The Man With a Hundred Wives

by John Ryland

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

As the movement on the wall began to slow, his vision cleared and he was looking at rusty gears and weather boards again. Drifting back from where he’d been, Charles slowly became aware of a wetness in his crotch. He moved, adjusting himself in his jeans. His first thought was that he’d wet himself, but the stickiness of the wetness told him that he had not. It was worse.

Looking around while his mind tried to come to grips with all it had experienced, he found the old man sitting next to a small collection of rocks encircling a bed of red embers near the shed. Atop the fire, perched atop a four-way lug wrench used for changing tires, sat an iron skillet. In the pan a mixture of minced meat and chopped potatoes sizzled above the heat. A tiny flume of smoke rose from the fire, dancing along the underside of the skillet. Charles watched as it slipped from beneath the cast iron skillet and slithered toward the bluest sky he’d ever seen.

“And he’s back.” The old man chuckled and pinched up a lump of the mixture on his plate with a piece of white bread and took a bite. “Have a nice trip?” he added with a smirk.

“What the hell did you do to me?” Charles asked, stomping up to the man, ignoring the flumes of colored powder settling on his expensive tennis shoes.

“I didn’t do anything.” The old man grabbed another bite and shoved it in his mouth. “You did all that on your own.”

“You hypnotized me.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” the man replied with an incredulous snort.

Charles adjusted himself again. “You hypnotized me and molested me, you pervert!”

The old man finished his meal and set the plate aside before standing. “I never laid a hand on you, kiddo. You just don’t wanna believe what you saw, what you did, or where you’ve been.”

“I’ve been right here.”

The old man shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not.” His silver-blue eyes scrutinized Charles. “Do you really believe I’ve spent a hundred years collecting the perfect gears and a hundred more arranging them in just the exact position so that I can get my jollies watching a sniveling punk mess up overpriced jeans?”

Charles’s shoulders dropped, knowing the man was right. “No.”

“Look, it’s all good, Sir Charles Doodoo Brown. First time I went, I peed all over myself.” He went back to the fire, picked up his own plate and dished a pile of the meat mixture onto it. He dropped a few slices of bread on top and brought it back to Charles. “Hungry?”

“Yes, I’m starving.” Charles took the plate and began devouring the food with his fingers. “I just had breakfast. Don’t know why I’m so hungry,” he said through a mouthful of food.

“First of all, don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s kinda gross. Especially corned beef hash. And secondly. you been standing there” — he paused to look up at the sun, allowing the dappled light to fall on his face — “about three hours.”

“Three—” Charles chewed and swallowed the food in his mouth. “Three hours?”

The old man chuckled. “Pretty good for a first time.”

Charles joined him by the fire. “Are you a witch?”

“Really?” the old man asked, leveling his gaze at Charles. “Witches are women. Warlocks are male.”

“Sorry.” Charles ate the rest of his food in silence, then looked at the man again. “Are you a warlock?”

“No.”

“What are you?”

“I’m an old man, can’t you tell by looking at me?”

“I see you’re an old man, but this place...” Charles trailed off as he surveyed the yard. “The wind chimes, the floor.” He swept two fingers across the ground, gathering up some of the colored dust. He held them before him, allowing the dust to fall into the embers where it crackled noisily. Small tongues of fire leapt up, their color matching that of the powder. “And the gears on the wall.”

“Pretty neat, ain’t it?”

Charles nodded emphatically. “You think? Look, your secret is safe with me. What is this place?”

Adolphus Zanderfield shrugged. “It’s my back yard.”

“It’s more than that and you know it.”

The man shrugged again. “You seem like a good kid. My advice to you is to go away and forget about this place. I’ve signed your paper and given you a glowing review and a recommendation to the judge that your record be expunged. He will do it. Trust me.”

“Go? Why?”

The old man sighed and slumped in his chair. “I’m tired.”

“Of what?”

“Living.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“And that’s best, for you. Go home, enjoy your life to the fullest, grow up, have kids, grow old and die and be thankful for that, too.”

“I don’t understand. This place is awesome. I could stay here forever.”

“You say that, but forever is a long time, kiddo. Be careful what you wish for.”

