I pick up my bag from behind Wilhelm’s house in the lean-to with the wood. I slide my book back into it. It’s dark. I look at my watch; it’s two in the morning. I didn’t want to stay overnight with Wilhelm. He didn’t invite me; there was only the one small cot where he slept, anyway.
I trudge down the long road through the forest. I stop at the Alte Eiche. It doesn’t seem so old now. When one has listened, experienced life as it will be fifty thousand years from now, a tree that might, at the maximum, have lived two or three hundred years is not very impressive. I try to beat away these thoughts from my mind. I don’t want to become like Wilhelm – sad, hard, disillusioned.
Also, I don’t want to believe what Wilhelm has told me. But why would he lie to me? Except for when he was dying or in great physical pain, I’d never seen Wilhelm cry or even come near to it in the months we lived together. No, he believes what he told me, and it doesn’t seem likely he could have made it all up.
Also, I know that when he was telling me, it was Franky Furbo talking, making me know, feel, all he’d felt as if I had been there myself, fifty thousand years in the future. It truly happened, really is. But, now alone, walking in the forest, it’s hard to accept. My mind keeps trying to deny what it knows is true.
So, what if Wilhelm did talk to Franky Furbo and this is what Franky told him? Maybe Franky lied. I don’t believe it. Why would Franky lie to Wilhelm and through him to me? As far as I know, everything he told us, things that at the time seemed impossible to us, have proven to be true. No, Franky wouldn’t lie.
But would the vixen have lied to Franky? Could she be part of some vast conspiracy, involving drugs or hypnosis or some combination, to convince Franky he went into the future and is the progenitor of a new race of superbeings? But why would anybody or any group want to do a thing like that? Or is it possible that Franky Furbo is victim of some complicated delusion, as I’d begun to feel I was?
No, none of those things make sense. It all has to be true.
Wilhelm talked about the ‘thousand-year Reich’, the time it would take to have enough foxes to assert themselves, peacefully, without resistance, but that’s not what occurs to me. It’s more like the medieval idea of the millennium, the belief that a thousand years after Christ’s death, the world as humans knew it would come to an end, the good rewarded, the evil punished, with Christ’s kingdom reigning on this earth.
For a long time there, nobody did much of anything but pray, fast, wait for this millennium to arrive. It was one of the main reasons for what we call the Dark Ages. Only after the millennium had passed and nothing happened was it possible for the Renaissance, the true rebirth, to begin. There was a great outpouring of confidence and energy.
In a certain way, the coming of a reign by foxes is similar to believing in the coming of the reign of Christ. All human activity will seem as nothing, judged by outsiders, by outside criteria; a superior kind of being would become ascendant.
It could be paralyzing to human activity. Wilhelm is an example of what could happen – a general pessimism, inertia, a loss of belief in the value of effort.
Something like this has happened in the Hindu world with their belief in dharma and karma, reincarnation, caste, all the rest of it. The value of effort to improve oneself is removed. One’s duty becomes the mere carrying through of expectations – dharma – in a particular life, to ensure, improve karma in another.
No wonder Wilhelm didn’t want to tell me. I can’t help but wonder why Franky wanted me to know. There must be some reason. He was so careful to teach us how to live, to instruct us on all the failings of humans, trying to encourage us to live better lives, giving us simple instructions by which we could improve. In a certain way, we were his disciples, his effort to send forth emissaries to help others find the way.
But that was all before he knew his own identity, his real role in this life. We were but a premature, hopeful effort on his part. Now the reality has been made known to him and perhaps he has abandoned this effort as hopeless.
I feel betrayed. I understand Wilhelm’s dejection, his anger, his discouragement. I actually find myself falling into the primitive, primate approach to threat – competition, destruction, violence.
I consider going back and asking Wilhelm where the tree in which Franky lived might be, to take it on myself to search out Franky and his mate, to find them and their progeny, to kill them. It’s almost the same kind of reaction I had when Billy said he didn’t believe in Franky Furbo and wanted the ending to the story changed. I changed it and destroyed all that I’d created for him and the other children. It’s so easy to give way to these primitive impulses. I’d never do it, but this gives some idea of how depressed, alone, betrayed I feel.
But I know none of this makes any sense. There can be no holding back progress – change – and if Franky’s story to Wilhelm is true, and I’m convinced it is, the entire development of the fox superiority has occurred in the future.
