If you haven't already, read part 1 here
“It’s all in your mind, dear. I’ve heard from a very reputable source that no such condition exists.” Much as I view Myers Briggs and other tests which purport to organize people into a few categories with suspicion, sometimes it’s tempting to think that’s true.
Aunt Lina, for instance, is the type which doesn’t believe in illness that can’t be seen. These people have the best intentions in the world, but when it turns out they cannot fix you in the span of a few hours they become frustrated and lay the blame at your feet.
If I were in a wheelchair, those people wouldn’t knock me out of it with the assurance that my legs will start working again if I think positive thoughts. “It was a talk show, wasn’t it? The reputable source you mentioned.” She looked caught off guard, then supremely annoyed.
I don’t know where anybody gets off thinking they can swoop into a stranger’s life, quickly solve all of their problems and then be on their way. Especially not when their solution is to declare the problems imaginary. Everybody seems convinced they know other people better than they know themselves. I’m equally convinced that none of them actually do.
Aunt Lina retreated to the kitchen to complain about me to mom. Nothing she didn’t already know. I sealed myself up in my room, turned out the lights, and peered out the window. We’re nearly closer to the forest than the school. I feel foolish for hoping, but if one of these nights I should see little bonfires at the edge…
Unwanted memories of the old crone, strung up to bleed out, surged to the forefront of my mind. All I could think to do before fleeing was to grab that book. At the time I hoped that without instructions, no new Tyrants could be built.
Couldn’t leave that to chance, though. So I returned to the crone’s yurt some weeks later to scavenge what I could. Somebody had already taken most of it. They missed a box full of iron traps however, perfect for the quarry I had in mind. For bait, I carefully crafted little villages of the appropriate scale, with the trap in the center buried under a layer of leaves.
This worked a few times, but then never again. On top of which, dad found the box of traps in my room and got the wrong idea. As I left my room I overheard him speaking about it with Aunt Lina in hushed tones. Something about how small animal torture is a warning sign for something or other.
They told me to stay out of that forest too, but it’s so close there’s no way to enforce such a rule. I can be there and back in less than ten minutes. I began visiting less and less frequently of my own accord, as I gradually lost hope that any of the little fellows had survived.
It’s a surreal feeling to be let in on a secret of that nature only to eventually return to a more or less normal life. After a time, you begin to wonder if you dreamt it. By my first year of Junior High I’m ashamed to say that I only rarely thought of the crone and her tiny creations. I might’ve let it go entirely had I not read all the way through that book.
Most of it was in a bizarre language I could find no match for. But her notes in the margins were in English, as was one of the last few pages. “Travel North Northeast from my home until you reach edge of forest. You should come upon small lake. At bottom is last hope to keep my dream alive.”
Being in junior high, I didn’t see any realistic way to get my hands on a boat. I’d have to swim out. After consulting a map, I determined she’d meant Everton Lake. How deep? What would I need to reach the bottom? Surmountable problems, at least. If there were some artifact down there which could set things right….
Swim trunks wouldn’t cut it, but I didn’t exactly have a wetsuit handy. I settled for layered shirts. After snooping through the garage, I found something I felt ought to do the trick. Dad’s kind of a packrat and tool nut, which always came in handy whenever I felt driven to build something. In this case, I was after his air compressor.
Not exactly the safest way to dive. In fact it’s probably the most dangerous. But it would raise the fewest questions. I could have it back in the span of a half-hour if all went well. The cumbersome device could be carried like a briefcase and coiled around it was a flexible orange air hose.
When the weekend came I biked into town and spent my saved up allowance on a fresh charcoal intake filter to keep fumes out of the air I meant to breathe, an airhose adapter, and the cheapest scuba regulator at the local dive shop. I balked at spending sixty dollars on something so small but the shop owner explained that’s cheap as it gets.
Once home, I went in through the door in the side of the garage to avoid explaining why I’d bought any of this to Mom or Dad. The regulator, when fitted with the adaptor, screwed neatly onto the threaded end of the air hose. The best I could do for a float was to stick the compressor inside of our camping cooler.