“I haven’t wished for anything. I’m just saying there is some cool stuff here.” Charles ran a hand over the back of his neck to smooth the fine hairs that were beginning to rise there. He looked around the lot as the air around him slowly began to take on a charge.

“You feel it?” The old man looked to the sky as a clap of thunder rolled over them.

“It wasn’t supposed to rain today.”

The old man got up and moved his chair under the porch, then retrieved the skillet, putting it on a shelf. “Better get under here or more than your drawers are gonna be wet.”

Charles stood and joined him, rolling his shoulders as his skin began to tingle. “I feel like I’m being shocked or something.”

“It’ll pass.” The man surveyed his yard as the first drops of rain began to fall. The first few drops struck strategically placed pieces of junk and produced a series of pinging noises in rapid succession.

Charles watched and listened as the rain began to fall in irregular patterns, each drop finding a piece of junk that produced a different sound. In a matter of seconds the rain turned the menagerie of junk into an eloquent symphony of beautiful sounds. He stood, enthralled, as his eyes and ears tried to discern the sounds, placing them with the once-maligned junk that the rain struck. In the end, he gave up and allowed himself to enjoy the music.

His eyes fell to the ground a few inches from his feet. The rain that fell to the ground was beginning to wash the powder into a tapestry of color. He watched as the powder, moved, and shifted by the rain, began to flow into shapes and images, creating a painting that he could only equate to the impressionist masters of Monet and Renoir.

As the music played, the swirling collage of color on the ground began to take shape, revealing a collection of women in pastel dresses and hats making their way across a field set ablaze in a riot of wildflowers of every shape and color imaginable.

“Ah. There they are,” the old man said nodding his head with a smile. “I call this one, ‘My Hundred Wives.’ It has to be my favorite.”

Charles looked from the man to the ground in amazement. “So you’re seeing this too?”

“It’s real,” he said with a nod. “There’s a lot of them that come when it rains. The music changes, the painting changes. Nothing stays the same, kiddo, but sometimes they do repeat.”

Charles shook his head and extended a hand to the edge of the roof, collecting the rainwater in the palm of his hand. He looked at the clear water for a moment, then tilted his hand and allowed it to pour out.

“This place is freaking amazing, and you act like it’s nothing.” He shook his head. “I mean, in my mind I’m referencing Impressionist painters who died in the 1800’s that I’ve never heard of before and you’re just like ‘meh’.”

“Oh, on the contrary, my young friend. This place is amazing, but it’s just a place. It’s not the lot that makes this stuff happen.” He shouldered his coat higher and pulled it closed against the rain, allowing his eyes to wash over the lot.

“Then what is it? Magic?”

“It’s not magic,” he sighed and shook his head. “You see, I’m not as old as you think.”

“How old are you?”

“Guess.”

Charles scratched his chin. “I don’t know. Maybe seventy-five?”

The man laughed again, adding his own music to that of the rain. “That’s how old I was when I became a Keeper.”

“A ‘Keeper’?”

The old man nodded with a sigh. “I’m actually just over six hundred and fifty years old.”

“Yeah, right.”

“No, really. Keepers live as long as they have to.”

“Oooookay,” Charles said, turning his eyes back to the painting on the ground before him. The crowd of women had grown, their numbers reaching almost to the gate. If he had to guess their number, he would have to put it close to one hundred.

“You see, young man. Things like art and music and wonder and joy don’t just happen in this world. They are fleeting. If not for the Keepers, they would eventually evaporate or be depleted. We kinda help to create things and to keep the flow moving.”

Charles stared at the old man, not wanting to believe him, but unable to dismiss him at the same time. Something inside his chest knew he was telling the truth. He looked back at the ground, watching as the colors began to run together, ruining the painting. His eyes scanned the junk as the last few notes of music played themselves out. The symphony was over, and the rusted metal was turning back into a simple collection of junk.

As the rain ended, a profound sense of sadness filled his chest and he fought back tears. The weight of a hand fell on his shoulder and a warmth began to push back against the sadness. The two stood silent until the last raindrop fell, and the sadness was gone from his body.

“I don’t know what to say.”

The old man chuckled. “Sometimes there is nothing that needs to be said.” He lifted his hand from Charles’ shoulder and quietly slid a chair behind him.

