Heinrich opened the parcel in surprise, and read the note taped to the bundle of yellow papers inside.

"Come now, you can be a chum, can't you, and record this silly little thing for me? Just remember the good old days when we did it together, and those fine strolls on the docks when we were finished. What larks, eh? Isn't that what we used to say? -H.W.
p.s. If it's not too much bother, could you do it this week? Send me the manuscript back when you're done, along with the recording.
p.p.s. And don't go trying to make improvements on my stuff. I remember every note of it, and I'll hear if it's not right.
p.p.p.s. Only, if you don't mind, humor me and treat it as a great secret. It's those voices in my head, you know--or at least, the doctors say that's what it is. -H.W."

"Ah, Hector," he smiled when he had read it. "Not even the loony-house can keep you down. Don't you know this is illegal? You really must be losing it...no song is worth risking your neck over, however lovely. Poor chap...why did it have to happen to you, who were the brightest star we had? But...at the same time...how can I refuse? What larks, indeed. It's the least I can do, I suppose."

He flipped slowly through the tattered pages. His face sobered.

"My word, Willoughby, what have you become?" he muttered softly. "This is absurd."

Some pages were almost entirely blackened with notes flying in every direction; in other places there would be nothing at all but a slow series of chords, each sustained almost beyond reasonable endurance, for pages at a time. Sometimes the only thing written was a ridiculously simple melody on a single instrument. Sometimes there were so many melodies and counter-melodies going at once, chaos seemed the only possible outcome. This was not the Willoughby he had known. This was impossible.

---------------


"Hello? Hello? I say, someone did answer the phone--I heard them. Where'd they go?"

"I'm still here, sir, if you'd only let me speak. This is the Guildenbrock Mental Institute. How may I--"

"I know it's the Guildenbrock Mental Institute, you nitwit. Why would I dial a number without knowing who it belonged to? Especially a Mental Institute...good heavens. Are you an employee or an inmate? They oughtn't to let inmates answer the phone. Very bad policy. Get me a nurse or a doctor or someone."

"I am a nurse, sir, and we call them patients, not inmates."

"Another bad policy. Might as well call 'em what they are. But whatever you want to call them, I have to speak to one of them. Called Hector Willoughby."

"Oh, I'm sorry sir, but we don't allow our patients access to the telephone. Like you said, it would be a bad policy."

"I said it would be a bad policy to let them answer it, not talk on it, and I meant the ones who really are off their rockers. Willoughby isn't crazy--you know that as well as I do, I'm sure, unless you really are as dense as you make yourself out to be."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not allowed to give out that information. And it's on the Rule Board, that no patients are to be allowed to use the telephone. I'm sorry."

"Look here, miss. I'm sure you're sorry, but you're going to be a whole lot sorrier if you don't let me talk to Hector. Don't you know you're talking to Heinrich Zinsser? Things never go well for people who get in the way of Heinrich Zinsser. Now get Willoughby on the phone, I say."

"Heinrich Zinsser? The real Heinrich Zinsser?"

"No, the pretend one. Go find Willoughby."

"You mean Heinrich Zinsser, the great composer and conducter? The one who wrote the march for the Commander's victory parade? The one with twelve motorcars and a gilded piano and ever such a handsome son?"

"Yes, well, I suppose he's a good enough looking kid in his own way, but he's got an ugly moustache."

"No-one's going to believe me when I tell them I talked to the real, live Heinrich Zinsser on the telephone. Oh my goodness. Which patient did you say you wanted to talk to, again? Oh, I remember now. H. Willoughby. That's #80395, I think. I'll have him here in a jiffy."

"In a who?"

But she was already gone.

......................

"Hello? Willoughby, that you?"

"Ah, yes. Hector. Nice of you to call. I'm afraid you'll have to make it quick, though. Doctors don't like me using this thing. Think it's bad for my digestion, no doubt, or some rot like that. They haven't got a clue what they're doing--sometimes I wonder if they're really doctors at all. But tell me, what's on your mind? Surely you didn't call just to talk about the weather?"

"We weren't talking about the weather, you old fish. Don't be ridiculous. The point is, what was that manuscript you sent me? Where did it come from?"