Whatever action I might try to take is probably already denied by what I now know will be. That is, unless all the talk about there not necessarily being relationship between cause and effect, that what seems to have happened or will happen is not immutable, is true. This idea is hard for me to understand, accept.
Also, I know that such behavior is stupid and completely contrary to every feeling for life, for the way creatures should behave, all that Franky taught us, the ideas that have altered and ordered all my life and the life of my family through the past forty years.
I walk along and into the town of Seeshaupt. There is still a light on at the Post Hotel. The night porter is surprised to see me at such an hour, but there is a room. He shows it to me. He’s wearing an old-fashioned long flannel nightgown complete with cap and tassel. With his glasses and long mustache he looks like something from one of my old Franky Furbo stories.
The room smells of mold and is musty. I throw open the windows. Out my window I see the moon shining on the See. I switch off the overhead light and turn on a small lamp beside my bed. At the head of the bed, the mattress is tilted up. I know I can never sleep like that; it would be like being in a hospital or being in traction at Franky’s. There’s a wedge-shaped chunk of mattress under the real mattress, so I pull it out and stand it against the wall. Then the bed is flat.
I’m dead tired. I undress and climb in under the eiderdown quilt. Everything in the room is white or wood. I turn off the light and settle in. I try not to think too much, but my head is still spinning.
I’m trying to adapt myself to the idea of this new ‘millennium.’ It seems sad somehow. The good thought on which I finally sleep is that I can relax about us humans blowing ourselves off the earth. It means my children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren through about forty generations can live in safety and peace. It sounds like a good trade-off to me. If I weren’t so tired, I’d go and tell Wilhelm this good news, but he already knows. His problem is mostly one of pride. I go to sleep happily, swallowing pride, enjoying the taste of it.
In the morning I take the train into Munich, where I make good connections, with only one stopover, in Turin, to Perugia. I eat my breakfast in the Bahnhof. I’m so accustomed to being in Germany, speaking German, hearing it, I have a hard time realizing I’m going back to my old life in Italy. It’s difficult to believe it’s only been a few days since I left home.
I look at the hustle and bustle around me. It all seems much less important. I feel detached, as if I’m watching an ant colony or animals in a zoo. Somehow, knowing the temporariness of it all gives me an inner peace I haven’t known in my life. It gives me confidence to know the world is going to go on, improve, that the foxes really are going to live as Franky tried to help us, Wilhelm and me, as mere humans, live. It makes so many things that didn’t make sense before seem reasonable.
Actually we all know we have only one life, or at least that’s what I’ve always thought, so there’s no great difference knowing that in a thousand years humans will be pets to superbeings.
To be honest, from another point of view, it won’t be much different from most people’s idea of heaven. After all, in that scenario, one leaves this mundane world and goes to one far superior where there are no worries, no cares; where you are taken care of by a loving God; where you are loved. It isn’t all that much different from the fox world of the future. It’s just that we, personally, as individuals, don’t achieve this world; it will be our descendants. The only Hell would be not having children, not being able to participate in any way in this heavenly state. I look forward to being home with Caroline and Billy.
I board my train. I throw my luggage up on the rack and have just settled in when the train lurches to a start. I’m still surprised at my calm. Perhaps I’m in some state of shock, but I don’t think so. My resentment toward Franky has completely disappeared in the night. He was trying his best to help us within the limitations of what he knew at that time. It’s obviously necessary that he carry out what has to be done to ensure the safety and advancement of his species for our earth.
I wonder if there are similiar kinds of evolutions and mutations, slippages in time, going on with other planets all through our galaxy, all through the universe. It deepens my calm to think about it. I begin to feel privileged knowing something about what’s happening, or seems to be happening at least, on our planet.
I arrive in Perugia late in the day. My bicycle is exactly where I left it. Caroline must not have come to pick it up. It’s a good thing I locked it. I’ll bet she’ll be surprised to see me home so soon. I had no idea everything would happen so quickly. My mind is still awash in time, the magnitude of it and, at the same time, its ephemeral quality. The concept of time moving in a giant circle or globe through space is almost more than I can imagine. But it does help explain Franky Furbo.
