Hannibal Heyes Through The Mirror

Hannibal Heyes Through the Mirror The Phanerozoic Period Part I The Paleozoic Years Hannibal Heyes was flat on his back. It was early morning. A pale light shone through the window, and gently lit the room. He stared straight up. The paint on the ceiling was cracked and stained with years of cigar smoke. He could make out the cracks and stains when the ceiling wasn’t spinning, which seemed to be a rare occurrence. Mostly what he saw was a large blurry greasy smear. The mattress was lumpy. He could feel every hill and valley in it. If he bothered he could count them, but he decided against that as he didn’t feel as if his head would survive the attempt. He concentrated on not thinking in an effort to decrease his nausea. God, he had drunk too much. The not thinking didn’t work. He couldn’t fall asleep, so he slowly and painfully sat up, turning so his legs fell over the side of the bed. It creaked in protest. He sat motionless for a few minutes with his eyes closed, letting his head ‘settle’ in its change of position. Finally, he staggered to the dresser and placed both hands on it palms down to ‘right’ himself. He looked at his reflection in the mirror above the dresser. He looked terrible. His body listed to the right. His eyes were bleary and red, his chin had the rough stubble of two days unshaved growth on it, and his Henley was stained. He rubbed his hand across the largest stain on his chest, and then shook his head, slightly, at his unkempt and unwashed appearance. He leaned closer to the mirror until he could see every crease on his face. He lightly touched his face, and then let his hand drift to the same location on his image in the mirror. To his surprise his hand entered the mirror as if it were a thick viscous fluid. He pulled his hand back quickly. Tentatively he put his finger tips on the mirror again. Sure enough, it was like touching quicksilver. He got on the dresser and crouched, putting his palms on the mirror, but in his current state of post inebriation he lost his balance and ‘oozed’ through the mirror, head first. He landed on dirt, spread-eagled on his stomach. He raised his face and spat out some dirt. Dazed, he pulled himself up and sat on his rear. He gazed dopily around, trying to get his bearings. He was in the middle of a dirt road lined on both sides with endless prairie grass. Miles and miles of prairie grass spread out on flat barren land. The horizon was punctuated with scraggly, crooked cottonwood trees. He heard the sound of cicadas in the distance. The sound became a wave that rolled over him and faded into the horizon. His surroundings

looked familiar; they felt familiar, but before he had the opportunity to think it through a voice piped up from behind, and startled his thoughts before they resembled anything coherent. “Welcome laddie. Ye’ll be coming to spend the time with me, will ye?” Heyes turned and faced a small man, no more than four feet in height, legs bowed. He wore workman’s boots, a large brown hat covered with dust, and had a bright red shirt tucked into a pair of miner’s jeans. A crinkly grin spread across his broad, weather beaten face, displaying a full set of worn, cracked, stained teeth. In his right hand he held a pipe. “Who are you?” asked Heyes. “Me? I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past,” replied the little man. “The what?” “The ghost of Christmas Past, laddie. Your ghost of Christmas Past, to be tellin’ the truth.” Heyes looked the little man up and down. “You’re not very impressive,” he said wryly. “Are you certain you’re my ghost?” “Now, don’t ye be insulting me. I’m a fine ghost I am. Ye could be looking far and wide and never find a better ghost.” The little man stiffened. “No offense meant,” said Heyes, and he raised his right hand to the little man. The little man stared at Heyes’ hand. Then he relaxed and took it in his own. “None taken, laddie.” He shook Heyes’ hand vigorously. “The name’s Lucius Cornelius Sulla O’Gursey. And if you’ll be standing yourself up, we’ll be on our way.” Heyes stood, and dusted the legs of his pants. He glanced at the endless plains. “And where, exactly, will we be going?” “On a grand journey through your past, Hannibal Heyes. I’ll be guiding you through all the high points of yer life, ye could say. And a few of them that aren’t so high, neither.” “You don’t mind telling me why, O’Gursey, do you?” “Och, well, you see, laddie, it’s something I’ve been wanting to do for some time now. No particular reason, but I’ll be thinking it’ll be a fine way to spend and afternoon or two.” “OK, but if we’re going to spend that much time together I have a question first.” The little man nodded as if to say go ahead.