"Ah, was it really so bad? I didn't mind it, but I'm crazy, you know. You can't trust a crazy man's instincts. Plus I didn't have any instruments to test it out on. They aren't allowed here, of course. Had to write it all straight out of my head. Bound to go wrong somewhere."

"There you go talking nonsense again! Gone wrong? If that music was wrong, I could wish every note ever written had been just as bad. It was perfect! Divine! Where did it come from, I say? There was electricity in the air when the orchestra played it! Even the instrumentalists felt it, and they don't know a thing about anything. What was it?"

"Oh, then you did like it. I'm glad. I can't stay and talk though, old friend. Just send me the recording, why don't you. Tally-ho."

"But no, I say, hang on for just one moment. You've got to explain this to me. I'm in such a state, you see. I can't even pour my own tea, I'm in such a state. I mean, real music like that isn't allowed anymore! What were you thinking? But it was perfect! How did you do it?"

"I know it's not allowed, silly. That's why I had to do it."

"What kind of explanation is that? You can't really expect me to understand your riddles! Speak English!"

"Sorry, I must be going now. Nice chatting. Call again sometime. But no, on second thought, don't. They wouldn't like that."

"Wait! Come back. At least let me come visit. You could talk then, couldn't you?"

"No, you'd better not do that. Just send me the recording, like a good chap. Thanks!"

"But why not? Come on, Willoughby, be rational. I say--"

click.

my life as a series of minor disasters

Act 1

Scene 1

The stage is set. It is Monday, the eighth of December. Tierney rises early and, for once in their lives, both she and Camille are ready to leave for work with time to spare. Tierney even feels comfortable enough with the day's progression to drive slightly under the speed limit. Then, about halfway through Hartley, it happens. An elderly gentleman on his way to the grocery store makes an ill-considered left turn, and the crunch of shattered glass and crumpled metal announces the end of the short life of Tierney's Camry. As the smoke and dust slowly drift away, it becomes apparent that the right side of Cami's face has not reacted well to its encounter with the airbag, and the man in the other vehicle is bleeding pretty steadily out the back of his hand. But that is the extent of the damage to human life from this encounter, and everyone is thankful.

Scene 2

Fast forward to Tuesday, December ninth. Tierney, in spite of a deep-seated conviction that there is nothing in the world the matter with her, agrees to a precautionary post-crash trip to the chiropractor. Camille is scheduled to see the chiropractor a little later the same morning, as well as the opthomologist, for her eye was scratched and bruised in the collision. Altogether, the appointments ought to take only a couple of hours, and Tierney should be able to return to work at noon. But, alas and alack, the highways and byways have all been thoroughly coated with a glassy layer of ice, and are impassable at speeds greater than 30 miles an hour. After much toil and travail, Cami's eye is examined and proclaimed mostly-healed, both girls get their necks thoroughly cracked, and Tierney finally arrives at work a full two hours before it is time to go home.


Intermission

(From Wednesday, December tenth, through most of Saturday, December thirteenth, life proceeds at a fairly normal rate, pausing only for occasional tic-like problems that register but as small blips on the radar screen, and which are almost immediately forgotten. This is a good time to go out and replenish your supply of popcorn and Diet Pepsi, if you're running out.)

Act 2

Scene 1

Saturday, the thirteenth of December, flies by with nary an incident, but Tierney wraps up the day with a long, vivid, and disturbing dream about vampires, which finally awakens her at 6:00 in the morning. This occurrence, subsequently deemed the worst nightmare Tierney has ever had, is made all the stranger by the fact that she has never watched a vampire movie, and has thought about vampires approximately twice in her life.

Scene 2

The date is Sunday, December the fourteenth. Tierney and her mother drive to the evening worship service in spite of impending weather problems, due largely to the fact that the choir is singing before church this evening, and Tierney is the designated choir pianist. Upon the conclusion of the service, offers of places to stay the night begin to fill the air, and a glance outside proves them not unjustified. A short venture out onto the highway proves them very well justified indeed. The Erwin van makes an about-face, and proceeds instead to the Visser abode, where it remains until the next morning. Its human inhabitants, along with the residents of said abode and another family of refugees, amuse themselves until midnight by playing "Apples to Apples" and a very dangerous game of spoons. After being soundly beaten in the latter, and declared "neat", "delightful", "offensive", "revolutionary", and "aged" in the former, Tierney parts ways at last with her church attire, and falls soundly (not to mention dreamlessly) asleep in a very soft bed.

