Fleabrain Loves Franny (22 page)

“Whoa!” said Fleabrain, hanging on to Alf's hair. “You're pretty vigorous for two in the morning!”

“Sorry. I feel an odd, tingling sensation in my tail. What's happening back there?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” said Fleabrain. “Having a bit of supper, that's all. But, Alf, do you hear the singing?”

Fleabrain, you are sum-moned
.

Fleabrain, you are sum-moned
.

Fleabrain, you are sum-moned
.

The choristers had now chosen a higher key, relentless and insistent.

“Did you say you were singing, Fleabrain? I didn't know you could sing,” said Alf.

“Yes, of course I can sing,” said Fleabrain waspishly. “I'm a magnificent tenor, as fine as our famous American tenor Mario Lanza, born January 31, 1921. Oh, how I wish I had time to regale you with
‘E lucevan le stelle'
from the opera
Tosca
, by the Italian composer Giacomo Puccini, born December 22, 1858, died November 29, 1924! It's the aria the imprisoned artist Cavaradossi sings while awaiting execution, entirely appropriate to the present situation. But that's not me singing now. Alf, can't you hear the choir? It's mighty loud this time.”

Alf cocked an ear. “Nope.”

“What's wrong with you? You're a dog. Hearing's supposed to be your major talent, second only to smelling! Don't you hear it?”

Alf tried again. “No choir. Sorry.”

Fleabrain, you are sum-moned
.

Fleabrain, you are sum-moned
.

Fleabrain, you are sum-moned
.

Of course Alf couldn't process the sound! Alf had never heard the singing because the sound had always been too small for even a dog's ears to process,
small
being the operative word here. And the smaller the sound, the greater the importance.

The greater the power.

Fleabrain, you are sum-moned
.

Fleabrain, you are sum-moned
.

Fleabrain, you are sum-moned
.

The choir was making no attempt to harmonize or sing on key now. Foreboding and discordant, the command filled Fleabrain's “ears.”

“OK, OK, I'm on my way!” shouted Fleabrain. He might as well face the music. He would try, in these last, terrifying moments, to be brave, if he could.

Alf turned his head. “Where are you going at this hour?” he asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Fleabrain.

He rubbed himself all over with FB Saliva #3, a solution perfected to make the tiny even tinier. His jaws clattered with dread.

Fleabrain, you are sum-moned
.

Fleabrain, you are sum-moned
.

Fleabrain, you are sum-moned
.

“Good-bye, dear world!” he whispered. “Good-bye, books! Good-bye, Alf, dear friend! Good-bye, my dearest, dearest Francine!”

He felt the squeezing deep down in his “gut.” He could hardly breathe. He smelled the popcorn and the firecrackers. He heard a rushing sound like trees swaying and shaking in a storm, as he clutched his favorite tail hair, now as wide as a redwood tree.

“Fleabrain, you are sum-moned. Fleabrain, you are sum-moned. Fleabrain, you are sum-moned,”
sang the choir, louder and closer now.

“You want me smaller still?” gasped Fleabrain. He took another FB Saliva #3 bath, gamely rubbing it all over his body. “Now what?”

He felt himself hurtling downward, then sideways, then up, then down again. The process seemed to take forever, but his reliable instincts told him a mere three seconds had gone by. His favorite Alf hair was no longer a hair or even a tree but a dull, flat surface stretching endlessly toward infinity.

And then he became aware of them, thousands of them, sitting in rows all around him. They were waiting for the show to begin, as if they were patrons of the Manor Theater on Murray Avenue, except that the theater seemed as big as a stadium.

On closer inspection, Fleabrain realized they weren't all sitting. Some lounged on their sides; others bobbed up and down; some attached themselves to others and hogged a whole row. Others continuously morphed and divided into exact replicas of themselves.

Fleabrain recognized a few of them from illustrations in
The Invisible World
, a biology book in the Katzenback bookcase: the pancake-shaped skin cells; the snaky nerve cells with their enthusiastic dendrites; the blood cells, round like sucking candy; a random buglike bacterium. He'd never thought he'd see them for himself, these creatures of another world. Except the world was Alf, or Alf's tail, to be precise. Wonders of the microworld, which he certainly would have appreciated under different circumstances.

