Jay Lake and the Last Temple of the Monkey King (3 page)

They huddled beneath the massive throne for two days waiting for the Iron Monkey to wind down. It didn’t.

They lay in silence and darkness, hearing nothing but the ticking of gears and the clacking of steel wings that defied science and reason.

“If only,” Frank finally said, “we had one of the tools of power.”

Jay nodded to the satchel. “It’s right over there. Knock yourself out.”

Excitement filled Frank’s voice. “You brought it? You have the Inscrutable Alien Story Device? Why didn’t you say so?”

Jay shrugged. “I don’t feel like writing. It’s over there. Go get it if you want it.”

As if understanding them, the Iron Monkey dove and roared.

Now Frank’s words tumbled out, falling over one another in their rush to escape. “You don’t understand. I can’t use it. But
you
can, Jay Lake. You can write us a way out of here.”

“I can?”

“Think about it.”

Jay thought about it. “No,” he said. “Nothing.”

Frank sighed, exasperated. “The tools are subliminal messaging devices designed to prepare humanity—to
compel
humanity—to a place where it is ready to embrace the galactic community and lay aside its primate aggression scripting.”

Something sparked in Jay. “I can write things into reality?”

Frank nodded. “Yes. The Device draws raw creative material from the collective subconsciousness around us, re-aligns it around universal values and principles of Zen harmony and psycho-spiritual redemption—”

Jay interrupted as the spark guttered to life within him. “Then its blended back into story for re-insertion into the collective subconciousness to bring about societal change.”

“Yes,” Frank said, laughing. “Yes.”

“I could use the Device to craft a story that would bring us help.”

“Yes,” Frank said again.

“Only . . .” Jay let the words trail off. Then found them again. “Who would read the story?”

Frank pondered this. “They wouldn’t need to read it. Not if they were sensitive to the subtle machinations of the collective subconciousness and story. Not if they were nearby.” Frank paused. “Of course, we’re stranded in a cavern far beneath the surface of the earth, miles and miles from any sensitive soul.”

A sudden memory caused Jay to suck in his breath quickly. “
I like stories
,” Trailer Boy had told them. “
I wrote one once.
”

“It just might work,” Jay said.

Frank left cover first, singing at the top of his lungs and dancing like a madman and waving his hands in the air. As the monkey roared above them and dived at Frank, Jay scrambled out the other side and raced for the satchel.

Frank went down beneath the flailing tail and flapping wings but rolled away and sprung lightly to his feet. Panting, they clawed their way back beneath the throne. Jay opened the bag and drew out the Inscrutable Alien Story Device.

Fitting his hands into the grips, he pumped the machine and let his fingers fly across the keys. The Device hummed to life and started spitting paper.

“Is it working?” Frank asked.

But Jay said nothing. Instead, he bent his will into the soup of subconsciousness and aimed his words like sharp arrows into the soul of his species.

Frank gathered up pages. “It’s too dark to read,” he said.

“You don’t need to read it,” Jay said. “I just need to write it.”

He wrote for hours until his arms were sore and his fingers ached. He wrote until his brain felt soft and empty and the words failed him. Finally, he put the Device aside.

“There,” he finally said.

“Now what?” Frank asked.

“Now we wait,” Jay said, exhaustion riding hard behind his eyes.

At first, the noise was faint and far away. As it grew, Jay could not place it. A clicking sound accompanied by the noise wind makes in a tunnel. Beneath the door, faint light leaked into the room, becoming more intense as the noise drew closer. The Iron Monkey landed in front of the door and sniffed at it, its tail twitching.

Jay Lake smiled. “Now,” he said.

“Now?” Frank asked.

Jay nodded.

“Oh Lord Jesus help me,” a muffled voice shouted beyond the door, followed immediately by the sound of something heavy striking the solid wood. Too late, the Iron Monkey flapped its wings to raise itself to safety.

