Mark Dunn - Under the Harrow

“Mr. Trimmers’ visit, for one. He is a Digglian like Mr. Rugg. He came here and gave a face to all those poor people who live beyond that ridge. And it turns out they’re not extra-terrestrials after all. They’re human beings just like you and me, who live in some sort of time warp. Like they’re all Dickens characters or something — you know the way that Christmas carolers dress up every year and do the Victorian Christmas thing? Well, as Gus describes it, that valley’s full of people who do this kind of thing all year long because they don’t know any different.”

Phillips exchanged a confirmatory glance with the Senator. Is this not exactly the thing that Phillips had told him at the hotel the night before?

“Gus Trimmers,” said Phillips, nodding. “The father of the boy my rescue group helped to return to the valley. What happened to him?”

Annette’s face brightened. “Did you hear that, Mama? Gus’s little boy got home safe.” To Phillips: “We’re hoping that Gus made it back okay, too. He wasn’t completely well yet, but he was pretty determined to get home.”

“Just like our friend Mr. Rugg in there,” said Phillips.

“Are you going to make the trip yourself, Senator?” asked Annette.

“By trip, do you mean, am I going into that valley?”

Annette nodded.

“Well, it would be difficult, don’t you think? First, I’d have to be permitted to enter the compound. Then somebody, I’m sure, would have to be assigned to me. An escort of some kind. More than likely this person would shew me what they wanted me to see, tell me exactly what they wanted me to hear. That is, if they shew me or tell me anything at all. Chances are, though, I’d be barred from entering that gate. Or there could be a far more troubling scenario that might play out. Do you remember what happened to Congressman Leo Ryan in Jonestown back in ’78? The only member of Congress to die in the line of duty. Maybe I’m not ready to be number two.”

“But there will be some sort of investigation, right?” asked Phillips, looking hopeful. “When you get back to Washington?”

The Senator shook his head. “Based only on what the three of you and Mr. Rugg back there have told me? Mr. Phillips, I must tell you: I’d be laughed out of the Senate. Let alone the fact that the timing would be terrible. Maybe you haven’t noticed: major combat operations in Iraq may have ended, but we’re still in the middle of a strong guerrilla insurgency. How would I get anyone to pay attention to Dingley Dell when all of our time and resources are being channeled into the war effort right now? No, I think what I’d like to do first is to undertake a little enquiry of my own.”

“But you said—” No sooner had Phillips launched his rebuttal, did he come to realise exactly what the Senator now intended to do.

“There’s a different place to enter Dingley Dell — outside the compound gates?”

Phillips nodded. “Up the Eastern Ridge. You go over the ridge through the eastern woods or you take the path that leads up to the Summit of Exchange. But I have to say, Senator, that either way, it’s not an easy climb for men our ages to make.”

“Then we’ll take it slow,” said the Senator with a smile. “I’m not an invalid. For crying out loud, I get a daily workout just serving on the Senate Judiciary Committee. And yes, I want to go to the Summit. I want to see the entire panorama of Dingley Dell — I want the full picture for starters.”

“You’re going to climb that ridge together — just the two of you?” asked Mrs. DeLove.

“Unless anyone else cares to join us,” answered Phillips.

“ I do.” This from Mr. Rugg. The old man stood unsteadily in the doorway, and though he looked as if he might collapse at any second, his countenance was fixed with a look of hard resolve.

“Mr. Rugg, you get yourself back to bed.You’re not well!”bid Mrs. DeLove.

“I know I’m not well. I’m one foot in the grave, my dear. But I don’t want that grave to be here in the Outland. I want my life to end in Dingley Dell — the place where I was born.”

“We can’t carry you up that mountain, Rugg,” said Phillips. “We’ll be lucky if we can make it all the way up ourselves.”

“You don’t have to do a thing, young man,” said Rugg, propping himself against the door frame.“If I die, at least I should die that much closer to my home. Now let me rest for a bit longer and then we can be on our way.” With that, Rugg turned and repaired again to the bedroom.

“Quite the determined old codger,” said Phillips.

“Reminds me a little of myself,” returned the Senator.

rs. Gargery sat at her window, holding Mr. Toddles in her lap. The little dog nibbled bits of dried bacon from her palm, tiny crumbles of the little snack clinging to his flattened pug nose. “Prisoners, Sarah! Prisoners in our own home — that’s what we are. Mr. Toddles and I should be sitting upon my porch and taking the air as we usually do, that’s where we should be. It’s a profoundly disappointing development, my dear girl. No, no, my little beauty, it is an outright tragedy!”

Mrs. Gargery’s maidservant Sarah, who was standing behind her mistress combing the elderly woman’s thinning hair with long, gentle strokes, peered out of the window and said, “But look, my mistress. There are no more ruffians in the street. All is quiet. I dare say that it should be quite safe to open your door now and put yourself back upon that porch.”

“I don’t know,” dithered Mrs. Gargery. “It was such a frightening day yesterday. Someone tread upon my geraniums and a brickbat tumbled my mignonette box from the window. I didn’t sleep all the night wondering what sort of mischief might happen under cloak of darkness.” Mrs. Gargery promptly turned in her seat to address the other occupant of the room: “Did you sleep, Georgianna? Did the ruffians disturb your dreams, my dear?”

Mrs. Gargery’s overnight houseguest, lounging upon the chaise, did not respond. She was, in fact, fast asleep at that very moment.

“I don’t see a single soul in the lane,” observed Sarah. “One-hundred ninety-nine, two-hundred. May I stop brushing now, my mistress? My hand has lost some feeling.”

“Yes, you may stop brushing. Oho! Who is that then?”

“Who?”

“Coming toward us from the opposite direction. It is a veritable mob! Watch them, child. They will throw more brickbats at our windows, and plunder and pillage us, for this is what mobs do.”

“I see no mob, my mistress. I see only some manner of slow-moving foot parade. Can you not tell by this, that confidence has been restored in the streets? For there are a host of men, women and children coming toward us in a calm and collected manner. And look at how finely drest they are! There can be no possibility of mischief on the minds of those who dress themselves as well as these, my mistress.”

Mrs. Gargery nodded and smiled. Then suddenly it came to her: the identity of the afternoon paraders: “Why, I know exactly what is happening here, Sarah. It is a parade of those who are going off to the celebratory festival upon the Summit. They have apparently decided to gather a few days earlier than the date put upon the invitation. What a splendid means by which to reinstate civility to our deranged streets. We must go and commend them!”

Mrs. Gargery and her maid Sarah crossed to the front door of that respectable woman’s ancient abode, the procession of other Dinglian respectables now gaining her house. It was quite a number of them, in fact — seventy, perhaps eighty or more. And interspersed amongst the promenaders were sheriff ’s deputies, some habited in the formal uniform of their office and others, apparently newly-hired, drest in improvisational equipages of nankeen and leather jerkin. “The chair, Sarah! The chair! I must take my seat and attend the parade as it passes.”