Not exactly professional grade equipment, but you go to war with the army you have, not the one you want. She’d never have written what she did if there weren’t something important in that lake. The next day I told Mom I was heading for the lake to catch frogs. “Don’t let me find out you were in that forest again”, she threatened.
For lack of any better means to transport the compressor and hose, with great effort I lifted the cooler with the rest of the gear inside onto my old Radio Flyer wagon. This made the trek out to the lake considerably less strenuous. I almost wished I’d drawn it out further, as once I arrived there was nowhere to go but down. Severe trepidation nearly made me turn around.
No, that’s no good. I couldn’t let her down. Not knowing what I knew. So I topped up the gas, pull-started the compressor, slid my goggles down over my eyes and nose, then popped the regulator into my mouth. Taking a few cautious drags on it I discovered it worked better than hoped. How long the compressor would run on a single tank was a big question mark as I’d never used it before, but I didn’t plan to be down there for long.
I eased the wagon into the water until the cooler began to float. Once free, I withdrew the wagon back onto the shore. Aside from the sentimental value, I knew I’d need it to lug all this stuff back to the garage soon. At least, if all went according to plan.
I cried out in an embarrassing falsetto upon setting foot in the water. I knew it’d be cold, but that’s the difference between theory and practice. Certain parts of me shrunk up inside my body the moment the water reached them. I started to violently shiver. Already? That’s no good. I trudged on until the water was up to my neck.
Then, committing to what I’d come out here to accomplish, I dunked my head underwater. It was a remarkable feeling to be breathing easy below the waterline. My fear soon evaporated and I found myself wishing I’d done this sooner. Step after step, stirring up clouds of lakebed sediment as I trudged along. I estimated I could see perhaps twenty feet ahead before it all faded into a murky green.
As I descended, I popped my ears. Wound up having to do it several times. I wondered if perhaps I hadn’t exceeded some safe depth limit, but was interrupted mid-thought by a bizarre sight. There on the lakebed, amidst gentle waving aquatic plants of some sort, sat an immense glass jug of the type Dad sometimes brews his own beer in.
It was sealed tightly with a cork, and illuminated from within. As I drew closer to investigate the source of the light, I nearly spit out my regulator in shock. The bottom most part of the jug was filled with what looked like lead shot, presumably to weigh it down. Then a layer of some kind of sealant. Then soil. And growing from that soil, a leafy green bush!
Although there was plenty of light coming from the surface, I could also see familiar little green points of light inside the jug. I knelt down and peered in through the glass. Little cottages, arranged in a circle around the base of the plant. And walking to and fro between them, a small population of Homunculi.
I could’ve cried. That crafty old witch. She’d hidden them where no Tyrant would think to search. Where no Tyrant could survive, for that matter. Just beyond it lay several clusters of identical jugs, each one containing a self-supporting ecosystem and some number of little refugees. My heart soared at the sight of it.
The jug I lifted out of the muck wasn’t terribly heavy in water, but once I got it to shore, it was excruciating to move any real distance. I wound up using the wagon to make multiple trips to and from the house. First to return my impromptu diving gear, then to bring the gigantic burdensome jar. “You’re back so soon?” My Mom called out. “Yeah I uh...it was colder than I thought it’d be.” I heard chuckling. I wheeled the jug into my room, then used a set of pliers to carefully work out the cork.
It came free with a satisfying “thoonk”, belching air in my face that’d been recirculated within that jar for who knows how long. A year, at least. Some of the little guys were already at the top of the plant, having climbed it to greet me once the cork was out. I cupped my hands to serve as a platform, then ferried them a few at a time from the lip of the jar to my desk.
As I did so I took note of the water dripping from my body all over the carpet. Adrenaline must’ve distracted me from the cold, but it was now making itself felt. I opted for a quick hot shower, then returned to my room to discover the rest of ‘em had gotten out on their own. Six stood at the base of the jar, in addition to the four I’d moved to the desk.