“Are you Irish or Scottish? ‘Cause that’s about the worst Irish accent I’ve ever heard, and if I have to listen to that for two days I figure I have a right to know.” “Well, to be telling you the truth, it’s neither, I am.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You know how it tis. The family landed in Ellis Island, and with a name like ours, no one could spell it, y’see. So they changed a few letters, and Americanized it, so to say.” He lowered his voice even more. “It’s actually Ogerski, from Russia, don’t you know, but seein’ as America’s the land of opportunity, and ye can be anything you want…” “You decided to become Irish American.” “Exactly.” The little man smiled in satisfaction. “Well, if that’s all you’ll be wishing to know before we start our grand adventure, let’s be on our way.” He puffed on his pipe. Smoke billowed out and filled the sky and prairie like a dense fog. It was almost impossible to see anything, and the ground rolled up and down. Leaves of grass thickened, and the blades beneath Heyes’ feet pushed him over as they grew towards the sky. As the smoke cleared Heyes could see that the rest of the grass was denser, and was a deeper, richer green. Soon the men were surrounded by a verdant, green forest of densely packed pine trees with a deep undergrowth of foliage that included some spectacular poison oak. Birds chirped, cooed, and twittered. An owl could be heard in the distance hooting, and small animals rustled through the undergrowth. The sound of water running in a good sized river could be heard, none too far off. “Where are we?” Heyes asked. He got up again, and again brushed the dust off his pants. “You said you were the ghost of my past. This doesn’t look anything like where I grew up.” “Now, laddie, don’t you be getting your dander up. I think it’s a wonderful job of it, I’ll be doing. You’re nae enjoying it?” “O’Gursey, I’m not saying it isn’t a far sight better than the Kansas I grew up in…” “There, then don’t you be complaining. It’s not easy creating a forest like this, especially in Eastern Kansas. Just look at it. It’s a work of art.” “Yes, but…” “You’ll not be saying you’ll not be liking it better than that prairie with those spindly excuses for trees.” “I’m not saying that. But you said we were reviewing my past, and this isn’t it!” Heyes and O’Gursey faced each other, hands on hips, both men bristling with smoldering anger.

“Now see here, Mister Hannibal Heyes, this is my creation, and that’s that. If it’s a past ye’ll be wanting, ye’ll be playing it my way or no way, do I make meself clear. Ye do want a past, don’t ye?” “Are you threatening me? Are you saying that if I don’t accept this past, I don’t have any past?” “Well now, ye’ll be understanding me just fine, I’ll be thinking.” Heyes took a deep breath. He paused, and turned in a circle. He had to admit this was a lot finer than the landscape he had been raised in. It was, in fact, beautiful, and no where near as boring as the Kansas his parents had moved to so early in his childhood, the Kansas so broad and flat that it blocked out any memory of the Ohio he was born in. In fact with a forest like this, there would be a variety of game. He smiled. That meant he had eaten better in his past than he had eaten. He remembered the endless corn meal meals, supplemented with occasional buffalo meat that his family had first eaten on arrival. All that corn flour. Corn grew in eastern Kansas. It thrived when nothing else had. Saved them from starvation, but lordy, it had been a dull diet. The sheep Pa had brought hadn’t thrived, the few that survived were needed for their wool, and had to be replaced with pigs for meat, but that took time and money. O’Gursey studied Heyes. “Ye’ll be understanding me?” he asked tentatively. He puffed on his pipe. Heyes nodded. “OK, we’ll play it your way. Lead on O’Gursey.” “There ye go, laddie. Onward to better things, say I. It’s your homestead we’ll be beginning with.” Heyes’ smile broadened. A forest like this would produce a wonderful log cabin, nothing like the shack he had grown up in made of the available wood and rocks, that had barely met the government’s size requirement for staking a claim. O’Gursey waved his hand, and they were in front of… Heyes stared in disbelief. O’Gursey looked sideways at him. “Now don’t tell me you’ll nae be liking it.” “O’Gursey, it’s Mock -Tudor.” “Aye it tis at that,” the little man said proudly. “It’s in honor of your family being from England.”

“O’Gursey, my family came from Ohio. My ancestors were from England, about a hundred and fifty years ago.” O’Gursey smiled. “Now, now, laddie. Not in this past. In this past your parents arrived from England, and after a trek of incredible hardships crossed the barren plains of New York by wagon through the rough terrain of New Jersey, Vermont, Maryland, wandered down the Eastern Oregon Trail, to the Carolinas, west to Tennessee, down to Georgia, around back up to Louisiana, where they met up with their distant relations, the Currys, back up to Missouri and on into this amazing land of Kansas.” “O’Gursey, do you happen to know anything about geography? And what happened to Ohio?” “Now laddie, why let a few details get in the way of this wonderful past I’ll be creating for ye?” Heyes opened his mouth. Eventually he said, “Ah.”

