Rachel Cantor - A Highly Unlikely Scenario, or a Neetsa Pizza Employee's Guide to Saving the World

No, Sally decided. That’s not what he meant. Felix is not in the river.

Right, Leonard agreed. Felix is not in the river. Felix is definitely not in the river!

Dreams of revolutionary stew

It was early afternoon when Leonard lay down in his snugbed — it was still his habit to sleep days, and he was muddled about whether it was day or night, given that he’d traveled more than seven centuries and had relived his entire lifetime. He’d rest just a moment, he told Sally, and then they could decide where to find fish. Sally didn’t know whether to be angry or amused.

He awoke sometime later to the sound of Sally’s voice at the foot of the stairs.

We’d like to make a study of your fishing industry, he heard her say. We are fisherpeople in Cathay.

I thought ye were noble folk, Bobolo replied, equally loudly, recovered from his fit, apparently.

We are noble folk, Sally said, as if exercising great patience. Our people are noble fisherpeople.

Ye’ll want to go to the river, then. Where else would ye go?

And which direction is that?

Straight, Bobolo said. But ye’ll not get yer indulgences there. Fer them, ye’ve got to visit the churches.

Fish first, churches later, Sally said.

He awoke somewhat later to the sound of fierce rains. Something told him that the locals would not respond well to the rainshields Sally had packed in his inflatable pocket — the sound of their miniature engines, he imagined, would cause many to faint. They would have to rely on their pilgrims’ hats and cloaks.

Then he was dreaming — of revolutionary stew. It was everything Carol said it was! Succulent and nutritious, plump and steaming. He decided in his dream that when he awoke, he’d suggest Revolutionary Stew Pizza to his employers, Neetsa Pizza! But Sally — dear Sally! beloved Sally! — was shoving his shoulder.

Get up! she said. Hurry!

Unthinking, Leonard pulled her to him — she would share his stew, what was his was hers, for now and ever more, even if it was made into pizza! Especially if it was made into pizza! But instead of enjoying the stew, she slapped his face — hard! — and pulled his afro till his eyes teared.

Get up! We’ve gotta get out of here! NOW!

Leonard became dimly aware of a hullabaloo downstairs, the sound of shouting and protesting in at least three Isaac-induced speaking styles. Sally yanked on Leonard’s arm, pulling at him to get him out of his snugbed. She was still fully dressed, her face exasperated.

Now! she said. UP!

Leonard blinked, looked around, tried to recall where he was.

She dropped Leonard’s clothes on his face, his inflatable pocket too; she might have been ready to cry.

We have to RUN! she cried, Come on! and was in the hallway, from which Leonard could hear — more distinctly now that the door was open — Bobolo’s wheedling voice:

It weren’t me put the little fella in the reliquary! It were the Manicheans!

Froga added stridently: We was only performing a service, yer honor, demonstulating what befalls the wicked in Purgatory, like!

These words awakened Leonard entirely, but it takes time to get out of a snugbed: the microsilk, once inflated, conforms to the body’s shape, holding it, well, snugly for optimal sleep. Egress requires considerable wriggling if one lacks time for full deflation, which Leonard decidedly lacked, as he could hear a deep masculine voice downstairs exclaiming, WHERE BE THE MISCREANTS WHO HATH SOLD THEE THIS DEVIL’S PLAYTHING? I SHOULD LIKE TO HARM THEM — FOR EXAMPLE, WITH A HEAD VISE!

That’s right! Bobolo said. Ye don’t want to harm us, yer very highest Inquisitorial honor. It’s them ye want! A head vise’ll do it! They’re right up the stairs there, second door to yer left.

Right, Froga said.

Right, Bobolo amended.

Left, ye puttock! Froga said.

Left, right, said Bobolo.

Leonard had squiggled his entire top half from his snugbed, but his legs remained, and they were quite long. He could hear heavy boots begin to clomp ploddingly across the common area downstairs.

THE HEATHENS BE UP HERE?the deep-voiced man thundered from the bottom of the stairs.

Yep, yer honor — Froga’s voice again. I always said these people was strange.

At last Leonard had squeezed his feet from the snugbed.

I SHOULD LIKE TO MEET THESE STRANGE PEOPLE! exclaimed the man with the deep voice. I SHOULD LIKE TO FLAY THEM — FOR EXAMPLE, WITH A SCRAMASAX!

Leonard stumbled out of the room, holding tight to his pilgrims’ gear but dropping his inflatable pocket. He was surprised to see flashing red lights at one end of the hall.

This way! Sally hissed from the other end of the hall as heavy boots began plonking up the steps. PUM!.. PUM!.. PUM!

Run! Sally whisper-shouted. And Leonard did — away from the stairs and down the windowless hallway, barefoot, wearing only his crayon-colored sleeping togs, his heart pounding, his health meter thrumming, to the outer staircase, where Sally, dear, blessed, ever vigilant Sally, held open the door.

A familiar face

She’d left her police scanner behind, to distract their pursuers with its shooting red rays and low-level hum. As Leonard flew through the door to the outer stairwell, he heard the man, newly arrived upon the landing, say, WHAT IS THIS? A FIRE THAT DOTH NOT CONSUME? STAND BACK! WE ARE WITNESS TO A MIRACLE! DO NOT LOOK UPON IT! NO ONE SHALL LOOK UPON IT AND LIVE!

What happened? Leonard asked as they paused at the bottom of the external staircase, on the narrow cobblestoned street outside the hostellery. It was dusk, but they could still see a large group of pilgrims confrering by the hostellery door.

No time, Sally said, and they were running again.

Leonard was barely able to note his surroundings — which consisted chiefly of crumbling two-story buildings, and assorted bundle-bearing women who observed his sleeping togs with shock and amusement — but he did, as they raced headlong down the road, notice, peeping out from an alleyway, a familiar face, belonging to a man with a beard, a hat, and a yellow circle on his cloak.

Running and stopping

They ran in a zigzag pattern, Leonard following Sally in and out of dark alleyways, turning right, past towers and perfumed churches, and left, past fluted columns embedded between thick brick arches, and right, past wells and gardens and little houses and fly-ridden butcher shops, then left, past more churches, and strange ruined buildings, tiny bread shops, and spice shops, and fabric shops, all closing now (with loud cries from their owners of last-minute bargains), dodging horse dung and cow patties and other excretions, bumping into urchins and bawdy girls and sending street cats screeching and flying.

They didn’t hear their pursuer’s heavy boots behind them, but still they ran.

Till Leonard could run no farther.

Enough! he gasped, and pointed at the portico of a church. Sally doubled back, and they climbed two stairs into the portico and rested their backs against a marble column. It was fully evening now, but still warm.

You need to get your clothes on, Sally said after Leonard had stopped panting.

Thank you, Leonard said.

No need to be sarcastic! Sally said.

I mean, thank you. You saved me! You could have left me behind but you didn’t.

And be stuck in this wretched place forever?

Leonard looked around. They were in the narrowest possible lane. Too narrow for a police caravan, or even for two to walk hand in hand. But there was something warm in the brick of the house across the lane, with its ancient well and garden visible in back, something lovely too about the fluted columns in front of this church — older than the church itself, he guessed. Something comforting about the dusky summer air and the sound, if one listened hard, of at least two babies crying.