When his knees wobbled once, then buckled, Charles felt himself falling but couldn’t stop it. He sat down hard on the chair. Looking around he wondered where it came from, then looked up at his companion.

“You’re okay, young man. It happens.” Adolphus looked down at Charles and smiled. “You see, we Keepers do a great service for humanity. We are trusted with the seeds of all that is beautiful in man, but it is a lonely job. You’re only the second person to ever see this lot. The first was a very long time ago. A beautiful young woman.”

“What happened to her?”

He shrugged. “She saw the gears. Imagination, you know.” His mood grew cold and distant. “She stood there for three days. It was too long, but we’re not supposed to pull you out. It’s complicated.” He shook his head and smoothed the crop of silver hair around his mouth. “Anyway, she stayed too long, and it did something to her. When she finally came out, she was different, but not in a good way. One day, years later, a newspaper got thrown over the fence there. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe not. I don’t normally take the paper, mind you, but I opened it and there she was. She was married to some big-shot millionaire or something. I can’t remember. All I know is that looking into her eyes, I knew there was nothing beautiful within her. Not even one scrap.”

“But that’s not your fault. She was probably that way to begin with.”

The old man chuckled and shook his head. “It’s not for me to say. I’m just a Keeper.”

“So, how long do Keepers do this? Do you ever retire?”

“Not in the sense you’re imagining. Some of us are over a thousand years old. Maybe older. When we feel ourselves getting depleted, we find and train a replacement, then we simply become part of the creation, a part of the fabric of beauty and art and music. I like to think I may become a gear on the imagination wall.”

Charles looked back to the ground before him, now washed clean of the dust. He stared at the dull, lifeless mud and sighed, realizing the fragility of the beautiful creation that had been there. A gentle dong of the windchimes drew his attention. His eyes fell on the rusted metal of the pipes and a smile came to his lips.

“Do you know that I once got a failing grade in art class?”

“I am not surprised. Art teachers sometimes want to impose too many rules and lines on art. It’s not their fault, mind you, but it’s a natural reaction to something that cannot be contained.”

“So, you said you were tired?”

“I’m bone weary, young man. This place is a difficult gig. There’s so much ugly, so much strife. It’s hard to keep the flow open.” He sighed and ran both hands over his hair. “Many years ago, the area outside this fence used to be beautiful. The whole neighborhood did. It was a glorious place back then. It all flowed out from this place and enveloped everything.”

“What happened?”

He shrugged. “I don’t really know. I got old and tired, then older and more tired. When I noticed the shrinking happening, I started looking for my replacement. It’s not easy either, you know.”

Charles thought about the rundown neighborhood and the overgrown yard, then the vines on the very fence that surrounded the yard.

“Looks to me like the wolves are at the door.”

“Looks that way to me too, kiddo.” He ran a hand over his beard and held it in his hand for a moment, contemplating something deeply. “Like I said, it’s a tough gig.”

“I’m sure it is. You should probably start training your replacement.”

“I was thinking about looking for one. They don’t just come along. Sometimes they need to be compelled to show up.”

Charles nodded, admitting that he wouldn’t be here if not for the court-ordered community service. “You know, before, I really didn’t rob a bank and kill people. I was just being a smartass.”

“I know,” he answered with a nod. “You’re just a man without direction.”

Charles swallowed hard. “My whole life I’ve felt lost, until I stepped through that gate.”

“I know.” The old man sighed and picked up a bucket of red powder. “I’ve been waiting for you.” He handed the bucket to Charles and picked up one containing blue powder.

“What’s your favorite color?” Charles asked.

The old man bent toward Charles, peered at him as his silver-blue eyes boring into his own. He threw his head back and filled the lot with joyous laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

When he finished laughing the old man shook his head. “You haven’t even noticed, have you?”

“Noticed what?”

The old man bent closer to Charles, opening his eyes wide. “I’m blind, genius.”

Charles’s mouth fell open as he stared into the man’s eyes, for the first time seeing a universe of galaxies and stars, the depth of which he couldn’t comprehend. He felt himself begin to waver, almost weightless. For a moment, he was floating, but a nudge brought him back to Earth.

“C’mon,” the old man said with another laugh as he straightened up. “You have a lot to learn, and I only have a hundred or so years left to teach you.”