Story Number One Westward Ho Ho O’Gursey began the first tale of Hannibal Heyes’ auspicious past… The lone covered wagon chugged on. Uphill and downhill, through winding lanes, past green forests, alongside rippling streams, and babbling brooks, through rain, through hail, it continued on its tortuous journey. One night it parked all by its lonesome self in a vast dark forest. Strange sounds could be heard. They grew closer, louder, nearer, scarier. What were they? Indians sneaking up to attack and murder the occupants of the wagons? Robbers sneaking up to attack and murder the occupants of the wagon? Wild animals sneaking up to attack and murder the occupants of the wagon? The escaped inmates of the local insane asylum sneaking up to attack and murder the occupants of the wagon? The man and woman in the wagon shivered in fear. The woman clutched the man’s chest. The noises increased. The agony of suspense was too great. The man, our current hero, Ares Heyes, gathered his courage, and went to investigate. He tripped on the foraging raccoon, and it ran off. Fantastic as it sounds there were no wild man-eating wild animals, bloodthirsty Indians, ferocious robbers or even one crazed mad man to contend with. He didn’t have to fight anyone or any beast single-handedly with great courage. He wasn’t seriously wounded, and he didn’t return to his anxious wife, Mary Sue, our current heroine, dripping in blood. She didn’t have to nurse him back to health from next to death

with the assistance of a Native American woman wise with the knowledge of rare folk remedies, over weeks or months. No, nothing of the sort occurred. Ares went back into the wagon and fell asleep.

The little-wagon-that-could trudged onward. Another little-wagon-that-could joined it. They journeyed on. They came across a deep river and had to cross it. Ares Heyes and Hermes Curry, another hero for you, led the oxen and the wagons into the flowing water. And did one of them get carried off by a torrent of water, and was his body battered like a rag doll by the sharp rocks as it tumbled on, and was he almost carried over the edge of a thundering waterfall, and nearly drown, only to be saved at the last instant by the other? You may find this difficult to believe but this didn’t happen. Did the oxen spook, and as a result did one of the wagons turn on its side, and did its female occupant perch precariously on the side of the wagon, her dress ripped and tattered, screaming in despair for her life? And if this was Mary Sue Curry, another heroine, and one who already had children, was she desperately clutching her little ones, and were they crying in fear? And did the water threaten to reach her neck? And did she have to struggle to keep her frightened babes above its raging torrents. And was she saved in the nick of time by her husband? And her children saved by Ares Heyes. And was one of the children thought dead, but brought back to life by Ares, who knew mouth to mouth resuscitation? Again, although it may sound incredible, none of these things happened. They forded the river easily, and had a picnic lunch on the other side. In addition, no one became deathly ill from Small Pox, or measles, or even a bad case of the ague. The entire group of travelers was hardy and healthy. Not even the youngest child fell victim to disease, and no one was buried with great lamentations on the trail, a pathetic hand carved cross left behind to mark the dismal spot. No, they enjoyed the best of health on the long trek. They didn’t run out of supplies or become so short of food that they had to ration the last biscuits. They didn’t have to slaughter the oxen, and Ares Heyes and Hermes Curry did not have to pull the heavy weight of the wagons by hand over hundreds of miles of rough terrain. And no one died of hunger. No one wandered off and was lost. The men didn’t have to search fruitlessly, and tirelessly to the brink of exhaustion for days, and no one was despaired of or mourned for, only to miraculously reappear to the great joy of all at the very moment the wagons were starting on their way again.

Interestingly enough, they did not come across a lone traveler abandoned by his wagon train after being accused falsely of theft. And they didn’t bring this poor soul with them, and they didn’t catch up with the wagon train he had belonged to, and Ares Heyes didn’t cleverly discover the true thief. No, none of this occurred. They crossed the Missouri/Kansas border in safety, and after traveling a little farther found some promising land. Ares Heyes parked his covered wagon. He smiled at his wife, Mary Sue. She smiled back. He smiled at her again. She smiled back again. He waved good-bye as the Currys, Hermes Curry, and his wife, Mary Sue, and their family, traveled on to the next empty lot to stake their claim. Ares and Mary Sue went back to smiling at each other. They spent most of the first day in their new home territory smiling, and then belatedly realized it would be a good idea to begin to unpack. And so, in the dimming light of the end of the day they did. Now you must realize that Ares and Mary Sue were good people, and reasonably well educated, but between them they didn’t have much common sense. But they did like to read. So they began by unpacking their books. They loved books, the feel of them, the smell of a good leather binding, and even the words in them, and had filled the wagon with piles of them. This didn’t leave much room for food as you might think. So even though they had managed the trip with barely enough to eat, they didn’t have much left over to survive in Kansas. But they counted on the ample game to tide them over the first year. Ares reminded himself to send a letter back east to have his rifle shipped. That would make it easier to hunt, and make it less likely they would starve. He smiled at Mary Sue. To please her he had packed her volumes of Shakespeare instead of the rifle. And how could he argue with her? She was right; food for the mind and for the soul was much more important than the daily bread and butter that kept your material body alive. And what man wouldn’t obey the gentle commands given so delicately and delightfully by a lovely young wife. Yes, it was true; they had what really mattered—each other. And since they were both incredibly good-looking, with dimples to die for, heart-shaped faces, dark brown hair, and eyes as brown as a the coat of a brown bear, food wasn’t exactly their first thought. Mary Sue Heyes thought of Ares and how fantastically sexy, and muscular he was without his shirt on, especially when he was working hard, as he soon would be, building their Mock-Tudor English homestead. He would be dripping with salty sweat. Oh, how she would like to lick…