I scooped up those six and united them with the rest, who it seemed were now busily drawing on some papers I’d left out. Those particular papers weren’t important to me, so I didn’t interfere. To look upon them, alive and healthy after what I’d witnessed in the woods last year was exilhirating. A wound, hanging open since last year, only now beginning to heal over.
Leaning over to inspect the drawings, I immediately recognized them for maps of the area. There was the lake, and the forest. The school, and my house. But why? As if to answer, with the little bit of graphite in its miniscule hand, one of them began to mark specific locations in and around the forest. He couldn’t mean….but what if?
Despite the hour, I snuck out in a thick coat with my flashlight in tow. Chosen because, as a consequence of running on four D cells, it also made a serviceable club. One which had already seen some use against Tyrants, as the crusty red stains on the handle attest to.
It occurred to me that I might’ve planned the outing more carefully only once I was already deep in the woods. Moonlight reflected off of various pairs of large, round eyes. Owls, I hoped. The last time I’d ventured in this far, the forest floor was caked in crunchy dead leaves. I encountered ferns this time, and undergrowth so thick as to trip me twice.
How would I find them in this mess? If I’d known it would be so overgrown I’d have brought some shears. It only took me by surprise because trips to the woods had been strictly verboten since the night I met the witch. Nothing could keep me away, but the first couple of whuppings at least impressed upon me the importance of stealth.
A compass also would’ve been nice. When I found the first shelter it was only because they were expecting me. At first I thought I’d imagined it. Then again, in the periphery of my vision, a blinking green light. Same color as the little lanterns in the first village I’d found, so long ago.
Delirious with excitement, I dashed towards it, slowing as I drew near for fear I might step on one of them. I found no village to speak of. Instead, at the base of a tree whose roots had been exposed somewhat by erosion, I spotted a little round hatch. Originally from some container meant to secure valuables, by the looks of it.
Just outside stood a single Homunculus with a shuttered lantern. He waved to me and I knelt to get a better look. The little fellow scampered over to the hatch, beat on it for a bit, then it opened. This proved to be a long, laborious ordeal. I could guess why. It wasn’t so much to keep them inside, as to keep certain unwanted visitors out.
Once the first few saw my face and called back to the rest, they poured out of the opening in a deluge of little pale bodies. All covered in dirt, shielding their eyes from my flashlight. How long had they been underground? I examined the rest of the tree’s roots and found numerous spots where something must’ve clawed at the soil, furiously trying to get inside.
Those nearest me tugged at the edges of my coat. When I placed my hand at ground level, they piled onto it. Without any suitable container to carry them in, I settled for my pockets. It was quite a warm, soft jacket so I felt it suitably safe and comfortable. In spite of the size difference, my pockets nearly weren’t enough. By the time I carefully stood, laden with little passengers, they were piled right up to the brims and peering over the edge.
Once I made absolutely sure I hadn’t left any, I gingerly trekked home, taking great care not to let any of them spill out. The shears went exactly where I remembered finding them before I’d left. Nothing out of place, no evidence I’d been outside. It proved to be in vain.
“You went to the forest, didn’t you.” Dad sat in his recliner, faced away. I mustered the courage to ask if mom was awake too. “No, she doesn’t need to know about this. But I need to know what your problem is. The more we tell you to stay out of those woods, the more attracted to them you become. Does my authority as your father mean nothing to you?”
I assured him it did, and slowly began edging towards my room. He was up in a flash, his hands gripping the edges of my coat. My heart leapt into my throat and instinctively I gripped my coat too. It only encouraged him. He tore it from me, shook it violently and threw it to the floor.
