Cautionary Tales Read online

  “Your life.” Chloris looked around again, only her eyes moving. “And mine too, if the dragon catches on that I see. I’m risking myself by helping you. Don’t make me regret it.”

  I still liked the idea of walking with a young woman, so I decided to play the game. “I’ll ignore any dragons,” I agreed.

  “You had better. They have been around since the days of the dinosaurs—in fact I think they are the dinosaurs, in a more advanced state. Just as we are primates in an advanced state. The dragons are as smart as we are, and much more deadly, and we can’t escape them because our limited world isn’t real to them. We have been spreading across their habitat, building cities in their hunting grounds, but they don’t care because as long as we are unaware of them, we are harmless to them. But they know that we could cause them mischief, if we saw them. So they kill those of us who see them. Unless we fool them into thinking that we remain oblivious. So that is what we have to do. Always. Or else.”

  “Are you saying that these pictures I’m seeing—that there are dragons in them? But since I can’t go into those pictures, nothing in them can hurt me. So why should I worry about dragons?”

  “Because they aren’t limited the way we are. They can see us and hear us all the time, though they don’t seem to have bothered to learn to understand our language. If they decide to, they can chomp us, and when they do, we feel it. It’s one-sided: we can’t hurt them, but they can hurt us. They’ve been aware of full reality longer than we have, ever since about sixty five million years ago when they moved into it, and they have learned ways to handle it that we haven’t. Maybe some year we’ll learn too—but only if they don’t realize that we’re doing it. That’s why we have to be excruciatingly careful. That’s really why I’m helping you: because if I let you blunder and attract their attention to yourself, they will kill you, and perhaps realize that more of us are seeing them. Then they will be more careful, and more of us will die. So we have to educate you quickly.”

  “So it’s not that you care about me as a person,” I said dryly. “You just don’t want me to mess it up for the rest of you.”

  “Exactly.” Her emphatic agreement set me back. I had thought I was speaking at least halfway humorously. Evidently not.

  “So if I don’t see a dragon, I can do what I want,” I suggested.

  “No,” Chloris said. “You never know when a dragon is watching. So you tune out the larger world as well as you can. After a while it becomes second nature. When you get so that others who can see don’t realize that you are one of us, then you’re safe. As safe as it gets, for us; we can never rest as easy as we did in ignorance.”

  I would have thought she was crazy, but I did see what she called the larger world, and she knew I saw it. So if she was crazy, so was I. “Where are we going?” I inquired.

  “That’s right,” she agreed. “We can’t just walk aimlessly. We’ve already gone too far together to be strangers. We’ll have to be dating.”

  “I’d love it,” I said gallantly. “But aren’t I a little old for you?”

  “Not for real,” Chloris said impatiently. “Just until we can separate without arousing suspicion. You’ll have to see me to my apartment, I suppose.”

  Who was I to object? So I took her hand, and we walked on like a middle aged fool with a young thing, which was as accurate a description as any.

  Then I saw something. It was walking through an intersection. Maybe through a building too; our world seemed to be insubstantial to it. It looked like a monstrous dinosaur—or a dragon. I turned my head to get a better look at it.

  “Don’t do that!” Chloris whispered. “Ignore it!”

  It really was a dragon--and she saw it too.

  The dragon turned its head, and caught me staring at it. Its ears perked up.

  “Oh, the fat’s in the fire now!” Chloris whispered. “Our only hope is to fake the dragon out. Play along—and don’t look at the dragon!” She hauled on my arm until I turned to her, then put her arms around me.

  All right. I was shaken by the sight of the dragon, but I could hardly think of a nicer way to reassure it that my attention was elsewhere. I embraced her. Her body was slender and supple, and though her face was not glamorous, it was young, and that counted for a lot. I wouldn’t have minded at all if this had been real.

  Chloris’ eyes flicked in that headless way they had. I realized that this was so the dragon couldn’t tell that she was looking around. She was making more sense to me, now that I had seen the monster. “It’s coming to investigate,” she whispered. “We’ll have to make it look authentic. Make your hands stray.”