Ares gazed at his wife with lust-crazed eyes, his lids drooping with anticipation. To say he was thinking would be incorrect. He was past thinking…

End

“Was that a story?” asked Heyes, skeptically. “I thought it was a grand tale, lad, and I’m thinking I was smart to leave something to the imagination.” “So ye see,” the little man continued, changing the subject abruptly from his story back to their surroundings, this is where they ended up, and built this beautiful home of yours. Such a glorious country, ye’ll be agreeing, I’m thinking.” Before Heyes could speak he continued, “Of course it didn’t stay this way. Your father, and Mr. Curry, ah, a two man ecological disaster, them two, didn’t take them long cut all this down for planting, but that’s progress for ye.” He waved his hand and now the house was surrounded by fields of corn. O’Gursey spoke on; clearly mesmerized by the picture he was painting. “Ah, there were good times, and there were bad, times of plenty and times of famine, a time to sow, and a time to reap, a time for war, and a time for peace, a time…” “Kinda losing your originality there, O’Gursey,” Heyes said with a slight smirk. “Do you mind nae interrupting me while I am in the midst of breathin’ life into your life? Who’s creating this past anyway?” “I’m sorry,” responded Heyes, laughing, “go on, I can’t wait.” “Well soon enough, your mother was expecting you. And so she told you stories.” “Before I was born?” “Ah she was a reader, that one. She had read all the latest, most progressive ideas on carrying the wee one in her belly, and so, since she didn’t have recordings of Beethoven and Mozart to play to ye, to expand your mind and imagination, and aid in your development, she told ye the stories instead.”

“Ah, many and fascinating were these tales. ‘Practical Agriculture for Dummies,’, ‘Corn Crazy,’ ‘Sugar from Sorghum,’ ‘Popular Pigs,’ ‘Horse Husbandry,’ ‘Little Known Secrets of Manure,’…” “I get the point, O’Gursey. So how come I’m not a farmer today, if I absorbed all that?” “Ah well, I said she knew the latest methods, lad, not that they worked.” Heyes grunted.

Story Number Two A Story Related by Mary Sue to Her Baby Bump

Once upon a time in the land of Cuahuacan lived a stalk of corn named Temilotecatl. He lived alone, and because he lived alone, he was unable to produce a usable crop. Centeotl looked down from his home in the skies, and sighed at his adherent. This was not good, he thought, and so he trotted off to consult with Chicomecoatl. He found her grinding the corn into maize. “Chicomecoatl,” he spake, “Temilotecatl lives alone, and this is not good. Will you help me find him a mate so he can produce corn products?” “Cannot you see I’m busy grinding corn into maize?” asked Chicomecoatl. She saw the sadness in Centeotl’s face, and threw down her pestle. “Oh very well, I will help you. Why you cannot handle these very basic difficulties on your own is beyond me. What a helpless doofus you are.” She put on her poncho, and together the two higher beings went in search of a mate for Temilotecatl. They traveled far and wide to many lands and across many oceans and inland bodies of water. After all, Centeotl was footing the bill, so Chicomeocoatl took advantage of his generosity, and lack of match making know how, to have a fun vacation at his expense. But even too much fun pales eventually, and so Chicomecoatl took Centeotl back to the land of Cuahuacan, and showed him Anacaona, the loveliest stalk of corn to be found. Centeotl was so enthralled with her beauty that he overlooked the length of the trip, seven-eights of which was unnecessary, and hurried to Temilotecatl. He whispered in Temilotecatl’s ear, the one at the top of the stalk, that he must journey over the hill. And so Temilotecatl did. And he found Anacaona, and they were married.

They had many children, and these children had many children, and so on. They grew tall and strong, and much exquisite corn was harvested. The corn was brilliantly multicolored, yellow like the glorious sun, brick red as red as freshly made bricks, purple as the lips of an oxygen starved man suffering a mitral valve infarction, and tan. All of this incredible beauty was enveloped by glistening sleek, glossy, satiny, silken, silky, slick, lustrous, gossamer strands of glorious golden corn silk. The generations of corn had brilliant multi scented aromas. It smelled mostly like corn, but had a hint of rose, and a pinch of freshly fallen dew on a spring morn in Poughkeepsie, just when the fairies have nodded off after a late night of drink and debauchery followed by a strident lecture from Queen Titania. The wonderful, amazing, extraordinary, magnificent, beautiful, lovely, aromatic, delicate, ethereal, robust, jejune, hydroxylated, metaphysical, resplendent, hydrogenated, supercilious, dramatic, pixilated, membranous, inebriated, resplendent, glossy, inquisitive, buxom, ‘tintinnabulating corn with a crystalline delight’* had many uses. From it was made, corn pone, corn mush, corn bread, corn on the cob, popcorn, corn chips, baked corn, seared corn, corn dogs, fried corn, sautéed corn, refried corn, roasted corn, broiled corn, corn startch, grilled corn, corn flakes, corn flour, corn meal, corn tortillas, steamed corn, creamed corn, boiled corn, corn cake, cornucopias, corn seed, corn fritters, corn oil, corn whisky, corn soap, and corny jokes. And who could forget hominy and ethanol? *Thank you Edgar Allan Poe