“No cigarettes or booze. That’s really what I thought all this sneaking was about, I guess I should’ve given you more credit. What’s wrong now? Why are you blubbering?” I knelt at his feet, tears rolling down my cheeks, feeling at the pockets for survivors. They were flat as could be. “I don’t understand you. We got on so well when you were younger. I just want-”
I clutched the coat to my chest and ran from the room, up the stairs and into my bedroom. I only didn’t slam the door for fear of waking mom. My eyes red and puffy, salty streams still snaking down my face, I turned the desk lamp on my jacket and began carefully checking the pockets for blood. Instead, they were empty.
I boggled, having steeled myself for the worst. The ones I’d found in the glass jug gathered on the desk before me, no doubt wondering why I’d come back empty handed and tearful. After I heard Dad go to bed, I cracked the door open and snuck downstairs taking care to avoid the creaky step.
From behind every nicknack on the mantle, every shoe by the door and every picture on the shelves, a little green light waved to and fro. I fought back the cry of relief and instead scooped them all up in my hands and, making three trips, transported them upstairs. When I reunited them with their aquatic brethren they seemed floored. As expected. They’d been separated for a year now.
The two groups rushed to embrace one another, formed circles hand in hand to dance merrily and exchanged stories in their inaudibly soft, high pitched dialect. I cradled my head in my hands and simply watched them for a while as nostalgia washed over me.
I recalled the little procession on the table, bringing the marshmallows for my cocoa. The cautious faces peeking out from behind the astonishingly well made miniature tables and chairs on the crone’s shelves. If I weren’t so determined not to harbor foolish fantasies I could almost say that I felt her presence.
I slept soundly that night, for the first time in many months. When I awoke, while sitting in bed rubbing my eyes I began to wonder if it had simply been a wonderful dream. Then their bright little faces poked out from behind various books and toys on my shelves.
I doodled them in my binder on the way to school, performing various dances or tasks. Some sawing twigs for firewood, others playing happily on a set of little drums. At stoplights, out of the corner of my eye I could see dad studying my drawings.
Once or twice he began to say something, but stopped himself. I wondered if he meant to apologize for last night. “It’s okay”, I muttered. “I know it’s hard to have a kid like me.” He furrowed his brow, then returned his gaze to the road.
Morning classes went quickly. There was a test, which seemed to upset the others. I’ve always enjoyed tests. It’s the routine drudgery of homework I can’t stand. The multiple choice ones in particular are quite like puzzles, where the wording of each question carries subtle hints as to the answer the author intends.
I always did very well but never interpreted the results as indicative of anything other than my ability to figure out the mindset of the guy who designed the test. Something I could do very easily with writing, but not at all in person.
When recess came, the ritual began. It’s the same three girls every time. Why do they chase me? Maybe just because I run when they do. I once complained to a teacher about it. He chuckled, and suggested I let them catch me. Not sure what the joke was. Perhaps today was the day to find out.
I abruptly stopped in the middle of a modest grassy field just outside the cafeteria. The girls stopped too, looking on in confusion as I’d never done this before. Their faces turned red. Then confusion became anger. Two held me while the other took off my shoes, then pulled my pants off.
I coped by shutting my eyes tightly and hoping it’d be over soon. They ran off with my pants laughing uproariously, leaving me in the field, searching for something to cover up with. I’d picked a bad day to wear Star Trek underpants.
“Don’t react, and the bullies will stop. They thrive on your reactions.” More sage grownup advice that works only in the realm of thought experiment. Very few gathered to appreciate the spectacle as I walked to the principal’s office in my tighty whities. After all, something like this happened to me roughly two or three times a week.
The girls hid the pants well enough that further searching was deemed useless. The principal called my mom so she could bring a replacement pair, . “You know most boys your age would sell their left kidney to be chased by girls every day”. I don’t know how he got the idea that I was in the mood for jokes.
“You must know something about girls I don’t”, I opined. “So far, they’ve been a reliable source of humiliation and not much else.” He shook his head, told me I didn’t understand because I was too young. Maybe so. My mom’s a girl, after all. So was the crone, although it felt strange to think of either having been my age at some point.