  “Stray?” I had to be misunderstanding.

  “Do it!” she snapped.

  So I let my right hand slide down to stroke her posterior. What illicit fun!

  Then I saw the dragon, much closer, coming up behind her. My hand clenched involuntarily, giving her a healthy pinch. Oops.

  “Damn,” she murmured. “We’ll have to kiss.”

  So we kissed, but it wasn’t nearly as much fun as it should have been, because now the dragon was right up close, and I could hear the bellows of its breathing. The thing was huge and hot, and its scales rustled slightly as it twisted around. I kept my eyes squinted shut, now, but I felt the dragon’s breath on my neck. At any other time such a kiss would have held the whole of my attention, but it was singularly difficult to tune out such a monster.

  However, we couldn’t kiss forever. I was running short of breath. So I drew back. “Let’s go to your place, dear,” I said, opening my eyes.

  That’s when my gaze met that of the dragon. It was only a yard away. I flinched.

  The funny thing was that other people had collected, now, but they weren’t looking at the dragon. They were looking at us. They really couldn’t see the monster. They were limited in their perception to the smaller world. They hadn’t seen the picture of Jesus—or what it led to.

  “I can’t wait that long,” Chloris gasped. She seemed genuinely desperate, but not because of any passion for me. “There must be a private spot close by.”

  She was trying to make it seem authentic. I knew her desperation was because of the dragon, but it was having its effect on me too. How far would she go, to fool the monster?

  I started to unbutton her blouse. The other people watched, enjoying the spectacle of a couple about to make love in public. The average man is not only blind to the larger world, he has the sensitivity of a clod of manure.

  Then the dragon goosed me. Its tail came around and rammed me in the rear. I jumped.

  Immediately Chloris reached around and grabbed my rear, as if she were the cause of my reaction. She was trying valiantly, but the dragon wasn’t fooled. It opened its mouth. I couldn’t help staring at the very large array of teeth.

  I realized that this was fight or flight time. There was no hope of fighting the dragon. “Run!” I cried. I turned Chloris loose and started to move.

  “No!” she protested. She still thought she could pretend ignorance of the monster. She stood still.

  I hesitated, turning back. I didn’t want to leave her. I hardly knew her, but she had done her best to help me. Yet what could I do? The dragon’s head was bigger than Chloris’ whole body.

  Nevertheless, I cast about for some weapon. There was only a plank lying in the gutter, perhaps fallen from a truck. Stymied, I stared stupidly as the dragon’s head struck at Chloris. It seemed to occur in slow motion, but that was because of my horror.

  At the last moment the dragon closed its mouth, and shoved Chloris with its nose. She stumbled back, propelled by that nose—and fell into the path of a passing car.

  There was the squeal of brakes, but it was too late. The car had struck her before the driver could react. It slewed to a stop, but Chloris was just a heap in the road.

  “She jumped right in front of me!” the driver cried, wild-eyed.

  “No!” I cried. “The dragon did it! The dragon shoved her!” Beyond caut
ion, I heaved up the plank and ran at the dragon, clumsily trying to spear it with my improvised lance. “Die, dragon!” I screamed.

  I scored on it--but the plank passed right through the monster’s body, and I did too. I couldn’t touch the monster, literally.

  Then there were hands on me, holding me back. I was still shouting. “The dragon! The dragon! Can’t you see it? The dragon killed her!”

  They wrestled me to the pavement and strung rope around me. The dragon merely watched. Suddenly I realized why: it didn’t need to kill me, because I was obviously crazy. The other people thought I was the one who had shoved Chloris into the car and killed her. A lover’s quarrel. They would never comprehend the truth.

  “And so I was found innocent by reason of insanity,” Ulysses concluded. “I didn’t try to fight it. I knew the dragon would have killed me too, otherwise. But the dragons leave me alone, as long as I’m incarcerated here. So I drew a picture of Jesus on the wall, using smudges in lieu of paint, and I stare at it, the reminder of my folly.”