End

“Now I’ll be telling ye a story of your neighbors, Hermes and Mary Sue Curry. But I’ll be wanting a larger audience, I’ll be thinking.” O’Gursey put his pipe in his mouth. He exhaled a ring of smoke that spread, and soon the ‘fog’ had returned, obscuring the surroundings. The ground buckled, and Heyes fell backwards, over a large lump on the prairie behind him, and landed flat on his back. The scenery cleared, and returned to normal, looking exactly as it had before the little man puffed on his pipe. “Do you have to do that?” complained Heyes, in a voice that was an octave higher than usual. “Having a hangover is bad enough, but with you making everything dip and move, it’s downright sickening.” “Ah well, I thought you would be pleased.”

“Well I am not, O’Gursey.” The lump groaned. Heyes jerked up. “What the…” He looked down on the lump, and when he could refocus his blurry eyes, realized he was seeing a brown hat squashed down on its wearer’s face covering the wearer’s eyes. He raised the hat and replaced it into its proper position, and stared into the blue eyes in front of him. The blue eyes stared back, confused. “What happened? Where are we?” “Kid, you’re not gonna believe this but we’re in Kansas.” The Kid looked around suspiciously. “You’re right, Heyes, I don’t believe it. This may be a lotta places, but it sure ain’t Kansas.” “For right now it is Kid. Kid, I’d like you to meet Lucius Cornelius Sulla O’Gursey.” The Kid turned to the little man, and groaned again. “I knew we drank too much last night.” “Now, now, now, don’t you be too hard on yourself, lad. You’ve had a rough life of it and ye deserve to celebrate now and again. Now, let me explain things to you. I’m his,” and here he pointed to Heyes, “Ghost of Christmas Past, and I’m telling him his life. This around you is Kansas, and we’ve got to the exciting part of the story where your parents arrived in the region of eastern Kansas, and settled in their new homesteads. As I’m about to relate a story about your parents, I’m thinking you would enjoy the hearing of it as well.” Curry’s mouth dropped open at the beginning of the little man’s speech, and remained that way throughout. He turned to Heyes. Heyes shrugged. O’Gursey sat on the ground beside the two men. He made himself comfortable and, after clearing his throat, began his next tale.

Story Number Three Bundle of Joy The Curry Family relaxed in their one room cabin after a hard day of labor. Mary Sue Curry and her daughters Mary and Sue were sewing and knitting. Their elder son,

Mercury Curry, was running in circles pretending he was a Pony Express messenger delivering the mail. Mary Sue sighed. Her sigh was a combination of contentment and irritation. She was content with her burgeoning family, well with most of it at any rate. However, she wasn’t satisfied with the one room cabin they were currently forced by circumstances to live in. It wasn’t big enough for their growing needs. She was jealous of Mary Sue Heyes with her Mock-Tudor English homestead. It was so roomy, so airy, so upper middle class English. With all the children, coming and coming, Hermes and Mary Sue simply hadn’t had the time to build their own castle. She stifled a sigh. Her husband had found the time to build the Mock-Tudor for Ares Heyes, however. That really rankled. Ares couldn’t build an outhouse on his own, in fact his first attempt had collapsed, but he had other qualities that more than made up for that. His most outstanding quality being that he was incredibly glib of tongue and could talk her hard-working husband into almost anything. Mary Sue Curry eyed her one room cabin. It was so dark, so small, so working class. It had a cheap thatched roof, with a hole in it for a chimney, and two small openings for windows. It definitely lacked circulation. Her nose curled at the offensive odor of buffalo chips burning in the fire pit. She looked at her husband, Hermes. Ah, he was a handsome man she thought, with his curly blond hair and brilliant blue eyes. Daughter Mary tugged on Mary Sue’s skirt for help, and Mary Sue rapped her on the head. She picked up Mary’s knitting and ripped out the errors the young girl had made, which reduced the needlework approximately two-thirds. “Ma,” wailed Mary, “Why’d ya do that? It was fine the way it was. I just wanted to know how to pick up that one dropped stitch.” “It was not fine the way it was. You’ve dropped so many stitches it looks more like Swiss cheese than a scarf. You’ll not care for having so many holes in the winter, young lady.” Mary grumbled to herself, picked up the depleted scarf, and wriggled back into her seat to try again. Hermes Curry smoked a pipe and flipped through a Sears Catalogue. He was relaxing after a hard day’s work in the fields. Not only his fields, but Ares Heyes’ as well, as the poor man barely knew which end of a hoe to hold and which to use. Now he raised his head at the minor commotion and gazed at his wife with his brilliant blue eyes. His blond curls were tousled, and waved slightly at his movement. He watched her correct their daughter, and fondly studied her Grecian features. Her brilliant blue eyes were now fixed on her knitting. Her blonde curls rebelled against being pinned back in a bun, and strands of curly blonde hair freed themselves, only to be quickly pinned back into their prison.