Mom arrived with the pants, and scolded me for “losing” yet another pair. I could see her side of it. Pants aren’t free. She and the principal made friendly chitchat as I got dressed. Mostly about me. Nothing I cared to listen to, as I’d heard it all before. They have their own ideas about how stuff like this happens to me and are never particularly interested in my side of it.
I waved as she drove off, then headed back to class. I knew what to expect going in. Even so, it stung. Mr. Conrad did his best to shout it down but there were a solid three, maybe four minutes of laughter until he did. Then came the leering. Oh, what will he do next to entertain us? What enjoyment can yet be squeezed out of him?
I tuned it out and returned to doodling. History class did not require my participation as it’s a strong subject for me and not one I’d ever had to put any effort into for good grades. This retreat was sorely needed. Even without looking I could sense their eyes on me. Faces locked into that maniacal, predatory grin I’ve become entirely too familiar with.
I don’t know what makes me such a tempting target. That’s always eluded me. My last year of elementary passed nearly without incident simply because word got around that I’d beaten up one of my bullies. The others left me alone after that for some reason. I added it to the list of things I’ll never understand about them.
I dreaded the thought of another fight. Would it work a second time? But then I’d have to pick someone to hit. They’d be just as shocked, hurt and alienated as I always am when it happens to me. Visiting pain and fear upon another person just so I can be spared it seems like some perverse sacrificial offering.
Just then I noticed girls ahead of me whispering, giggling and passing notes. One of them I recognized from the field. On the off chance the note included the location of my pants, I snatched it mid-exchange. The girls looked at me in horror. One began to yell, but was admonished by Mr. Conrad to keep her voice down.
I stole a look at it. “Boys we like” at the top, then a numbered list. My name was number one. I puzzled over it until one of the girls leaned over and grabbed it from me. She then tore it into little pieces. The other two were that same shade of red I’d seen before. “It doesn’t mean anything”, she harshly whispered. “Just a joke we came up with.”
Oh. Well, that makes sense of it. What else could it be but a joke? I’d been foolish to entertain any other interpretation. “So I’m a joke to them”, I thought. What had I been before? Was this a step down, or up?
I resolved not to give it further thought, and buried my face in my binder. I was nearly finished a busy drawing of the little fellows throwing some sort of festival. Not one I’d ever seen, but it would certainly be in their nature from what I knew of it.
The bell sent waves of relief washing over me. I’d made it through another day. I recalled my dad once telling me that ‘day by day’ is no way to live your life as there’s no thought given to the future. He’s got me there. For me, the future means three more years of days like today. Then highschool. I try to think about that as little as possible.
When I got in the car, I sensed something in the air. Dad was driving as he and mom alternate and I guess they’d agreed that her mid-day visit to deliver my pants counted. As we turned onto the freeway, he broke the ice. “I heard what happened today.”
I didn’t confirm or deny it. I figured he’d say his piece either way. “You got into my tools, didn’t you. The air compressor wasn’t where I remembered.” No point in denying it. I’d only get punished more for lying. I told him I’d rigged it for diving. To my surprise, he laughed.
“That’s pretty clever. I don’t want you doing it again though, you can hurt yourself real bad that way if something goes wrong. You understand?” I nodded. No sense in bringing up the rest of those jugs until I had someplace safe prepared for their occupants anyway. “Your mother threw a fit that morning. Did you know you tracked muddy water in through the kitchen?” I didn’t, and apologized. That was it from him for the rest of the ride. I felt relieved he hadn’t gone into detail about the whole pants business.
Aunt Lina was there when we got home. I scowled involuntarily. Mom came out to mediate. “Aunt Lina’s brought you something!” In fact, she had. It was a beautifully giftwrapped package nearly as big as myself. “We had a misunderstanding the other day. I thought I’d surprise you with something nice to smooth it over.”
I made a point to sincerely thank her. Perhaps it really was just a misunderstanding. I peeled away the paper, tearing it as little as possible so it could be saved and reused. Inside was a model train set. “I read you guys really have a thing for trains”, she explained. You guys? Me and who else? I shrugged it off, thanked her again and dragged the immense brightly colored box up to my room.
