A love story

The narrative features funny banter. Romance blossoms between a frustrated brain in a jar and a credulous person, while difficulties they encounter include showing off and falling from grace.

It was October, and leaves were giving up the ghost and preparing for their first and final fall. Along the beach people sat wearing sweaters on blankets, hugging their knees and watching the gray waters crash and ebb away. A pier extended battered and old out into the water, and its length was covered with tents and stalls. The remnants of a fair, the remnants of carnival.

Already the posters about town were beginning to curl and bloat, the ink announcing ‘Mr. Mysterioso’s Magical Marvels’ running and thinning. Everybody in the town had been and gone several times, thrown ping pong balls into cups, watched the clowns leap and tumble, gaped at the sword swallowing girl and the castrati who’s voice could shatter eyeglasses in the crowd. Only Meg hadn’t yet been, waiting and biding her time till she could have the carnival to herself. Only then, as evening turned to dusk, and the final stragglers had walked away, did she approach the pier.

The sky to the west was blazing into velvety reds and crimsons, and a cold wind was blowing in off the ocean, whistling between the stalls and causing the awnings to flap. Meg had been out on the pier many a time, when it was empty; it was her favorite spot to come and sit and puzzle things out, replay the events of the day and try to understand why people laughed when they did, and why they sometimes just stared and turned away. But now it was all changed, made somber and magnificent and mysterious and magical by the fair. She paused shyly like a bride at the door to the church, and then, with a quick breath, moved forward.

The stalls had been closed down, and nobody was about. No clowns walked the length of the broad pier, nobody hawked wares or sliced oranges. Padlocks were in evidence everywhere, and already several trucks had been pulled up to where the pier debouched onto the boardwalk, ready to be loaded up the next morning. But that was fine with Meg. She preferred the company of her thoughts and imagination to real people anyway, and as the shadows lengthened and grew thicker she peopled the pier with all the wondrous folk who might have worked the carnival, dancing and leaping and beckoning her further in.

She stopped before a small candycane tent, and gazed up a the sign over the entrance. “Mr. Mysterioso’s Miraculous Mind” it read. The wind cut past her, blowing her thick brown hair into her face, and she took a moment to pull the strands from her lips and eyelashes. Then she ducked her chin and stepped into the tent, half expecting for somebody to yell at her. Nobody did.

The inside of the tent was dark like the inside of a closet full of winter sweaters. Faint light crept in from under the edges of the tent, but that was all. Shapes loomed up around her, pedestals and boxes, vague dark shadows against blacker shapes. It smelt of chemicals and incense, and made her nose wrinkle. Meg paused and listened, and but for a faint bubbling sound, it was completely silent. She was alone.

“Hello,” somebody said, and Meg let out a cry and stepped back. “Can I help you?”

“I—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come inside,” she said, looking around for the speaker. “I thought it was empty. The tent, that is.”

“If you thought it was empty,” asked the voice, “Why did you come inside?”

“Because I wanted to see what was in here,” she said, looking down at her feet. “I didn’t want to steal nothing, honest.”

“Well, no harm done,” said the voice. “And nature does abhor a vacuum. Have you come to ask your one question?”

“My one question?” asked Meg. “But I’ve got lots of questions. Why just one?”

“Well, the policy, as proscribed by Mr. Mysterioso, is one question per patron.”

“Oh,” said Meg, “I didn’t know. I can ask you a question?”

“But of course,” said the voice, warm and solicitous. “To answer is my sole desire.”

“Oh, okay,” said Meg, thinking hard. What to ask? So much of the world confused her. Where to start? She could ask why people laughed when she asked her questions. Or why people tended to laugh even harder when she didn’t understand their answers. Or maybe she could ask why seagulls seemed so vicious. Or what it felt like to be a fish.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve got so many questions I can’t pick one. What would you ask?”

“What would I ask?” asked the voice, surprise and pleased. “Nobody has ever asked me that before. Let us see. Tell me about yourself, and I’ll suggest a question.”