One thing I’m sure of now: after all that’s happened, I’ll never again doubt in my own mind the existence of Franky Furbo, my time spent with him, the comradeship I had with Wilhelm, the nearness to death I experienced. It is a jewel I shall cherish inside me, but I don’t want to try making Caroline or the children believe with me. That doesn’t make sense.
It’s wonderful to see our little house again as I pump my way up the hill. I feel I’m coming back home, that I’m inside myself once more. I’m not depressed as I was that first night I knew. I feel elated, excited to be one of the few to know what’s going to happen, what the world is going to be like.
Most of us are cut off from the immensity, the eternity of time, locked into our little lifetime span, but I’ve been privileged to have a view of time out of my own life. It’s something to be happy about. What does it matter if our role, the human role, is not as leader, but as part of the whole earth, maybe the entire ecology of the universe? In the smallness I feel about myself is also lodged a sense of a greater existence, a fuller identity.
When I open the door, Caroline is right there. I think she’d been watching me pedal the bike up that steep hill to our little terrace. It’s not like her to come rushing out to meet me. I know that.
But she is so welcoming. We hold and kiss, looking into each other’s eyes. There’s the question in hers, and I wonder what she sees in mine. Little Billy comes over and gives us both a big hug while we’re holding on to each other. I run my hand through his hair. All our children have the same dark reddish hair as Caroline.
They’ve just finished dinner but bring out what was left over. Caroline has made her special spinach lasagne, and it’s even better warmed up. She pours me a glass of our delicious grape juice. I think of the beer and the schnapps I drank with Wilhelm; I drank more alcohol that long evening than in the rest of my life. I think of him alone in his dark hut surrounded by his fears, his sadness, and I’m a happy man looking at my beautiful wife and wonderful child. It seems cruel to be so selfish, but that’s the way it is. I know I’m smiling like an idiot.
I know too that Caroline is waiting for me to tell what happened, what I’ve found out. I’m sure she’s said nothing to Billy of the true reason why I’ve left. There would be no reason to disturb his peace.
For some reason, I’m still not ready to talk. I wonder also if Franky intends I not tell what Wilhelm told me or if he wants me to share this with my family. I know Wilhelm was allowed only to tell me; perhaps this is the same constriction for me, but I don’t think so.
I need some time to think about all this. If Caroline brings it up I’ll try to tell the truth, but I’m not ready. I also doubt she’ll ever bring it up. This is my problem, my search, and she will respect it. It’s the way she is.
We put Billy down to bed. He takes his place on the farthest end of the bed away from us, as is his right, so Caroline and I have some privacy. As I said, I’ve rigged a curtain that pulls between ours, the space nearest the window, and the rest of the bed. Franky insisted, when we were with him, that children should not think of sex as something to be hidden or ashamed about, but as a natural and beautiful thing through which people share each other and bring others into this world.
Our children have usually been there when Caroline and I have made love. Our ecstasy was a shared experience.
Caroline has never had any trouble with this, but sometimes I would be the one to pull the curtain because of my own past. In the orphanage I think I was polluted with bad feelings about sex and my own sexuality. I guess not even Franky Furbo could completely purge me of those dark feelings.
So, I’m surprised when Caroline pulls the curtain. I think it’s the first time in all the years we’ve been married.
A profound part of me is still feeling very alone and separated, much in need of the comfort and sense of continuity, love and care that can be so well expressed in the intimacy of lovemaking. I’m happy Caroline comes to me, and we become one. Much of the black thoughts, still lingering inside me, are erased in our mutuality of feeling.
Afterward, Caroline is stretched calm beside me, our hands intertwined, each of us on our back; only the tiny night-light is lit over the mantel. I always leave it burning in case someone must go to the toilet or want a drink of water. Also, I think it is so that if one wakens in the night, the house, our home, is visible to give comfort, to seem alive as a loving friend not just a building. Caroline turns toward me.
‘Did you find Wilhelm?’
I pause. I’m still not ready, but I can’t lie about it.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And what do you think now? Do you still believe in Franky Furbo?’
I pause. Caroline is waiting in the dark.
‘I found out you were right, Caroline.’
‘What do you mean, William?’
I hesitate again. I want to say it correctly, without hurting her but still giving me some time.
‘I found out it just doesn’t matter. I found out, also, it doesn’t matter that it doesn’t matter. Whether I believe in Franky Furbo or not, it doesn’t matter, because you were right: we love each other and that’s all there is that really counts.’