On the way up I heard Lina say to mom, “I’m still on the fence. Supposing he does it for attention? And for gifts! If so, he played me like a fiddle. Oh, don’t look at me that way. Although, I did hear there’s some connection with vaccines. You didn’t vaccinate him, did you?”
They took some coaxing to come out of their hiding places. Mom must’ve been through to clean once or twice while I was at school. I told them all about my day. I doubted they understood, but they seemed able to tell I was upset about something. About a dozen sat in a semicircle before me. One was struck by a falling tear, which absolutely drenched him.
He burst out laughing. So did the rest. It proved infections and before long I forgot my troubles. I rejoiced in their company, and began to appreciate how the crone could live alone in the woods for so many years. She’d not been the least bit alone, had she? I felt as though she were smiling down on me as I played with the little ones. It got me to thinking what more I could do to build a future for them.
I broke out the sketchpad and began to brainstorm ideas for fortifications. They wouldn’t be safe here forever. I also didn’t want my parents becoming a target for unknowingly harboring refugees. Most of the tiny, immaculate drawings they’d done while I was away depicted the forest. Many would gather around and look on, wistfully.
Returning them to the burrow beneath the tree didn’t seem like an acceptable solution. What sort of life would that be? Still, some sort of emergency refuge was a good idea. Most of my concept drawings had several underground shelters spaced evenly so that everyone could get to safety at a moment’s notice should an unwelcome visitor appear.
I then set to prototyping the shelters. My first idea was to simply superglue walls to a cinderblock, with holes just large enough for them to crawl through into one of the two hollow cavities. But while they’d be safe enough from a single Tyrant, several would probably be able to lift and carry the whole thing.
I eventually settled on building the settlement around the tree with the burrow under it. Better they should have someplace to retreat to should all other defenses fail. I also wound up revisiting the cinderblock, but as the basis for a home which could not be crushed underfoot. While it wouldn’t stop a Tyrant, it would at least stop cats, raccoons and other probable threats.
I found the cinderblocks in the garage, just where I remembered. When mom walked in on me assembling the first one, I told her it was a birdhouse. “I’ve never seen somebody make a birdhouse from a cinderblock” she remarked. “Well, now you have” I replied. Seemed to satisfy her.
I had the little fellows inspect the first completed house, then suggest changes via drawings. One obvious one I missed was the necessity of drilling a hole through the floor for waste disposal, as well as another in the ceiling for the stovepipe. A group of them spent the evening figuring out how to furnish the prototype so that result could be quickly replicated for the rest.
If I could find an opportunity to set these up around that tree sometime soon, I could begin relocating some of the little ones. They could then do much of the rest of the work themselves, from resources gathered on-site. The burrow beneath the tree doubles as a mine, and as soon as a defensive perimeter of some kind could be established they might begin to farm.
I still felt they would need supplies for a while before they could become self sufficient. Even the glass jug some of them called home for a year contained buried caches of dried meat and other provisions to live off of until someone came along to release them.
All at once, it struck me. The train! I turned and studied the cover of the colorful box. Aunt Lina was, for the next four seconds, my favorite person in the world. With enough track I could discreetly send loads of building materials, food, and whatever else they needed from the backyard directly to their settlement in the woods.
The discretion part assumed some way of concealing the train. I thought piping might do the trick but could find nothing like that in the garage and had no money to buy it with. What I did find were stacks and stacks of plastic gutter dad meant to install last Summer, putting it off until he simply forgot about it. I knew there’d be questions about what happened to it eventually, but the pressing short term needs of my tiny friends came before such concerns.
By turning the sections of gutter over, a sort of tunnel resulted which I could then pile dirt on top of. The trick would be to dig a shallow trench first so the roof of the tunnel would be flush with the ground. Reasoning that the tunnel would need a rigid floor to glue the train tracks to, I found some corrugated plastic signs from an environmental activism thing mom was involved in for a while and cut those up into strips with the appropriate footprint.
