A man shaped like a large paper wasp.
"Come here," he said, motioning to Francis with one of his
hands.
"Sir, may I ask you a question?"
"Yes."
"Why do these people do this?" asked Francis.
"Carry umbrellas? Because it's crowded here and they are trying to
mark out their own space--a space in which they can be themselves."
"And you?"asked Francis, for the man did not have even a newspaper
to cover his head.
"I don't need one," he said.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm a genius--they own all the space in the world--genius
is waterproof."
And so they strode together to his house on the hill.
"Well, what do you do for a living?"
"I make violins. And for forty years I have cherished a singular hope:
to make a violin--a living violin--made of several creatures bound together.
They would be the humming and it would be the voices of thousands of bees
swarming the air--drenching the space with a golden sound--the voices of
thousands and thousands of bees--a deafening hum pollinating the air--and
I've been watching you...and I've been watching you..and I would be so honored
if you would be the fiddlehead of this violin."
Francis was taken aback. The tea was cold. The door was slightly ajar.
"You would be quite famous and possibly even rich--" added the
violinmaker, blocking the doorway. "And only you can do it
for only you are a fiddlehead."
"I'm sorry," said Francis firmly, "but I don't think I want
to be part of your project."
"Think of what you owe to the world--" said the violinmaker.
"But--"
"You've never done anything for anyone other than yourself," cried
the violinmaker."You are wasting your talents--wasting what is only
yours to give--"
"No--" said Francis and pushing aside the violinmaker's lumpy
mass, quickly strode out the exit. Behind him, he heard the wail of a hundred
tiny voices, a sound like the mewling of newborn cats.
What was that? Despite his fear, Francis crept quietly to the back of the
house and put his ear to the door. Inside he heard a sucking sound and then
the sound of boards being pried up. Francis looked through the window quickly.
"Hush, children, I feed you soon. I feed you soon."
Millions of white grubs were swarming out of the hole in the floor over
the body of a child. The Genius was pouring a sticky sauce over the belly
and pricking each of its fingers to see if it was well done. The grubs began
to create a humming noise that grew louder and higher until their voices
melded into one voice: it sounded like a tuning fork being struck again
and again. The Genius lifted up his eyes and smiled at Francis. Francis
fled.