“Fleabrain!” the group intoned, the sound large and commanding.

“Yes?” Fleabrain whispered.

“You have been summoned!”

“I'm aware of that,” replied Fleabrain dryly.

They all burst into an otherworldly, screeching laughter, with some applause.

“Yes, I'm sure you are,” a few skin and muscle cells shouted in unison.

“Who or What has summoned me?”

“You have been summoned by the Commanders of All Nuclei!” cried the giant group, once again in unison. “And we have been named the Great and Powerful and Majestic Council of the Small. For today, anyway.”

“Who are the Commanders of All Nuclei?” Fleabrain asked, and the crowd burst into laughter once again.

“Oh, my, what a question!” sang a blood cell, floating to the front of the stadium as the apparently designated “spokescell.” “All right, enough frivolity, everyone. ‘They' are the deepest level beneath us, in
the Great Beyond Below. The Life Force, the Very Nature of Things, even smaller and more powerful than we. ‘They' will be monitoring and guiding our discussion as it transpires. ‘They' have asked us to pronounce judgment after evaluating the situation.”

“What situation?” Fleabrain asked.

The group roared with laughter once again. It was not unpleasant, Fleabrain decided, finding himself to be so effortlessly witty.

“Quiet, quiet!” shouted a furious bacterium. “Let's be serious! The situation of
you
, Fleabrain, you little mutation. What you are, what you've been, what you've done, and whether you will be or do whatever, ever again!”

“Oh,” said Fleabrain.

“Come on, it's not as bad as that!” yelled a group of tightly coiled cells from the higher-up seats.

“Oh, yeah?” responded the bacterium, to the applause of a few of his cronies.

“Now, now,” admonished the blood cell, “let us proceed, using proper decorum and procedure, one flaw at a time.”

And so the discussion began.

Fleabrain had been arrogant, sometimes selfish, often envious.

He had bragged, flaunting his great knowledge.

He was not a good listener.

He had lied and shammed.

His ancestors had helped carry and spread disease. (This last point was mightily argued down by the majority for its prejudice. Fleabrain was but one lone flea, not to be held responsible for the past actions of others.)

Most of the arguments were not a surprise to Fleabrain. He shivered in humiliation and with much regret.

At this point, a Y-shaped creature bounced to the front of the stadium. “May I have the floor? We are not being entirely fair here.” She extended her long arms sympathetically toward Fleabrain.

“Proceed, Aunty Boddy,” said the spokecell.

“I have vital work to do in the bloodstream, fighting off infections, but I came to this meeting to ensure that the Council consider the flea's good qualities,” she said.

“Let us all enumerate them!” shouted the audience.

The crowd called out a few of Fleabrain's positives:

He was an entertaining conversationalist.

He was appreciative of and kind to his host.

He was well-bred and well-read.

He was full of fun.

He was flawed, but he meant no harm.

And always, a ceaseless advocate for the power of the small.

Then, suddenly, from the Great Beyond Below, came a rushing, whispery monotone, a million voices from everywhere, speaking as a group, phrases tumbling one after another like leaves on a windy day. Fleabrain presumed these were the Commanders of All Nuclei, weighing in. The stadium immediately fell silent.

and

he has loved

yes, he has loved

yes

“Right!” shouted Fleabrain, almost weeping with gratitude. He waved a tibia defiantly. “I have loved! Doesn't that count for a lot?” His pumping mechanism soared with hope.

Yes, he had loved, the members of the Council agreed.

“But selfishly,” said a nerve cell, pointing an accusing finger–like dendrite, “with not a shred of agape!”

“No agape! No agape! No agape!” the bacteria jeered, and to Fleabrain's dismay, a few in the crowd picked up the chant. “No agape! No agape! No agape!”

Fleabrain lay prostrate before them all, unable to move, paralyzed by shame.

It was true. For once in his life Fleabrain wished he didn't know what he knew. But he knew very well what
agape
meant in this context. Francine had known, too. Fleabrain hadn't had any agape, or very much at all, where Francine was concerned.

Agape
. From the Greek: /æg
pi:/[1] or /
ga;per/; Classical Greek:
, agápē; Modern Greek:
IPA: [
]