In this manner, section by section I built and buried sections of tunnel with interlocking lengths of train tracks inside. The set was electrical and a track that long simply wouldn’t supply the necessary power over such a distance, so I opened the engine with one of the fine screwdrivers dad uses to fix his glasses and rigged it to run on a pair of double A batteries.
The car behind it would carry spares that could be added to the circuit just by connecting the appropriate wires. This way if they ran out halfway through the tunnel, they wouldn’t be stranded. After the sun went down I got out my wagon, jacket and flashlight, then lugged a set of four cinderblock houses out to the spot I’d chosen.
I worried whether the little buddies I’d left in those houses would have what they needed to get comfortable, but when Saturday came and both mom and dad left to attend a fundraiser, I headed out to the settlement only to find thin trails of smoke issuing forth from each home’s chimney.
I’d left them with a bottlecap of water which turned out to be unnecessary as they could collect as much dew as they needed each morning, to say nothing of groundwater available in the lower levels of the burrow. So I lugged out the other four cinderblock houses I’d built so far, and spent the next several hours burying sections of track.
If not for the necessity of stealth I might’ve completed the railroad in the span of a few days. Instead it took roughly a month, stealing chances here and there to bury another tunnel section, until finally it reached a spot just outside the gate between the back yard and the field behind it. The gradual construction turned out to be a boon as it allowed time for fresh grass to grow over each newly buried tunnel section, such that it blended in with the field.
At the settlement, the tunnel emptied out into a long loop around the settlement itself, with a switchable Y junction at the mouth so the train could both carry supplies around the colony before returning the way it came. There wasn’t room for a loop on my end that wouldn’t be noticed, so each time it arrived, I’d have to take the train off the tracks one car at a time, then reassemble it facing in the other direction before sending it back.
It was a momentous Sunday when everything was finally in place to send the train on its maiden voyage. I used a reel of twine to measure how far it made it down the tunnel each time before snagging on something so I knew where to dig up a tunnel section and make corrections. By the end of the day, exhausted and covered in dirt, I nonetheless danced like a fool when I first saw the train exit the tunnel and circle the settlement for the first time.
This greatly simplified and accelerated development of their colony. I no longer needed to wait for opportunities to visit the woods unnoticed in order to deliver supplies. Each way took an hour and eighteen minutes according to my stopwatch, and if I wasn’t around to receive them on my end, I’d supplied an additional partially buried cinderblock house where the ones who rode the train could safely stay until I had time to meet with them.
The ones who rode the train back to me always came with drawings of what they needed. Crushed cereal proved popular, as did shredded jerky. Dried berries less so, as the ones who’d spent a year underwater in the sealed jug subsisted largely on similar berries from the small bush growing inside.
This set me to thinking about the other jars I’d not yet fished out the of lake. With the beginnings of a town up and running, and the train finally operational, I felt it might make sense to bring more of them to the surface at some point.
Mom and Dad could tell something was up, but most of it was explicable as a newfound interest in various hobbies. Explaining the disappearance of the train set was more difficult. I don’t like fibbing but I couldn’t very well tell them I’d built a subway for lilliputians. So I claimed to have traded it for the various other materials that now cluttered my room, with which I’d spent many busy weekends building new amenities to ship to the burgeoning town.
I was content to accept whatever punishment Dad deemed appropriate for that, but he confided in me that he regards Aunt Lina more or less the way I do, and only tolerates her for Mom’s sake. There are times when I feel like we understand each other, however fleeting. Later that evening he gifted me an erector set in exchange for recent good grades.
I was indifferent until I saw this particular set included a fully functional scale model steam engine. I nearly leapt out of my seat in delight. Glancing back at Dad he seemed a bit confused that I liked it so much. “I quite like small machines, they’re fascinating to build” I offered, with some degree of hidden strategy. If I could get my hands on more stuff like this, the settlement could generate its own power, industrialize, and who knows what else!