  “But if—if you believe this is true—the world should know,” Ethan said. He now understood why Ulysses was confined, and it wasn’t because of any invisible dragons, but he still wasn’t quite satisfied. The man could have a better life, right here in the hospital, if he just talked to others instead of staring at the wall.

  “If I try to tell the world, one of two things will happen,” Ulysses said. “Either I won’t be believed, in which case I have accomplished nothing but my own discredit, or I will be believed, in which case the dragons will strike ruthlessly to eliminate all believers. I saw what they did to Chloris, and the guilt of that will forever be on my conscience. She tried only to help me, and she paid with her life. I don’t want any more deaths to mourn.”

  Ethan nodded. It did make sense. Either the guy was crazy or he wasn’t; why should he have to choose between incarceration and death? But there was a third possibility. “Suppose you are neither crazy nor correct, but simply had a bad vision?” he asked. “So there are no dragons, and if you just recognize that, you can be released and pursue a normal life?”

  Ulysses turned that disquieting stare on him once more. “I hope you believe that, because it will save you from a terrible revelation. Look at the wall again, and pray you do not see Jesus.”

  Ethan gazed at the wall. The random pattern of stains remained. He concentrated, giving it his best effort, because he didn’t want to be blinded by prejudice, he wanted to be quite sure there was nothing.

  He realized that one part of the pattern might almost resemble an eye. Another could be taken as the highlight of a chin. And a gently curving line might be called the bridge of a nose, with the light on one side, shadow on the other. Maybe, by a sufficient stretch of the imagination, it would be possible to picture a crude face there. Follow the nose-line down, and there was maybe a nostril; follow it up, and there was the arc of an eyebrow. The larger black and white patches framed the head, and below were the shoulders and chest, with a loosely hanging garment …

  It was, indeed, a picture of Jesus. Suddenly the calm, understanding gaze met his own gaze. “I see—” Ethan breathed, astonished at the clarity and detail of it, where before there had been only smears.

  “You see nothing!” Ulysses snapped. “It’s just a stained wall!”

  “No, you are right! It’s Jesus.” Ethan looked around. “And there on the wall behind you is a beautiful natural landscape. And on the floor—why there’s a river, with fish swimming in it, and a mermaid! And on the ceiling—what’s that creature?”

  “It’s a dragon!” Ulysses whispered. “Avert your gaze, man, before it sees you looking! Do you want to die?”

  Ethan yanked his eyes away. He focused on Ulysses. “Now look,” he said, shaken. “I agree there are pictures, with astonishing realism; it’s as if this entire hospital ward is just a glass shell, through which we can see a fantastic larger world. But that’s all it is, of course: just a pattern of pictures. Pictures can’t harm anyone. So why not appreciate them?”

  “I can do so,” Ulysses said. “Because I’m certified crazy, and no one believes me. But you must not, because you’re sane. Now I see I should never have spoken to you, never have told you the truth. I thought you were too ignorantly self-assured to see, but I misjudged you. For your own safety, for your very life, shut it out, man, shut it out!”

  Ethan still did not believe in any invisible dragons. But the extent of the revelation that the picture of Jesus had brought him shook his very nature. Ulysses had been right about Jesus, and right about the hidden larger world beyond the normal one, at least in appearance. Suppose he were right about the rest?

  “Of course it’s just an optical illusion,” Ethan said. “I tried to empathize with you, to see what you see, and I succeeded. But the difference between us is that I know it’s not real.”

  “Yes, yes!” he agreed. “Hang on to that! Don’t look at it any more. Look for the stains, the cracks, the meaningless randomness beyond the limited world. Know that I am crazy, and you don’t want to be that way. Go away from me; when you return, I won’t talk to you at all, so you’ll know it was just your idle fancy that I had a lucid moment. Don’t put your death on my conscience.”

  “But you know I can’t pretend that you weren’t lucid!” he said. “I may disagree with your vision, but certainly you can talk. You don’t have to pretend—”

  But he saw that the man’s gaze had wandered. Ulysses was now staring at the wall again, ignoring him.

