Read the introductory chapter from Perihelion:

 

The Ghost of Novels Past

 

It was a particularly sultry night in mid-July of 2020, almost tropical with humidity although this was southeastern Wisconsin. I was tossing and turning, throwing off sheets damp with sweat, mostly tormented with worries: there was a pandemic racing through the world that nobody seemed able (and some unwilling) to stop. But there was more that was keeping me awake.

The fear of the virus had kept us from visiting our favorite restaurants, carry-out was not quite up to our standards, and I was getting bored with my usual repertoire of chile, pulled pork, and the obligatory bratwursts. I had decided to do something atypical, perhaps exotic. Asian fare, East Indian cuisine, Ethiopian dishes, all required ingredients I was unlikely to find at our Piggly Wiggly store, however.

I settled on Welsh Rarebit for no reason other than that I had been perusing some books from my library that reprinted old comic strips and had come across a series of Windsor McCay’s “Dream of the Rarebit Fiend” from the early twentieth century. McCay’s protagonist had dreams in which his bed would fly away with him after having eaten the dish just before bedtime. The inference was that Welsh Rarebit had hallucinatory characteristics, but I was only thinking of the rich, flavorful melted cheese on toast that could be comforting, even on a torrid summer day.

Following an ancient recipe I found online, I blended a good Wisconsin cheddar and some brown mustard into a sort of béchamel sauce, added a pinch of paprika and a splash of Worcestershire sauce, and slowly melted this concoction over a low heat. I dipped pieces of bread in Scotch Ale (New Glarus “Winter Warmer” Ale which I did find at the Piggly Wiggly) and started them toasting under the broiler. Lastly, I poured the cheese sauce over the bread and cooked it until it was golden brown and resembled a road-killed Welsh rabbit. I had indulged in a second helping late that evening, not heeding the lessons of the Rarebit Fiend.

Although it was a moonless night there was a soft, sparkling glow in the room as if the air were made of milk glass illuminated by a thousand fireflies. I had the window open because our air conditioner was on the blink. The pseudo lace curtains fluttered in the slight breeze―a breeze that seemed like the hot breath of some malignant spirit or goblin, intent on adding to my discomfort. I considered closing the window but as I gazed at the undulating cloth the glow intensified and took to the curtains like melting butter. The shape of these curtains changed, solidified into a complex lump. The lump took on human form, a specter or apparition that stood, now translucent and shimmering.

“A ghost!” I blurted out in my half-sleep. “But I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Certainly you must, if only in your unconscious. Else I would not be here,” said the apparition.

The features of the thing were taking shape, becoming clearer. Its countenance had a familiar look. An old man, wizened face with furrows of unmistakable character, bushy eyebrows overhanging deep-set dark eyes, full mustache in which numerous small creatures might possibly be hiding, a head of wild white hair like windblown excelsior, a costume harking from a by-gone time: white suit and vest, wide lapels, and sharply tied ascot (also white) secured by an oval pin of gold metal. His smile was intoxicating, reassuring, intriguing.

“Are you the writer of our most famous book, the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?” I asked.

“People still remember me for that trifle?” he replied. “I have written better. The Prince and the Pauper was pretty good, and my best writing, I think, was Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc. I worked on that one for a long time, seeking perfection. Maybe I achieved it with that one.”

“I have not read it,” I admitted, “but I will look up a copy.”

“Do so, you will not be disappointed.”

“May I ask, why are you appearing before me? I am afraid I’ve caught the virus and I’m dying…you’re here to take me to the afterlife, like this is some bizarre 1940s movie. Tell me, will it be Heaven or Hell?”

“Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company. Well, I don't like to commit myself about heaven and hell…you see, I have friends in both places. No, this is just a friendly visit. You see, you have mentioned me in several of your novels.”

“I find you to be a fascinating character.”

“You use me to fill in gaps in your narratives when you run out of ideas. I know. But that is all right. Truth is stranger than fiction, but that is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities. Truth isn’t.”

There was a pause in our conversation. The author, famous for his wit, was insightful, conjuring realizations in my meandering mind. Gaps. Running out of ideas. Me. So I said:

“I am at an impasse. I want to start a new novel, but my imagination is all dried up, a bottomless pit of empty air.”

“That might be a mixed metaphor. Anyway, have you no memories? When I was younger I could remember anything…whether it happened or not.”

“Your books have been pure genius. Inspirations for the writers who came after you. And nice targets for school boards intent on censorship.”

“In the first place, God made idiots. That was for practice. Then he made school boards. Anyway, thousands of geniuses live and die undiscovered…either by themselves or by others. My books are like water; those of the great geniuses are wine. Fortunately, everybody drinks water.”

“Well,” I said, “I would sure appreciate any old idea you might suggest. Something you discarded, perhaps.”

“I tell you what. You know my most famous quote? Nearly any invented quotation, played with confidence, stands a good chance to deceive, but this one I actually said. I came in with Halley’s Comet in 1835. When I heard it was coming again in 1910 I said, ‘It will be the greatest disappointment of my life if I don’t go out with Halley’s Comet. The Almighty has said, no doubt, now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in together, they must go out together.’ And I did.”

“Halley’s Comet? How is that a story?” I asked, anticipating that the answer would involve a biography of this man even though so much had already been written about him.”

“Think about the comet as heralding important events. It comes, what, every 75 years or so? Look to history. Look to those years of the comet for stories. But be a bit careful, the very ink with which history is written is merely fluid prejudice.”

I thought about this. A very good idea indeed. Of course, if I were to write a story for every year the comet came to hang in the sky over our Earth, it would be very long book.”

“Tell me something, Mr. Twain…”

“Sam.”

“Sam. Are you working on a new book now that you have an eternity of time on your hands?”

“They don’t have any typewriters where I am now. Only a bunch of old quill pens. I tend to get ink on my fingers…quite annoying. Also, they don’t let me smoke or drink! I used never smoke to excess…that is, I smoked in moderation, only one cigar at a time.”

“I think the world would very much appreciate one more book from you…even if it has to be read posthumously.”

“I must go now, my boy. Remember, get your facts first, then you can distort them as you please.”

“Boy? I am older than you were when you died. Even if the reports of your death have been greatly exaggerated.”

“Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter. Goodbye, stay safe, wear your mask, wash your hands, and don’t touch your face.”

Upon which the apparition dissolved, the air in my chamber darkened, and I felt extraordinarily drowsy. I must finally have fallen asleep for when I woke it was morning. The cooing of morning doves came through my window. The smell of bacon and coffee came from downstairs. I determined to charge up my laptop and begin googling Halley’s Comet. If that big ball of ice had stories to tell, I would make an attempt to tell them.