As if on cue, Hermes and Mary Sue looked towards the fire pit simultaneously. The object of their attention was Old Jedediah Curry. He sat near the fire warming his bones, and whittling. He was the part of the burgeoning family that Mary Sue was not particularly pleased with. Jedediah Curry bore absolutely no resemblance to his grandson, Hermes, having dark straight hair and black eyes. He was short and excessively thin, with angular features. His personality was unlike Hermes Curry or any of Hermes’ known relatives. He was a crotchety curmudgeon, and complained continuously of anything and everything. He had a sharp temper, and didn’t particularly care for other adults. Children he could tolerate, and he seemed to have developed a slight fondness for Hannibal and baby Jedediah. It was hard to tell, but he didn’t snap at them as much as he snapped at others. One day, about five years prior to this tale, Jedediah Curry had arrived on the doorstep of Hermes and Mary Sue’s home, unannounced. He proclaimed he was Hermes’ grandfather, and on the basis of that relationship, he moved in. From that day on he never worked a lick. He filled his time with whittling, and eating. For such an old skinny man, he sure could eat a lot. Hermes tried to store food in case of a bad harvest, but the old man always sniffed it out. He had a better nose than a bloodhound when it came to food. If he were family Hermes would put up with him with a better outlook, and not consider him so much of a burden. He’d still mind the man freeloading, eating food that could be saved for hard times, just not so much. The problem was Hermes had the nagging suspicion the old man was no Curry at all and this made him resent the old man all the more. The man became known to all and sundry as Grandpa Curry, and was universally accepted as a member of the Hermes’ family. The old man wouldn’t budge, and somehow managed to imply that the burden of proof of their not being related fell on Hermes. When the Currys moved on to Kansas the old man had come along as well, sort of a piece of furniture that no one wanted, but that no one could throw out. Near him was the wooden cradle with the newest member of the family, his namesake, sleeping contentedly. It burbled, and the old man stopped whittling momentarily. He looked at its tiny fists, and its peaches and cream complexion. Like all the Currys, except for Grandpa, the little tot had blue eyes, and wisps of blond curls. The baby stirred. It yawned and raised its tiny hands. It burbled a bit more, and then to the delight and pleasure of the family spoke its first word. “Food,” the tiny boy said. “That’s my namesake,” said Grandpa Curry.

The End

O’Gursey stopped to light his pipe. He puffed on it thoughtfully, emitting only small wiffs of smoke, and then continued with his history. “Ah poor Hannibal Heyes,” he said. “Here were the Curries in their happy home, enjoying the society and love of a large family, and where were you? Your mother died when you were born, and left you a forlorn boy.” “Come to think of it, that sad event occurred before the story I just related.” He looked at his pocket watch. “Well, seein’ as we can’t be late for a very important date, I’ll skip the telling of it, and that way we’ll be running more smoothly and on time, I’ll be thinking,” said O’Gursey to Heyes. “That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it? Just like that, my mother is dead? And anyway my mother had seven children, and all seven survived, or would have, along with her, if it wasn’t for the war.” “Your mother, Mary Sue Heyes, died in childbirth when you were born. It was a tragedy. Your father, Ares Heyes, mourned her deeply for a few weeks, and then married Galatea Grand. Together they had four children, your step-siblings. Ah now, that was rough for you, it was. She was a wicked step-mother, and you were her Cinderella. Tsk Tsk. A hard life you led of it. She’d single ye out for chores a lad twice your age could barely manage, and took the strap to you often, mostly for mischief her own little darlings had committed.” “I suppose if I say I was a happy middle child, in a big family, and loved my siblings, it wouldn’t make a difference, would it?” The little man shook his head. “Well, what about me?” complained the Kid. “Who were these people in the last story, anyway? I don’t recognize any of them.” “Lad, lad,” O’Gursey sighed, “these are your family. I’ve gone, as I’ve explained to your fourteenth cousin three times removed here, to considerable trouble and time, and effort to create this wonderful past for you. You want to explain to your friend here the alternative?” O’Gursey asked Heyes. He raised his pipe and put it in his mouth. “Kid, just humor the man. I figure you might as well let him continue. Anyway, according to him, there is no alternative. It’s this past or no past.”