“Well, there’s not much to tell. My name’s Meg Carroway, and I live here in town, see. I’m fifteen, but people tell me I’m not too quick for my age. I like the sorts of stuff others don’t, mostly, and the stuff the like I don’t like much at all. Like—football games, or yelling, or drinking and saying things that don’t make much sense.” Meg ran out of steam, and suddenly felt self conscious and embarrassed. “Not much to tell, really.”

“I see. Well. Hrmm.” Meg got the impression that the person would have coughed if they could have. If they were less polite, perhaps. Moving forward, she peered around the gloom, trying to spot him. He sounded nice. “Well, I don’t know either,” the voice finally said. “I’m usually quite good at this. But after all these years I’ve grown used to talking about how to make money, or make somebody fall in love with you. Hrrm.”

“You know how to make people fall in love with each other?” asked Meg, impressed.

“Well, kind of. I can give very sensible advice that usually works,” said the voice, proud.

“Like what?”

“Like, what advice?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it all depends, see. Usually it involves giving flowers and telling the person you like them.”

Meg laughed. “Really? That’s your advice? Seems a bit simple to me.”

“Well, simple sometimes is best,” said the voice.

“True,” said Meg, reflecting. “I guess you’re right there. I like things simple too.” They fell into a companionable silence. “You must be in love with somebody, then,” said Meg, “Given that you have this good advice.”

“Well, no, not exactly,” said the voice. “It’s a bit hard for me.”

“To fall in love?”

“Well, I fall in love quite easily. But it’s hard for others to fall in love with me.?

“Why’s that?”

“Because I have no body.”

“Nobody to love?”

“No, no body.”

“Well, I’ve got nobody either.”

“That’s not true, I can see you standing right there.”

“Well, yes, but I’m alone all the same.”

“Alone in your body?”

“Alone in my body? What? No, I mean I’m alone in general.”

“But in your body. I mean, you have a body.”

“Of course I have a body. Don’t you?”

“No,” said the voice, impatience crackling in it, “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I have no body.”

“Oh,” said Meg, unsure as what to say to that. “Like, you don’t have a body? You’re…. a ghost?”

“No, not a ghost, don’t be silly. I’m a brain in a vat.”

“A what?”

“Brain. Floating in a special compound saline solution designed by Mr. Mysterioso. Didn’t you see the sign above the door?”

“I didn’t understand it.”

“Well, I suppose it’s not absolutely intuitive.”

“I don’t know what you mean, but I don’t think you should let not having a body ruin things for you.”

The voice laughed, a rich and bitter purl of laughter that filled the tent. With a start, Meg realized it had grown quite dark. “Don’t let my lack of body get in the way of finding love? You should take my place, dear miss. Your advice is priceless.”

“Well, no need to laugh at me,” said Meg, face burning. “Everybody’s always laughing at me. I’ll be going, now. Thank you for you time.”

“No, wait,” said the voice, “I’m sorry, I’ve no right to laugh, I’m sorry.”

Meg paused by the doorway. “Are you really just a brain floating in a vat?”

“I might be,” said the voice quietly.

“I never know when people are telling the truth or joking with me,” said Meg, in a comparable tone.

“You could turn on the light and see,” said the voice.

“I could,” said Meg, and stood still. She could hear the wind whistling outside, and knew that soon she’d have to be getting home. She was late already, and would be scolded by her parents. She should be leaving. Getting home. Back to her house, her life, getting ready for school the next day. Instead, she stepped back into the tent. “I could, but maybe I won’t. Maybe it doesn’t matter, really.”

“No?” asked the voice.

“Maybe. I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll just stay awhile longer. Would you mind?”

“No, Meg, I wouldn’t mind at all. That would be quite nice. I was getting ready for another lonely night. Some company would be nice.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Meg. She sat down on the wooden floor, the boards of the pier rough against her bum. “I don’t feel like asking any questions though. Do you know any stories?”

“I know a few,” said the voice. “What kind would you like to hear?”

“A love story,” said Meg, and closed her eyes. It was warmer behind her eyelids. “Tell me a love story, please.”

“Very well,” said the voice, and began to recount a tale of a land far away from a time long ago. Meg remained still, and listened, and outside the cold wind blew and the awnings flapped, and the gray ocean crashed and ebbed on the shore.