I leave it there. I haven’t lied, except by omission. I hope she’ll be satisfied with this limited explanation. She lies back again and I know she won’t ask me to elaborate. Perhaps she’ll never ask about it again. It would be like her.
I wait till I hear her regular breathing and then go to sleep happily. I know in my heart that all is well and everything will work itself out.
The next morning I find Billy has already climbed across the bed to be with me. I must really have been dead to the world, because Caroline is up and out of bed, fixing breakfast in the kitchen. I stretch over and give Billy a hug. I’m feeling so inside myself, so inside our little world. It all comes back, everything Wilhelm told me, and it’s not frightening at all. It’s good to know I’m not going to be one of the ones who cower, waiting for the millennium.
Billy cuddles against me. He’s awake. He might even have been awake before me. He lifts himself on his elbows so he looks into my eyes.
‘Daddy, would you tell me a Franky Furbo story?’
It’s natural; I guess it had to come, but I hadn’t thought much about it. I look back into his eyes, his yellow-flecked brown eyes.
‘I thought you said you didn’t believe in Franky anymore, Billy.’
‘Aw, geez, Dad. Does that mean I can’t have any more stories? I’m not really sure whether I believe in Franky or not. The more I think about it, the more I’m not sure. Besides, I know you wouldn’t have told me Franky Furbo is really true if he isn’t; you wouldn’t lie to me like that. Also, I know I like Franky stories more than any stories I’ve ever heard or read.
‘Besides that, I know you’re right, there’s got to be a true ending to every story. You can’t make up any old ending from nothing just to please me or anybody else. I know that now. I didn’t know it before.’
I give him another hug. God, in some ways he’s so like me. All the others were more like Caroline, what people in Germany would call einmalig, sort of individually unique. I’ve always been the ordinary garden-variety type around our house, except for all the Franky Furbo business, and now I know even that wasn’t my fault, it was only an accident.
‘All right, Billy. I’m going to tell you the most important Franky Furbo you’ve ever heard or will ever hear. It might be so important it could be the last Franky story you’ll hear. Do you understand? Are you ready?’
I know he doesn’t actually comprehend. So often I’ve started stories with similiar introductions to build up suspense; it’s all part of the fun. And, to be honest, I’m not quite sure just what I do mean. But I start:
‘One day, quite a while ago, only a few years after I knew Franky and lived with him, Franky Furbo heard a knock on his door. He was up in his thinking room writing a story and thinking, so he ran down his three ladders to open his door.’
I pause. I can still go back.
‘There, standing on his doorstep, was the most beautiful vixen he’d ever seen, and she asked him, in perfect Fox, “Are you Franky Furbo?”’
I go on and tell the entire story just as Wilhelm told it to me. I realize as I’m telling it, that Franky, through Wilhelm, has planted every detail into my mind, so that, as I tell the story, it’s almost as if I’m remembering it, as if it all happened to me.
Never, through all the years with my children, have I ever told a story so well.
Then I finish with the last part Wilhelm told me: the method by which Franky and Raethe would live, to protect themselves from being killed by humans, to give their children a chance, so that after about twenty-five fox generations of forty years each, there would be a million superfoxes like Franky Furbo.
As I’m telling this last part, Billy is pushing himself up from the bed, sliding onto my chest, staring into my eyes. Also, I can sense that Caroline has moved from the kitchen and is standing beside our bed.
I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. She could be even more angry with me now. This is perhaps too much to ask such a young child to understand, to believe, to live with. In a way, I’ve made the entire Franky Furbo saga into a deeper mental trap. I stop. Will Billy go through the same pangs of rejection, of failure, of discouragement, as Wilhelm is suffering; as I suffered myself, briefly? I begin to wish I’d kept this most important story to myself.
Billy continues to stare into my eyes. His face is excited. He has a hard time speaking.
‘You … you mean Franky Furbo is alive right now and is married to Raethe and – they’re changed so they look like human beings?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And they live apart from other humans and don’t send their children to school – they teach them themselves?’
‘Yep. That’s what they’re doing.’
‘And does Franky Furbo still write stories for children – so he can have money and – to help teach children how to live?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Why, Daddy, that’s just like us. We’re living just like Franky Furbo!’
I look up and Caroline is smiling down at me. She leans forward and kisses me.
‘So, now you know!’