“Uh…” The Kid looked at Heyes who nodded. Now it was his turn to shrug his shoulders. The Kid scratched his head. “How do you figure that? I mean how does that work? How can we suddenly have no past?” “Young man that is something you really don’t want to know. Ah, it’s a strange thing it is. Imagine not being. Look, if you’ll be wanting to get through this past of yours, and on to the present, you’d let me continue my tale with less interruptions. I would, if I were you, that is.” Curry and Heyes stared at each other. “OK then,” said the Kid in confused resignation. “That’s better, that is.” O’Gursey smoked contentedly for a few minutes, and small puffs came out of the bowl of the pipe that formed into puffy prairie dogs before they faded away. “Ah, many are the stories of your childhood I can regale ye with. Do ye remember the time ye both went fishing at the river Avon?” Heyes put his head in his hand, and groaned. “I suppose there is a town named Stratford nearby.” “You’ll be supposing wrong, you will. The closest town to your homestead and that of the Currys’ is Larceny Crick. And if you’ll stop interrupting, its progress we’ll be making instead of wading through treacle, thank you. I’ll be telling the story, if ye don’t mind, that is.”

Story Number Four The Big Fish

“Hey, Heyes, something’s tuggin’ on my fishin’ line.” Jed Curry held the wiggling line excitedly. “Cousin, you caught something.” “Sure did.” Heyes ran over to help his cousin, the startling blue-eyed, cherubic, Jed. His chocolate brown eyes flashed. The boys tugged together, and eventually pulled up a large fish. “Wow, you sure are lucky, Jed.”

“I sure am,” said Jed, let’s go show Ma.” “OK.” Both boys ran to the Curry home. Finis

“Then there was Christmas, 1859.”

Story Number Five Christmas, 1859 or 1858 or Maybe 1857 or another Year

The streets of Larceny Crick were bedecked with the trimmings that brought glad tidings of the Yule season. Festive wreaths of holly hung from arched lentils above the doors, Christmas trees lit with candles could be seen through the bay windows, and mistletoe was placed in stone coves in the hopes of catching an admired one unawares. The smells of Christmastime wafted down the narrow alleyways. The scents of roast goose stuffed with apples and prunes, and garnished with red currant jelly and bread sauce, roast potatoes, brussels sprouts with chestnuts, Christmas pudding, and rum punch. Night-soil men offloaded their collections of spoils outside the city walls, and returned to eagerly waiting families. Ebenezer Scrooge III left his office, bought some gruel, and hurried home as flakes of snow began to fall. But he has nothing to do with our story, and so let us not follow him, but rather travel to the outskirts of Larceny Crick, to the Mock-Tudor homestead of the Heyes family, and join in the warmth of the season in front of the hearth. Supper was over, Hades Heyes had been the fortunate recipient of the coin in the pudding, and Christmas Crackers had been pulled. “Children,” announced Ares Heyes in his impeccably English, English accent, as the family settled in front of the fireplace, “we shall now sing carols of the season.”

“Oh Goody Gumdrops,” squealed Adelphia Heyes, “let us sing ‘Good King Wenceslas,’” shall we?” “I would prefer to warble ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,’” piped up Hades Heyes. “Here, here, I second that superb suggestion,” Hercules Heyes added eagerly. “I would rather lisp ‘Greensleeves,’ in my tiny yet adorable two year old voice, Hera Heyes said precociously, and preciously. Heyes and Jed exchanged glances and rolled their eyes. “Can’t we just sing ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’?” queried Jed. Hera Heyes rolled her eyes in turn. “It has not been written yet. Jedediah Curry, do not you know anything at all?” The children continued bickering as children are prone to do late at night and late into the night. Eventually they fell asleep. Finis

“And there were the tragedies as well. Such times of trial and tribulation, ah like when the savage Indians surrounded the cabin, and forced their way in.” Heyes started to respond, but shut his mouth quickly, when the little man raised his pipe. O’Gursey relit the pipe which had gone cold, and took a few small puffs. These turned into tiny eagles that flew off. “Och go on, Hannibal, what is it that is bothering ye?” “I was merely going to point out that the Indians in eastern Kansas were peaceful.” “Well, and so they were, but in a warlike way, ye see.”

