strange surroundings. All he could see were clouds on the ground, and jutting up out of the carpet of clouds here and there were the well-preserved corpses of the several oafs Jack had slain with his pistol so many years ago.

He sighed, memories. Memories. Fi, fi, fi.

Then he began to climb the stairway to the upper firmament. And he climbed and he climbed, and he did not stop for a rest. When he reached the top of the stairs, he stopped to say a prayer: “Lord and creator, be with me as I return to the sacred dust that made me. Amen.”

Then he sang a song that his mother used to play on her small singing harp: “In the heart, in the air, hear the joy everywhere. Shall we call, shall we sing, of the joy everywhere? Come, my friends, let us sing, of the joy everywhere. There is joy, there is joy, there is joy everywhere.”

“I have no friends,” he said aloud, “but I have joy, dear lord.”

And he undid the latch on the door through the upper firmament and he opened the door, bracing himself for the rushing flood of waters which would likely knock him off the stairs and send him tumbling down to his death, his body as broken and lifeless as the quietly resting corpses of the oafs that Jack had slain with his pistol.

But there was no water rampaging down through the door in the upper firmament.

“I guess it is low tide. I got lucky,” the man-oaf mused as he pulled himself up to the hole in the firmament and then climbed into it.

He made it through the many tunnels. He made it to the cave. The cave was dark as always, but the ground was dry. There was no water beneath his feet.

“Low tide,” he said again. “Am I not the fortunate oaf?”

In the cave, which was bereft of life except for his, he had another moment of reflection.

“This is the place where I was conceived. This is the place where that vile oafen general took advantage of my mother.”

He left the cave, and the sun outside was bright, so bright that it took his eyes many minutes to adjust.

“The sun is still so hot,” he said, and he was momentarily seized by the fear that he might die of fire before reaching the ocean, but when his vision had cleared his skin felt no pain and he saw that he was on a green mountaintop.

Green.

There were trees and grass and flowers in bloom. He looked, he looked and looked, but there was no sight of water.

“Perhaps the floods have receded.”

On he walked, until he found the path that led down the mountain. Every step he took, he became more hopeful. His heart was filled with hope. He saw small animals scurrying up the trees. He heard insects buzzing. He heard birds singing.

There was a moment of real fear when he spotted two large brown beos blocking his path down the mountain. But he knew that beos were only dangerous if you troubled their cubs, so he waited a respectful distance away from them until they lumbered out of the way, followed by two lively, playful cubs that had been hiding among the trees.

“It is a good thing that I waited.”

It took him half a day to make it down the mountain, and before he got to the bottom he spotted the village.

There were about a dozen houses and twice as many barns. He noticed six bovins penned into a yard and three hosses tethered to a post. He heard the happy yipping of a small dog. Someone — a young girl, a child, from the voice — was humming a merry tune.

His heart swollen with glee, he skipped the rest of the way down the mountain and then bounded toward the village, which was still about a mile away.

Now he could hear the sound of many dogs barking, large dangerous dogs this time. He heard more voices — male voices, adult males, and the voices were the voices of alarm.

There was the sound of a bell tolling. Sharp commands were shouted. He heard the words, “Giant! Giant! Arrow from quiver! Sword from sheath!”

He heard the unsheathing of swords.

He heard the angry hiss-whistle of arrows in flight.

The first arrow bit into his hand like a great and very sharp tooth.

The second one pierced his upper thigh, and his leg buckled beneath him and he fell.

He was close enough now to see that the houses of the village were too small for oafen habitation. This was a village of mans.

There was the sound of angry barking and the shocking pain of being violently ripped to pieces. The dogs were upon him in the pungent stink of their fury, their hungry mouths dripping warm, blood-tinged saliva, their razor teeth shredding flesh.

Beyond the black fur cloud of canine frenzy, he saw mans with their swords raised high, their heavy armor clanking. Now there was a sandaled foot upon his throat, and he squinted up at the bright sunlight reflected in the broadsword whose deadly edge was poised to deliver a deathblow and behead. Now there was the shout of “Monster!” from the rumbling voice of the brave warrior — the brave giant killer looming above him.

“I am a man! I am a man!” he shouted frantically in Frisian, then English, then Dutch, then Swedish, then German —

There was a moment when he thought he would surely die, but then the noble giant killer rumbled another command and the dogs were pulled off and the biting ceased.

“The world survived the way it has always survived,” the sacred speaker of the mans said in a language they called Deutschailai, which was a mixture of German, Old Frisian, and English. Mike, a student of language as had been his stepfather before him, found that he could communicate in Deutschailai with very little difficulty. “The storms washed away the old, and the new grew back in its place. We do not know why it happened or how it fixed itself, but the waters began slowly to recede after ten years, though it was a slow process. The plants came back shortly thereafter. My people with what animals they could take lived on boats and rafts and anything that would float during the ten years of the great waters and then the forty years of the lesser waters that followed. I was born on a boat and did not leave it until I was well into my middle years. The first time I set foot on land that was not a small island was when I was forty-five, and now I am sixty.”

Mike, the man-oaf, sat at the head of the great table, a place of honor, and listened to the words of the sacred speaker of the mans. Mike wore the bloody bandages of his recent injuries on his hands, legs, and face. The dogs that had bitten him earlier now begged for scraps at his feet.

“The giants,” the sacred speaker said, eyeing Mike curiously, “some of them survived it too. But they are not like they were before. There is no understanding in them. They have no civilization. They roam the world making mischief for all mans. They are cannibals. They seek not to befriend. They want only to eat us. We kill them if we can. We must, for they are monsters. And you look so much like them, though now that we see you up close — you are a man as we are, but a man of great size and wondrous frecks.”

