Jim Krusoe - Parsifal

His ankle began to throb.

Above him, Parsifal heard a sound from the sky, a flapping of wings, or a hum, as if something was continuing to follow his erratic progress through the forest, and in the midst of everything else, the sound seemed a comfort. In a way it felt comforting even though — or perhaps because —he couldn’t actually see a thing through the blindfold. Was it growing dark? He couldn’t tell, but at the rate he was moving, propelled by those energy bars, he didn’t see why he needed to stop at all, let alone for darkness. Whether the result of genius or terror, Parsifal could feel himself going up hills, crawling on his hands and knees like a powerful baby, and descending them upright, his back leaning into the pull of gravity, the heels of his soggy boots digging into the earth, his cane striking grass, leaves, and wood.

Then, through the humming/flapping above him, he detected yet another sound, one so faint that he was sure he would not have noticed it if he had been distracted by the world of sight. The sound grew louder and, without hesitating for a moment, Parsifal whipped off the blindfold, blinking at the sky just in time to see an Airstream trailer heading straight at him. Quickly he leaped to one side, and as he did the trailer came crashing down right where he had been standing. He looked around. It wasn’t nearly as late in the day as he had guessed, only about two in the afternoon, by his watch.

Parsifal stood, his limbs aflutter, and sat down again. Then, still shaking, he rose to his wet feet again and gathered a few dry branches to start a fire to make tea. Upon reflection, the blindness experiment had been a failure, even though it had allowed him to hear the Airstream more easily and may have saved his life. Still, in the long run he could not tell much difference between searching with or without sight, except for the extra bruises. Neither had brought him measurably closer to his goal.

Parsifal sipped his tea, and for the first time forced himself to stare at what was left of the fallen trailer, now only a shiny foil packet of aluminum, about twelve feet by six feet by six inches. The impact had crushed the doors, as well as a bumper that proclaimed, We’re Spending Our Kids’ College Fund .

Parsifal had often heard of the awesome power of tornados regarding trailers and trailer parks, but had never actually witnessed it in person. Had anyone been living inside when the Airstream was carried into the sky? It was possible, but if so, there could have been no survivors. “Rest in peace,” he whispered, and then, overcome by the desire to rest himself, spread out his sleeping bag, changed his wet socks, and, even though it was still early in the day, fell immediately to sleep.

In his dream he was blind. Nothing fancy, just the conventional sort of blindness — straight black, without a speck of light anywhere, not even gray. And no matter what he did (it wasn’t much), the blindness would not disappear or fade, even for a moment. But at least he wasn’t dead.

Rest in peace, stranger in the pit.

Rest in peace, old couple possibly still inside the Airstream.

Parsifal thought about the suit the dead man in the pit had been wearing. Except for his father, it was unusual for anyone to wear such formal attire in the forest. It was entirely possible, he surmised, that the dead man may have been a fellow stockbroker of Conrad’s who had offered to take Pearl and Parsifal a sack of rice, Conrad being tied up at that moment with a big deal.

Sometimes, as a child, lying awake at night in the forest, Parsifal heard the screams of wild cats, the short, choked cries of dying things, the silent scuffle of somebody’s pet dog running down a desperate deer. Then everything grew quiet except for Pearl’s heavy breathing and the rustle of wind through leaves.

How well Parsifal remembers those evenings when, after a long absence, he would hear the sounds of his father’s arrival: first Parsifal heard the sounds of snapping twigs and muttered curses, then his father’s familiar tread along the path that led to their house, then the knock on their door, and when Parsifal pushed it open, there was Conrad, carrying whatever surprises he’d brought with him.

“Hello, young man,” Conrad said, and shook his son’s hand (he used to joke that too much intimacy spoiled a child). Next, after carefully hanging his jacket on a coat hanger Parsifal had made from branches, Conrad washed his face and hands and waited for Pearl to bring supper to the stump that served as the family’s rustic table. His father, Parsifal remembers, liked to pass the time until dinner was served squashing insects with his thumb.

Then the family ate, and afterward Conrad stood behind Pearl as she washed the dishes, rubbing her back and shoulders in silent communication to show how much he had missed her. When Pearl finished the dishes, Conrad returned to his chair at the stump and Pearl took out the comb she kept in the breadbox, running it through Conrad’s hair again and again, alternately covering and uncovering the bald spot he was just beginning to exhibit, but which he usually kept covered with a baseball cap.

After that the two of them would send Parsifal out on some errand, and when he returned an hour or two later, Conrad was in bed fast asleep, alongside Parsifal’s mother, of course.

On three-day weekends, or weekends when Conrad was able to spend more time with his family, he and Parsifal often took long walks, during which Conrad explained the principles of hedge funds, or discussed the pros and cons of high executive compensation. Sometimes Conrad interrupted these lessons to tell Parsifal that he had no idea how lucky he was to escape the pettiness and competition of what most people might have called “a normal education.”

“They are nothing more than frightened apes, Parsifal,” Conrad told him, “students and teachers alike.” Then he rubbed Parsifal’s head in an affectionate manner, and the two of them returned for supper. In no time, his father left once again for the city.

Frightened, murderous apes .

Parsifal ate another energy bar and stared at the flattened Airstream. It was morning, but whatever amiable oldsters had been trapped inside would never see it, the only compensation perhaps — their spending spree having been halted by the power of the air — that their children and grandchildren would now be able to attend the universities of their choice. For the first time Parsifal noticed lying next to the trailer a small shovel, like a foxhole tool, that must have been strapped to the trailer’s side. He walked over and picked it up. It had not been damaged at all.

What should Parsifal do next? The advantage of trying out the blindfold was that at least it had been a plan . Now he had nowhere to point himself toward in search of the cup, no clue as to what to do next. Parsifal sat there, feeling the powerful energy of Misty’s bar surge through him. Off in the distance he was fairly sure that he could just make out the sounds of “Rainy Day Women.” He rose, and the voices stopped. In their place he could hear that same humming/flapping sound he had heard earlier, but the morning fog made it impossible to see exactly from where it originated. Parsifal strained to listen.

On the one hand, humming and flapping, and on the other, the words of the rock and roll classic.

He tied the shovel to his backpack, then heaved the pack onto his shoulders.

M + C + BD + P — (C + BD) = M + P

Parsifal walked in what he guessed was the direction of the voices but found nothing, so he kept walking. At least, he thought, it was a direction. A light rain began to fall, which turned to a medium rain, then to an actual downpour. The good thing about the rain wasn’t just that it helped things grow, but that for one reason or another, very few objects ever fell out of the sky while it was raining. He’d heard a dozen discussions on radio talk shows about why this should be the case, but out of all of them he’d never heard a completely convincing answer.