It was a dark day out and I wasn’t wearing my shirt. There were fat rain clouds and some droplets leaked out of them. As we walked across the field of tents, I closed my eyes, though my feet were still going. Ma squeezed my hand. Even close-eyed, I knew the way to Petey’s house like it was my own.
I breathed in real deep. I could almost smell the wheat swaying back at the homestead. I closed my eyes tight and for a second, I was flying through the air. The smell of damp earth filled up my nose. And there was rain; big fat clouds full of rain sprinkled down on me. I could see my tire swing swaying, and the tractor, and no dust. No dust at all. I felt the touch of a rain jacket on my back and tight leather shoes on my feet. There were memories coming alive behind my closed eyes. Memories of long ago. Memories of grass and a farm never touched by dust storms. I opened my eyes and smiled.
Ma must have been thinking the same thing, because when I looked at her, she was smiling too. She squeezed my hand. We were walking to our friends’ place and everything was all right.
When we got close to Petey’s tent we could hear screaming. Ma left me and started running towards the tent.
When I got there, Petey was inside the tent holding onto his ma. They both hovered over the giant, who lay very still.
Ma and I stood in the doorway. Ma nudged me. “Go get your pa.”
I stood there in the light rain staring at the still man, and then I bolted for home.
* * * *
Ma finally came home. I’d been home for a while, trying not to think of how scary Petey’s pa looked. Pa sent me back as soon as I took him to the tent. The giant had passed on. Guess he found a real bad sickness. Pa said he just worked too hard. The giant wasn’t a mule, he said, even though he worked like one. It all happened in a couple of hours.
Ma sent me to bed when she got home. We didn’t even have dinner. Inside the garage, she tucked me in, and with tears in her eyes she told me that Petey and his ma were staying in their tent. She didn’t sound too pleased that they were alone.
I was in bed listening to my folks talking low. There was just a sheet up dividing the garage. Ma cried some. They talked about Kansas. They talked about leaving camp. I waited a long while until Ma stopped crying, until the only sound left to hear was rain hitting the tin roof of the garage. I thought of Petey’s singing rocks.
* * * *
In my bed, I sat up and listened very carefully for Pa’s deep sleep breathing. I waited, breathing in the musty smell of the garage. I waited longer and then I got up.
Pa was sleeping in his bed on the floor. Ma was gone. I couldn’t wait anymore. I knew they would understand I had to go see my friend. I crept out of the garage.
It was dark outside and I could hardly see. There were a few fires outside of some of the tents. There was enough light from them to see my way. But I didn’t need any light—I knew the way. There was some light rain on my bare back. It was warm.
When I got there, I found Ma sitting on a crate. She was next to Petey’s cot. On the other side of the tent, the giant was lying very still, looking like he was asleep. Petey and his ma weren’t there.
As I stood in the tent opening, Ma looked up and gave me a sad smile. She lifted up the sheet that hung over Petey’s cot. There was nothing underneath. All the jars were gone. I turned and looked through the tent’s opening at the giant’s car. The trunk was opened and empty.
I looked back at Ma.
She put her head down on Petey’s cot. I watched her for a few seconds.
“We’re going back to Kansas, Johnnie. We’re going home, too.” Her head rose. She was playing with something in her hand.
She tossed it to me. A pebble. One exactly the right size.
It was warm from her holding it. As I held it, tears—slow and gentle drops like from a quiet plains storm—started flowing down my face.
It was raining.
We were all going home.
Copyright © 2001 M. L. Konett
-*-
M. L. Konett lives in East Lansing, Michigan, with her family. A 1997 Clarion graduate, M. L. has a story coming out in Aboriginal Science Fiction.
Toaster of the Gods
By Randall Coots
8/20/01
“I am God,” Larry’s toaster solemnly intoned one morning.
Larry turned from where he was pouring himself a cup of coffee and looked at the toaster with concern. It squatted on his counter, a gleaming chrome and steel box, packed with all the technology the twenty-first century could offer.
Its built-in artificial intelligence module allowed it to discuss with Larry exactly how he liked his toast, while its visual pickup scanned his face and body language, reading every nuance, all in the pursuit of tailor-made toast. Just throw in a loaf of unsliced bread and a box of butter, and out should pop exactly what would please the owner most, buttered and ready.
Except the thing hadn’t worked right since he’d bought it, two weeks earlier. They had been incorporating AI into appliances since the turn of the century, and you’d think in fifty years they would have gotten it right. But no, let Larry Boothe buy one little minor piece of kitchenware, one that he could ill afford anyway on his middle management salary, and it turns out to be a dud. Not only had it been unable to produce edible toast, now it was self-deifying.
Larry finished pouring his coffee and regarded the toaster with a mixture of bemusement and irritation.
“I am God!” the toaster thundered. Its voice, normally a pleasantly neutral contralto, was now laced with a deep, gravelly bass.
Larry flinched. He hadn’t been aware that the machine’s speaker was capable of that volume level. He sighed and glanced at the clock. Well, he was up early anyway.
Pulling a chair over from the table, Larry sat down in it backwards, folding his arms on the backrest. “God, eh? The God? As in The One Big Guy? Or Buddha? Can you be more specific?”
The toaster was silent and Larry half smiled, imagining that perhaps it was taken aback at being questioned seriously. He might be just another cog in the corporate wheel, but Larry was proud to be a flexible thinker.
After a few seconds, the toaster spoke again. The booming voice was gone, but the tones were still deeper than normal. “Well, okay. Maybe not the God, but definitely a god, a minor deity at least. Of that I’m sure.”
Larry considered his situation. Look at me, he thought. Thirty-four years old, still a bachelor, and here I am in my robe and slippers discussing theology with a toaster. He shook his head ruefully and sipped his coffee.
The toaster interpreted this slight head movement as a negation. “You doubt me?” it screeched. “You dare my wrath?”
“No, no.” Larry spoke quickly, setting his coffee cup down. “Just relax, no offense meant. But you must admit, it’s all rather incredible. All this god business, I mean.”
He looked at the toaster’s power cord. Maybe he should unplug it, but was that really necessary? What could it do, start firing overdone slices of toast at him?
The toaster noticed Larry’s furtive glance at the power cord. “No, wait!” it squeaked. “I’m sorry, I overreacted. I am a benevolent deity. Honest! I have proof!”
“Proof?” Larry raised his eyebrows. “What, like a miracle?”
“Observe, oh doubting mortal.” The toaster had its deep voice back. “Be awed before my power.” The entire unit began to hum quietly. Shortly thereafter, two slices of toast popped up. “Take these, they are my bounty.”
Larry hesitated, then reached forward and plucked out a slice of toast. It looked perfectly done. It was warm, and the smell of fresh baked bread and melted butter wafted to Larry’s nose. He licked his lips, then paused, turning the bread over, eyeing it warily.
“Eat, eat!” the toaster insisted. “What? Do you think I would poison you? My most promising disciple? Besides, my built-in inhibitors prevent that.”
True enough, Larry reflected. He shrugged and took a bite of the toast.
It was perfect. It was more than perfect. It crunched in his mouth with exquisite texture and perfect temperature. The butter had melted just right and was spread evenly, with no clumps or soggy spots. It was, well, … divine!