“The world survived.” Mike nodded. “It survived, despite what they did to it.”

“The world always survives,” the sacred speaker said. “The world will survive despite what you do to it. But it is you who may not survive what you do to it. If you are used to living in a green forest and you chop down its trees and turn it into a desert, you will die because you cannot live in a desert. But the desert will become home to those of the great creator’s creatures that can live in a desert. We mans love the way the world is, so we are careful not to do things to make it change into a world that we do not love. Thus, man, who is at one with his environment, shall inherit the earth. The oaf, on the other hand, is selfish, thoughtless, and careless in his actions. Now his world is lost. He had no respect for the natural world and now the natural world has no respect for him. He is a vagabond on the face of the earth. His day is at an end.”

Mike, the man-oaf, nodded his head in understanding, and broke bread with the Deutschailai-speaking mans of the valley below the mountains.

And because he could not go back to the world of his birth where he was a freak, and because this world could not go back to the way it was before, Mike made a home with the mans of the valley below the mountains and lived with them for the rest of his days, which were long compared to the days of mans.

Mike lived to be an oaf of eighty-five, which is close to 255 in man years, and he was buried with the respect and love of all the mans of his village and the lands beyond, for he was great and wise in his deeds unto them.

There were those who believed him to be a god, and others who believed him to be an oaf, though Mike denied the oaf charge vehemently throughout his long life with them, for he loved them and did not want to be viewed as a monster. And so he would tell them that he came from the mountaintop, where he had hidden to escape the years of the great floods.

They knew the old stories and in good-natured jest they would refer to him as Oaf Man or Great Oaf Mike or Gerwargerulf.

Mike chafed at the nicknames, for oafs in those latter days had become monstrous indeed. They had resorted to a diet almost exclusively of meat (chicken, goat, hog, hoss, bovin, beo, dog, cat, rat, and man-meat whenever they could get it), and while they were becoming fewer and fewer in number, they were becoming larger in size.

The average height of these solitary hunters — who had lost the understanding of what it meant to be civilized people living in organized groups in villages and cities — the average height of these latter-day oafs was close to six hla-cubits (13’10"–14’), which was a full quazihla-cubits (about two feet) taller than what they had averaged in the days before the great flood.

It was not unusual for a skilled giant killer to discover and then bring down a behemoth of seven or even eight hla-cubits.

The record, however, was held by a pesky pinhead who measured over ten hla-cubits (23’9"–24’). This big oaf, an unrepentant goat thief and child snatcher, was active in his mischief for almost three years (oaf years) before being brought down by a young giant-killer from Mike’s village.

The demise of this great oaf was a bittersweet event for Mike, for the behemoth was one whom Mike had encountered on occasion and whose personality he had found to be agreeable. In fact, Mike had considered him something of a friend, and it was he of whom Mike had once asked: “Do you remember how it was before the flood?”

And the great oaf had knit up his brow in oafish thought and said, “I remember that I lived in a house. I remember that I had a wife and that I loved her, I think. I do not know if there were children. I remember living in a village, and that there were many of us. I had a respectable profession, I know, but I cannot remember what it was. I think I worked with numbers, though now I have forgotten how to count as well as to read. I remember water, year after year of water, water everywhere, and hunger, and water, and rain, and being wet. Floating on anything that could float. I do not like to think about the flood. I like to think about dry land. I like to think about song. Do you remember the songs of the oafs, little brother?”

Then he and Mike had sung the old songs, after which he said: “There aren’t too many of us left. The mans are wiping us out.”

“Yes they are. But that is because we were not wise stewards of the earth. And so the great creator has given the world over to them. One day we shall all be gone.”

And again the great pinhead knit up his brow. “Yes. It is too bad. But aren’t the mans making the same mistake by wiping us out? Are we not children of the great creator too? When we are gone, will not great nature miss us?”

Mike could find no answer for him, and thus they parted that day.

Mike would recall the big oaf fondly as a great singer of songs, for he knew all the old songs. Mike would also recall him as a great poser of questions, for he would pose questions that Mike had no answer to.

From time to time, Mike would encounter other oafs (or giants, as they were now called), and the oaf would say to him, “Little brother, why do you dwell here among these mans?” and he would angrily shout, “What does it look like I am doing? I own them! They are mine! Stay away from my mans, pinhead!”

Thus, Mike protected his village of mans from the occasional wandering oaf that was looking for an easy meal, for oafs in their feral form are territorial and do not encroach on another oaf’s land, even if he is a shorty who stands just under ten feet.

Mike was married three times and well outlived each wife each time, for the year of the oaf is three times the year of man. He fathered forty children, each of whom was tall, but not so tall as to be mistaken for an oaf.

Each of Mike’s children had red body hair and faces full of frecks.

Most of Mike’s 308 grandchildren had red body hair and frecks also, though not all of them. Many, but a little fewer than most, of Mike’s 3,402 great-grandchildren had red hair and frecks. Mike’s great-great-grandchildren numbered well over 60,000 and their descendents made up a large part of the village-states of Reddberg, Roseberg, and Mikelberg, and a sufficient number had red hair and frecks and lofty physical statures, but not all.

Ultimately, the world of mans grew and the world of oafs shrank. There came a day when mans began to hunt oafs for sport. Indeed, the head of an oaf became a trophy of great value and worth more than its weight in silver, for the mans did learn to love silver as their world grew.

And when the day of death came for Mike, who never did change his name to Tlotl, he was the last of the oafs, for the mans had hunted them into absolute extinction, man being an excellent and natural hunter.

Oafs, who were once thought to be gods, were never seen in the world again.

And the songs of the oafs were heard no more.