As soon as I could get away without raising suspicion, I headed for the forest, steam engine in hand. My excitement dwindled as I approached the settlement. The houses’ windows were dark and no smoke came from the chimneys. One was upturned and the train track around the settlement was twisted scrap.
Tyrants. I knew they would eventually find this place but had hoped for more time to set up defenses. The little fellows took refuge in the burrow beneath the tree as planned. Excavations amidst the tree’s tangled roots testified to frustrated efforts by Tyrants to dig their way inside. I devised a nasty surprise for the next set.
Crushing a glass bottle beneath my boot, I mixed the glass shards in with loose soil which I then used to fill in the excavated spots. The next time they dug at it, they’d soon wish they hadn’t. When the hatch to the burrow opened, only one of them came out to greet me. He unfurled a drawing of three Tyrants laying waste to their village. I spent the next hour or so drawing various ideas for walls, fences and minefields while my little consultant looked on and nodded thoughtfully.
For the time being, I glued grass fragments to the outside of each cinderblock house to make it harder to lift or tip without injury. Then advised the Homunculi to remain in the shelter while I figured out a solution.
I headed back to the house and dug through the garage. Nothing looked applicable to the problem until I uncovered an old disused bug zapper. Not terribly helpful in its present form, but the circuit inside could electrify any pair of wire loops provided they were close enough.
The next two hours were spent building a crude but functional electric fence. Each pylon two feet high, with wire looped around spaced just right so that anything touching or passing through would cause an electrical arc. The problem was supplying enough power for the whole mess. For the time being I ran an extension cord out to it and buried it alongside the train tunnel.
That wouldn’t cut it long term. Dad would eventually notice. Plan B was to save my allowance until I could buy a pair of car batteries. As I didn’t need to power the bulb which normally attracts insects, the zapper only really pulled current when frying something. It could run for days on one of the batteries while the other charged at home. Then on the weekend, I’d swap ‘em.
This worked so well it was tempting to supply for the rest of their needs this way. But batteries are expensive and eventually need replacement. Ideally I wanted to set them up in such a way that they could provide for themselves indefinitely. So, I got to work building them a powerplant. The first iteration consisted of the model steam engine mated to the dynamo from a hand-cranked emergency radio.
I tried powering the fence with it directly. It didn’t pack much of a punch. After having the little guys load some chopped twigs into it, set them ablaze and get the contraption up and running, I tested the fence with a hot dog on a stick. It fizzled. Eventually I mustered the bravery to try it with my hand. The shock only barely stung. Not remotely sufficient.
What I could do with it, however, was charge the battery. As the fence drew next to no current most of the time, the battery could be trickle charged by the makeshift steam generator until full. I housed the electronics, battery and steam engine in an upturned plastic bin with a hole cut in the roof for the smokestack. Didn’t want rain shorting any of it out.
It was a bit of a chore instructing the Homunculi in its use. They had no familiarity with electricity and regarded it as magical. I pointed out the voltmeter I’d affixed to the circuit which displayed the battery’s state of charge and, through a long series of drawings, explained that the fence would only work while the battery was charged and that keeping the steam engine running was the only way to do that.
The one I was dealing with disseminated this understanding to the rest, then assigned six of the others to keeping the steam engine supplied with firewood and water, carrying away the ash, and monitoring charge level. Another ten were added to kindling detail as their need for twigs had just sharply increased.
As a final precaution, I nicked the flare gun out of a neighbor’s boat and rigged it facing upwards at a break in the forest canopy. Fishing line from the trigger allowed a few Homunculi tugging on it to fire the flare skyward. It took only two drawings to make it clear to them what it was for and when to use it.
The sun now low on the horizon, I trekked across the field and found to my relief that Mom and Dad were not yet home. I suspected Dad knew by now, but had grown tired of punishing me for it. Mom was the one I had to worry about. According to her, I could easily be eaten alive by bears anywhere outside of the suburb. And grownups are supposed to be the rational ones.
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