  “Hey, don’t do that!” Ethan exclaimed.

  Ulysses glanced at him. His eyes were unfocussed, and a bit of drool was starting down his chin. He was playing the idiot.

  Disgusted, Ethan turned away. But still he saw the larger world. It had been a job to fathom it, but once he had done so, he couldn’t un-fathom it, any more than he could forget how to ride a bike once he had learned.

  Well, he would do something about this. He would go fetch a supervisor, and show him the picture of Jesus. He would get others to see the larger world. Then Ulysses would have to talk to them, and whatever truth there was behind this vision would emerge.

  He turned the corner to enter the wing of the ward where the phone was.

  There, beside the phone, was the dragon.

  Note: As I recall, in 1991 I was asked to contribute a story to a prospective anthology, so I wrote “A Picture of Jesus,” based on an experience I had had, trying to see Jesus in an obscure picture. I looked at it every day, and after about six months finally saw Jesus. I guess a religious person can do it much faster. My wife, the daughter of a minister, saw it faster, I think. Everything I experience is grist for my imagination: suppose the ability to see something in such a picture were an avenue to a larger perception, perhaps with danger? So I merged the notion with my long-ago experience as an aide in a mental hospital, describing the patients I actually knew, and wrote the story.

  Time passed, and the anthology did not find a publisher. So when I had a request from another publisher, I gave them this one, and it was published in Science Fiction Age, July 1993. Now, twenty years later, it should be safe to share it with you without getting caught by a dragon. But if you see that picture, don’t push your luck.

  Caution: personal essay, some repetition

  5. My America

  I’m an immigrant. I’m from England, and it was England I longed for as a child; America felt like exile. My parents did relief work in Spain during its savage civil war, feeding starving children, until my father was “disappeared” by the victorious dictatorship. He smuggled out a note, and with that and the threat of financial repercussions, they were able to get him free, though banished from the country. Thus we came to America on the last commercial ship out, in 1940, as World War Two engulfed Europe. I don’t like discrimination against immigrants; too many are far worse off than we were, victims of totalitarian abuses. America is a refuge.

  I’m a writer. I write because my imagination will not
be suppressed. America has the freedom for the flowering of the arts, including writing. When I write, I receive love for my fiction and ire for my success. I understand what it is like to be the object of such mixed attentions.

  I’m a naturalized American. My education, career, family, and future are here. I believe in the Constitutional values, for I chose to subscribe to them, and wince when I see them abridged. Unfortunately there is some of that occurring now, as fanaticism, greed, and lust for power prosper in the name of patriotism. I do have a notion where that leads. Yet I hope and believe that in time America will cast off these illnesses and return to the grandeur of its aspirations.

  America is relatively wealthy and free and proud, so is loved and hated regardless of its merits. Love inspires tolerance; hatred sponsors terrorism. I saw one building become a ghastly smokestack, and a plane crash into another like a deadly chicken coming home to roost, and I saw the tall towers fall. I saw the heroes and the bigots roused, and the shock of illusion shattered. I remembered the assassination of President John Kennedy, the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and I thought of the Chinese curse: “May you live in interesting times.”

  I’m an immigrant. I’m a writer. I’m American.

  Note: I shared the shock of the nation when 9/11 happened, so when Hugh Downs solicited me to contribute to his volume My America, I did so, becoming one of 150 Americans to do so. It was published a year after the event. As it turned out, there came to be hundreds of volumes about that day, so this one wasn’t that remarkable, but it was worth doing once.

  Caution: graphic rape by a woman

  6. Serial

  The security screen gave a silent alarm. Newton sat up in his pajamas, gazing at the screen. Someone was studying his premises, doing a systematic survey. A scintillatingly beautiful woman.

  He touched the intercom button. “Maria.”

  “Master,” she responded immediately.

  “Here to me. Bedroom.”

  “Can I fix hair, put on something sexy?” she asked eagerly.