Scene 3

The fifteenth day of December is a Monday, and is, incidentally, Keegan's thirteenth birthday. School is given a two-hour-late start, much to the relief of Tierney, who will now have sufficient time to return home, shower, and find something more suitable to wear than a sweater and a tiered skirt, before returning for work by 10:30. Unfortunately, when she and her mother arrive home, they discover that the shower drain has frozen in their absence, and that the only person to get a shower has been Keegan, who remains unaware of the problem until later. Tierney makes do the best she can, but has a fairly rotten day at school. Late starts are not, she decides, good for anyone. However, at last the schoolday ends, and when she returns home she finds her mother making a pecan pie to take along to Keegan's birthday celebration with Grandpa and Grandma in an hour and a half. But what, in such a situation, is the electricity to do but go out? So it goes out. And it stays out. The family abandons the pecan pie project, finishes their preparations in the dark, and departs for the Pizza Ranch in Spencer. While there, Tierney eats just under ten pounds of food off the buffet, and drops a piece of dessert pizza on its face. The electricity is, we are happy to report, once more operational when the troops return some hours later.

Scene 4

On the morning of Tuesday, the sixteenth day in December, Tierney wakes up and shivers violently. Her face is cold, her feet are cold, her blankets are cold, and her mind is cold. Whose bright idea was it to turn the heater off in the middle of the night? Apparently it was the heater's idea, and it's sticking to it. Tierney pumps all the hot air and steam into the bathroom that she can find, and still barely survives her shower. She dons three long-sleeved shirts, wishes her chilly family all the best, and leaves for work. One can only hope that the repairman will arrive soon. (And he does.)

Let us hear the conclusion of the matter.

Tierney walks slowly through the quiet, powdery snow, squinting her eyes a little against the flurries of snowflake clumps still making their leisurely way down from the heavens. She shuffles her feet and kicks the snow around, smiling for no good reason at all. She's trying to think of a new way to describe the snow, a fresh, true way that will bring a vivid picture to your mind and make you think of it in a way that never occurred to you before. Gently falling powder snow deserves to be described in such a way; but she can't think of anything. One wishes for the mind of C.S. Lewis at times like this. In spite of this failure on her part, she is not downcast. It is hard to be sad when school has been let out early because of the weather (which is not even all that bad), and there is snow falling all around, as if all the world is a giant snow globe that has just got itself righted. Is there anything so quiet as snowfall without wind, the soft feather flakes brushing gently together, rustling on the very edge of hearing? Ah, life is beautiful, disasters and all.

Merry Christmas

Hmm. Christmas. What does that make you think of?

Some people think of a cone-shaped tree in the living room, wrapped in twinkling lights and crowned with a plastic star. Which is actually pretty weird if you think about it, because what in the world does that have to do with anything?

Some people think of an enormously fat, apparently omnipresent man in a red coat who somehow squeezes himself, in a rather criminally-minded manner, down the chimney at night, leaving presents for everyone in socks hung by the fireplace. That's even worse than the whole tree thing, because besides being weird and disturbing, it's just plain impossible.

Other people, the pious ones, remember "the real reason for the season". They think of singing angels in the sky, richly-dressed kings on camels, shepherds, sheep, and a sweet little baby in a feed trough. In some ways, I suppose this is the strangest Christmas image of all.

It is, nevertheless, a familiar one. You can hardly live in America and not know what a "nativity scene" is. We recognize them at once, with the necessary components--Mary, Joseph, three wise men, a selection of shepherds, a donkey, a cow, and a few sheep--all gathered in a neat little arc, with a neat little manger in the center, cradling a baby in a neat little nest of fresh, soft straw. It's a serene and peaceful arrangement. It's tidy, it's well-lit, and it's cute. But there's nothing "cute" about Christmas.

