OGRE & WORM

Dried mud caked the log they sat on. Ogre scratched inside his boot with a piece of wire. Worm stared bug-eyed at a wasp circling his head.

Ogre said, “Let’s go to the junkyard.”

Worm said, “We always go to the junkyard.”

Ogre said, “You got a better idea?”

Worm said, “Let’s go to the junkyard.”

Grumbling, they rose to their feet. They set off down the dusty road. The surrounding fields lay yellow and brown under the gray sky. A forgotten tractor rusted nose-down in the dirt.

Worm said, “How long have we lived in this place?”

Ogre said, “I can’t remember.”

Worm said, “Has the village always been abandoned?”

Ogre said, “There are still a few like us around.”

Worm said, “They keep themselves well hidden.”

Ogre said, “I don’t blame them.”

They approached a sagging hut, its tarpaper roof askew on the rafters, its walls slouched.

Worm said, “Maybe somebody’s home.”

Ogre shrugged.

Worm shuffled to the open door. Peering inside, he found the hut empty save for a rough-hewn table and chair. A slender vase, brightly painted, stood at the center of the tabletop.

Worm said, “Look!”

Ogre said, “I see it.”

Worm said, “It’s pretty.”

Ogre rolled his eyes.

Worm said, “I want it.”

Ogre said, “Take it.”

Worm said, “What if the owner returns?”

Ogre said, “He’s long gone.”

Worm said, “Maybe I’ll just look.”

Ogre said, “Suit yourself.”

Slowly, with elaborate reverence, Worm entered the hut and, crouching, approached the vase. For so small an object, its surface held an abundance of detail. Several intricate scenes—children dangling from plump balloons, elephants marching through a circus tent, a naked woman astride a cloud—emerged from the swirls of color. Shocked, Worm sprang into the air, yelped, then scrambled back outside. He gulped for breath.

Ogre said, “Satisfied?”

Worm said, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Ogre said, “It’s a relic from Before the Event.”

Worm said, “What does it mean?”

Ogre said, “Mean?”

Worm said, “Signify!”

Ogre said, “It just is. But its context has changed.”

Worm said, “From Before?”

Ogre said, “Yes. We’ve lost the world it belonged to.”

Worm said, “And now?”

Ogre said, “We go on.”

Around the next bend in the road, they came to a pile of concrete pipes stacked in pyramid fashion. The mouth of each, facing them, yawned six feet in diameter, and the openings in back lay so far distant that they appeared to float like moons at the bottoms of wells. Worm stood agog before this arrangement.

Ogre said, “Shout into one.”

Worm said, “Shout what?”

Ogre said, “Anything.”

Worm stepped closer and poked his nose into a pipe. It smelled of stagnant water. Worm shouted, “Hello!”

The echo reverberated through the whole stack.

Worm said, “It reminds me of something.”

Ogre said, “What?”

Worm said, “I can’t remember.”

Then they heard scampering footsteps ringing through the pipes. Both jumped back in alarm. The footsteps grew louder. Ogre and Worm recoiled.

Suddenly, in the mouth of the topmost pipe, a little man appeared, clad in a jester’s costume. Silver bells dangled from his pantaloons. The man said, “I’m Fop!”

Worm said, “You live in the pipes?”

Fop said, “I pipe in the pipes.”

Worm said, “You pipe? In striped tights?”

Fop said, “Poets pipe. I pipe. I’m a—”

Ogre said, “Recite!”

Fop clasped his hands together against his doublet and pursed his lips.

Ogre said, “Get on with it.”

Fop said, “ ‘Watermelon, pineapple tart, unicycle, tin-peddler’s cart / sandals, bananas, pastrami-on-rye / green hippopotamus, square-root-of-pi / noodle, potato, somersault, skunk / riptide, canoe ride, mysterious gunk / tornado, umbrella, miniskirt, mule / ottoman, tuba, lawnmower, fuel—’ ”

Ogre said, “That’s not poetry.”

Fop said, “It is poetry! From After the Event.”

Ogre said, “It’s gobbledygook.”

Fop said, “It’s all we have left.”

Worm said, “What’s poetry? Real poetry, I mean.”

Ogre said, “ ‘Dried mud caked the log they sat on.’ ”

Worm said, “It has a ring of the familiar—yet it’s utterly strange.”

Ogre said, “That’s what makes it poetry.”

Fop said, “You lie!”

Ogre said, “Get lost, Fop!”

Fop disappeared back into the pipe. Ogre stood staring, brow furrowed. Worm fidgeted.

Ogre said, “I’m bitter about the current phase of world evolution.”

Worm said, “Again?”

After walking another mile, they came to a wooden bridge spanning a dry creekbed. Where the path met the bridge, a horn-shaped tube emerged from the ground like a post. Worm stared into the rusty bell.

A voice inside the tube said, “State your purpose!”

Worm leaped back.

Ogre said, “We’re going to the junkyard.”

The voice said, “With the King’s permission?”

Worm said, “We’ve never met the King.”

The voice said, “No one has met the King!”

Worm said, “Then how do we get permission?”

The voice said, “State your purpose!”

Ogre said, “We’re going to the junkyard—to pay homage to the King.”

The voice said, “Proceed.”

Their boots fell heavily on the planks as they crossed. In the creekbed below, a hubcap jutted from the mud, orbited by a swarm of flies.

When they reached the other side, Worm said, “Why have we never met the King?”

Ogre said, “There is no King.”

Worm said, “No King?”

Ogre said, “Not since the Event.”

Worm said, “How is that possible?”

Ogre said, “Smoke and mirrors.”

They reached the crest of a hill and saw, in the valley below, the junkyard—a vast plain partitioned into zones according to their ruined contents. Major appliances abutted electronics, followed by heavy machinery, flattened automobiles, aircraft, and so on. Trembling, Worm said, “There’s so much junk!”

Ogre said, “You say that every time.”

Worm said, “I never remember the time before.”

They descended the hill. Wandering among the heaps, they sighed and grumbled. Then Worm caught a glimpse of something beneath a ruptured stove. He dropped to his knees.

Ogre said, “What are you doing?”

Worm said, “Look!”

Ogre said, “Stand up.”

Worm said, “It’s beautiful.”

Ogre knelt beside Worm and looked under the stove. There, atop a little mound of dirt, stood a delicate glass ballerina.

Ogre and Worm stared.

The ballerina sparkled.