Story Number Six Indians

Grandpa Curry rocked back and forth in the rocking chair whittling a special toy for his grandson Hannibal, who peered over the old man’s shoulder with bated breath. Beside Heyes stood his best pal and cousin, Jedediah whose startling blue eyes flashed with joy at his new toy. A beautifully carved facsimile of a Colt revolver, it spun easily in his hand. He didn’t even have to draw it from his carved holster; it simply flew into his hand. Galatea Heyes looked over her shoulder at the trio. “Oh that’s a fine toy you’re making my stepson, I see,” she sneered. “I am carving him a toy that will use his brain, and teach him a practical trade, which is more than you are doing for my other grandchildren, Galatea.” “A safe? He’s going to learn a practical trade from a toy wooden safe.” “It’s not just any safe. It’s a Brooker 55. Its got real wooden tumblers that I’ll be able to hear, and the door really opens, and it’s got everything!” “He’ll learn dexterity with those long nimble fingers of his, and how to think out a problem in a logical manner.” “Oh yes, old man, just like you have been teaching him to think logically with the cards, playing poker.” She looked up at the window in front of her and gasped. A face with a nose pressed flat in the glass surrounded by feathers grinned evilly, or, at least squashed like that, she assumed it was evil. “Indians,” she screamed. “Children, come to your mother for safety,” and she gathered her four precious pieces of cargo towards her, enveloping them in her skirts. “Hannibal, you guard the door,” she ordered. “Woman, can you keep down the noise,” Grandpa Curry groused. “I’m attempting to concentrate here.” “But Indians,” she protested, as the door burst open, and a swarm of Indians entered. One of the Indians walked into the center of the room. Apparently he was the leader. Long feathers drooped from his yarmulke, and the tzitzit from his tallit hung past his vest. He had a most commanding presence. The family waited in fearful anticipation for him to speak. “Hey lady, we’re hungry. You got any knishes, or maybe some matzo ball soup?” Galatea grimaced. “You really aren’t going to do the Lost Tribe of Israel joke, are you? If I remember correctly, Mel Brooks has beaten you to it.”

“Hey lady, it’s not like he’s got a copyright on it or something. What about Tsvishn Indianer, Eddie Cantor, Fanny Brice, Woody Allen. I mean, I like Mel Brooks, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do the Lost Tribe joke, OK? ” “I am merely pointing out that it has been done before, and I do not doubt, better.” “Keep your opinions to yourself, lady. So what about the food? I could use a good corned beef sandwich on rye with mustard, what about you fellas?” He turned to his fellow tribesmen who nodded. “Lady you got any whitefish and cream cheese? Maybe on a nice egg bagel?” asked the shortest member of the tribe. “Murray. Murray, give the lady a break. Like she’s gonna have a bagel out here. We’re guests here, a little bit of chicken, a little gefilte fish, that’ll do us.” The Indians wandered throughout the cabin as Galatea fixed them a meal. The Chief, Izzy, shouted to her, “Remember, no pork lady, its treyf.” Galatea rolled her eyes, and went to get some chicken. Heyes walked towards the Izzy. “Are you real Indians?” he asked. “Are we real Indians? Hey, Hy, Abie, he’s asking if we’re real Indians. Of course we are, sonny. See the feathers?” He put his hand on Heyes’ head and mussed up his hair. “Don’t be meshuge.” “Wow,” said Jed, who followed Heyes, and stood beside him in front of the chief. The exploring Indians opened the cupboards, and investigated the contents. Grandpa Curry watched them warily. “I voted for Jackson,’ he said ominously, and Van Buren.” “Hey that’s great,” Izzy smiled. “It’s important to vote. I may not agree with your choices, but you live in a great country like this, you gotta participate, be a good citizen.” “Aw look fellas, they got a menorah.” Abie raised up a metal object triumphantly. The other Indians gathered around him, and oohed and awed. “That’s a candelabrum,” said Galatea, taking it from Abie with her free hand. Her other hand held the chicken she had killed and plucked in unrealistically fast time. “And how long are you going to milk this tired old joke? I do have other things to do.”

“Lady, as soon as we eat, we leave, right boys?” “Right,” all the other Indians answered. Galatea cooked that chicken in no time flat. The Indians wolfed it down, said their ‘shaloms,’ and departed. Finis Lucius Cornelius Sulla O’Gursey smoked on his pipe. Medium sized puffs of smoke emerged. These became a table set with plates, glasses, dinnerware, and most importantly, food. “Lunch,” the little man announced.

Coming Attractions: Part II The Mesozoic Years Story Number Seven Story Number Seven John Brown's Body Lies A-mouldering in the Grave Story Number Eight Cockroach Invasion Or Creepy Crawlers from the Crevices Story Number Nine Fire Frenzy Followed by Flood, Fury, Famine, and a Ferocious Feud Story Number Ten Wherefore Art Thou Fort Part III

The Cenozoic Years Story Number Eleven Fight! Fight! Fight! Story Number Twelve The Ferocious Feud Fumbles Forward Story Number Thirteen The Great American Pastime And much much more!