What is there, honestly, that is "cute" about having to be born in a stable? Even on a superficial, story-telling level, it's rather horrible. A stable is for animals. It smells like animals, and it's cold at night and dirty. In most portrayals of the nativity scene, I've noticed that the manger is uncommonly cradle-like, both in size and in structure. I haven't done any in-depth research on ancient Middle-Eastern mangers, so maybe that's really what they were like; but somehow I doubt it. And even if they were, if you think about it, would you readily lay your hours-old baby to sleep in a trough from which farm animals had eaten, lined only with a layer of scratchy, prickly hay? What a rude way for any baby to greet the world, let alone the Son of God. The scene we call the nativity is many things, but it can never be cute.

Go deeper. Perhaps indeed we are too flippant about the circumstances into which Christ was born; perhaps we gloss over the atrocity of it all. But how do we treat the infant Savior Himself?

Of a "holy infant, so tender and mild" we sing, and we request that He "sleep in heavenly peace". We smile indulgently as we listen to small children tell us in song about "the little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay", laid away in a manger.

From whence comes this condescension? Does it never occur to us that the only reason the infant lay there in the manger at all was because He had come to suffer the torments of hell in the place of His chosen people? Our offense against God is so great, that this was the payment required: that the eternal, almighty Son of God must be born a helpless baby, live a homeless man, and die the death of a criminal, rejected by man and forsaken by God. Never once, in the life He lived for us, did He sin. But His is not an adorable innocence, bathed in a soft, friendly glow and covered all around with comfortable fuzzies. His perfect holiness ought instead to drive us, trembling, to our knees in humility and unspeakable gratitude. God's love, demonstrated thus in the sacrifice that set us free, is indeed beyond our comprehension, and this really should fill us with joy, for the agony of hell that faced us has been replaced with glory and eternal life in Christ. But this does not make Him a God to be trifled with. He is not, as C.S.Lewis so powerfully put it, a tame lion.

O LORD, I have heard Your speech and was afraid;
O LORD, revive Your work in the midst of the years!
In the midst of the years make it known;
In wrath remember mercy.
God came from Teman,
The Holy One from Mount Paran.
His glory covered the heavens,
And the earth was full of His praise.
His brightness was like the light;
He had rays flashing from His hand,
And there His power was hidden.
Before Him went pestilence,
And fever followed at His feet.
He stood and measured the earth;
He looked and startled the nations.
And the everlasting mountains were scattered,
The perpetual hills bowed.
His ways are everlasting.
I saw the tents of Cushan in affliction;
The curtains of the land of Midian trembled.
O LORD, were You displeased with the rivers,
Was Your anger against the rivers,
Was Your wrath against the sea,
That You rode on Your horses, Your chariots of salvation?
Your bow was made quite ready;
Oaths were sworn over Your arrows.
You divided the earth with rivers.
The mountains saw You and trembled;
The overflowing of the water passed by.
The deep uttered its voice,
And lifted its hands on high.
The sun and moon stood still in their habitation;
At the light of Your arrows they went,
At the shining of Your glittering spear.
You marched through the land in indignation;
You trampled the nations in anger.
You went forth for the salvation of Your people,
For salvation with Your Anointed.
You struck the head from the house of the wicked,
By laying bare from foundation to neck.
You thrust through with his own arrows
The head of his villages.
They came out like a whirlwind to scatter me;
Their rejoicing was like feasting on the poor in secret.
You walked through the sea with Your horses,
Through the heap of great waters.
(Habakkuk 3 : 2 - 15)

God's character has never changed and never will, even when He came as a baby, even when He hung dying on the tree. Can you stand before this God and call Him "sweet little Jesus"? Can you stand before Him and say anything at all, without His salvation?

When I heard, my body trembled;
My lips quivered at the voice;
Rottenness entered my bones;
And I trembled in myself,
That I might rest in the day of trouble.
When he comes up to the people,
He will invade them with his troops.
Though the fig tree may not blossom,
Nor fruit be on the vines;
Though the labor of the olive may fail,
And the fields yield no food;
Though the flock may be cut off from the fold,
And there be no herd in the stalls--
Yet I will rejoice in the LORD,
I will joy in the God of my salvation.
The LORD God is my strength;
He will make my feet like deer's feet,
And He will make me walk on my high hills.
To the Chief Musician.
With my stringed instruments.
(Habakkuk 3 : 16 - 19)