The door came down upon it and a spectacle unlike any Jay had ever seen flashed up and over in a streak of brilliantly illuminated orange and black. It was a large man on a bicycle. Strapped into the bike’s small basket was a car battery, a series of wires connecting it to a solitary Pinto headlight duct-taped to Trailer Boy’s Space Ranger helmet. Light from it glinted off the tin cod-piece taped to the crotch of his coveralls and he screamed high pitched and like a girl as he sailed out over the chasm still working the pedals and brakes of his bicycle.

He landed tangled up in aluminum and wire and groaned. Trailer Boy wrestled himself free and knocked on the cod-piece. “It worked,” he said but Jay was afraid to ask him what he meant.

Instead, Jay called out across the chasm. “Shine that light around.”

The beam of light sliced and bobbed until it found the lever Jay knew had to be there. When Trailer Boy pulled it, a bridge unfolded itself and rolled its way across the great divide.

Together, Frank and Jay crossed over to stand before the golden chest. Trailer Boy stood with them and, with trembling hands, Doctor Frank Wu reached out to lift the lid.

They gasped at the beauty of it as Frank lifted the last tool of power from its resting place.

“Behold,” he said in a quiet, reverent voice, “The Inscrutable Alien Watercolor Set.”

They drank Yoohoo in the shade of the double-wide and toasted the eventual maturity of humankind. Trailer Boy cooked MoMos while Jay supervised and Frank embraced his art, filling page upon page with watercolor doodles. Over lunch, they talked about the work ahead of them and Trailer Boy listened thoughtfully.

“With your stories,” Frank said.

“And your art,” Jay said.

“We could make a difference,” they both said in unison.

One book, Jay thought, birthed from two of the tools of power. One book to draw out the others, those who would take up the tools Frank had tucked away in the vaults of his Bay Area Headquarters and move a species into wholeness.

Trailer Boy chuckled. “I know what you could call it.”

“Call what?” Jay asked.

“The book,” he said, laughing again. “
Howdy from Wu Lake
. Like one of them new-fangled postcard thingies.”

“I like it,” Frank said.

“Might need tweaking,” Jay said.

Trailer Boy shrugged. Then his face lit up. “I found my story,” he said. He dug around in his coveralls again to pull out a sweaty wad of manuscript covered in crayon scribbles and faded New Courier Font. “Would you read it maybe sometime?”

Jay glanced down at it. The first line held no promise and caused him to wonder what the miracles of modern medicine might do for this strange, giant, backwoods bike-riding hermit and his bear fixation. He read it again.
He was a bear and his name was Edward and he lay twitching in the corner of a room that smelled like death.
“Uh,” he said, suddenly nervous, “I’ll give it look.”

Trailer Boy nodded with a smile and crushed him into a hug. “Thank you, Mr. Jay Lake. Thank you.”

Jay extricated himself. “No,” he said. “Thank you.”

He did the same to Frank and when he let him go, the doctor smiled and pushed a sheaf of papers into the large, clumsy hands. “I made these for you.”

Trailer Boy’s face lit up as he shuffled through the hastily crafted series of watercolor doodles. “Classic!”

Jay frowned. “Isn’t pornography problematic within your value system?”

Frank shrugged. “They’re just cartoons, Jay.”

Then the doctor slipped his foot into the knotted silk rope and tugged three times. Jay watched him ascend into the belly of the enormous zeppelin.

“Cool ride,” he said.

“I’ll bet,” Trailer Boy added, “it doesn’t have handbrakes.”

Laughing, Jay scooped up his leather satchel and walked to his waiting car. With any luck, the Bradley Loggers Circus was in full swing and there was room at the inn. Perhaps the logging dwarves would be busy topping their trees and the logging girls with their boots and suspenders would want to watch him brush his manly hair and maybe swing him around the dance floor in a do-si-do of rural splendor. A shower, some fresh undershorts, and women who weren’t afraid of a little sawdust. The perfect close to one more misadventure.

As he climbed into his red convertible and fired it up, sunset washed the sky purple and red.

As Jay Lake drove into it, he smiled and loved the fullness of his life.

Happy Birthday Once More With Feeling.