On the Banks of the River of Heaven by Richard Parks

Author:Richard Parks [Parks, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fantasy, short story, short stories, collection
ISBN: 9781607013242
Publisher: Prime Books
Published: 2011-09-16T16:00:00+00:00

Brillig

“’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves—”

Brillig brillig brillig!

That’s one way to beat the poem. Start repeating words in a random selection. Breaks up the rhythm, you see. It’s the rhythm that’s dangerous. Don’t ask me why but I know I’m right. The words may seem dangerous, mysterious, eldritch, and all that, but they’re just stuff and nonsense. Learian. Charles Dodgson would know what I mean. I don’t know if he realized what he had unleashed, but he did know about Edward Lear. This isn’t Lear. It’s Charles Dodgson, Lewis Carroll, and it’s Jabberwocky. Lear is safe. At least, I’ve yet to find a demon in Lear, probably because I stopped reading him ages ago. Fear. Fear of Lear. Pity, as I do miss the Jumblies. Their heads are green, their hands are blue. They went to sea in a sieve, you know. Marvelous. Still, can’t risk it. One demon is quite enough.

Jabberwocky.

Vorpal swords ultimately useless. The creature is always slain but it’s never killed. Gallumph all you want with whatever head you think you’ve taken, but it’s so. The Jabberwock always dies but Jabberwocky always lives, and the monster is merely part of it and not even the most important part at that.

Jabberwocky is going to destroy me, I know. I don’t know when or even why, but I do know how. Sooner or later the arms weary, the walls are breached, the sentries sleep. The poem wants me to recite it. I won’t. It can’t make me. Not again. Third time is magic. Third time’s the charm. After the third time the drowning man is seen no more.

“Twas brillig—”

Hah. Thought it would catch me napping. Not that easy, you serpent of scansion, you coil of gyres and gimbles. Slithy as a tove, I elude thee once more, mimsy and outgrabed. So what if the Jabberwock haunts my dreams? It can’t hurt me any more than I can hurt it, for all that I carry its head back to my father every night. My father with the empty face. He doesn’t hug me. I’m no beamish. There is no chortling. Just the blood-painted sword and the smiling head of the monster, and my Father’s face that has neither mouth nor nose nor eyes. Father is symbolic but doesn’t have much else to do. He doesn’t need a face. The Jabberwock does, to mock me. There’s an efficiency in dreams; probably has to do with not being real.

I keep coming back to my father’s face. It’s silly. I know who he is. I know what he looks like. I don’t remember him at all, growing up. Strange if I did, since he wasn’t there. But I’ve met him. He’s a man. Nice enough in his way. Nothing special. The Father in my dreams has no face. Tenniel never drew the father’s face. The son, yes, the Jabberwock, yes, even the borogoves, but the Father? Nothing. You think that’s a coincidence? I don’t, because there’s no such thing. Tenniel knew.

I do remember the first time for the poem.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.