This Isn't What It Looks Like (11 page)

“We have only the animals for audience,” he whispered. “So I may tell you my secret.”

Cass’s ears pricked up. Was she about to hear the Secret already?

“I tire of this palace place. Like you, I seek to be my own master. Lord Pharaoh keeps you on a leash. So the King keeps me.
Though you see not the chain, I feel no less the pain.”

He studied the homunculus’s face for a reaction,
then continued, “I have a most daring plan. By cover of night, we shall flee. Far from king and pharaoh, where we shall both
be free.”

The Jester paced excitedly, gesturing with his hands.

“What then, you ask? Where go our feet? What shall we eat?” The Jester smiled. “Ah, but this is the best part. ’Tis a dream
come true. We shall perform together! Think on it—the Human Fool and the Wise Monster. I shall make them laugh, you shall
make them weep. And together we shall make a big gold heap!”

He formed the heap of gold with his hands, then rubbed them together with anticipation.

“So, my little friend—what say you?”

The homunculus opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. Whether because there was nothing to say or too much.

The Jester nodded. “You speak no more tonight. Good. You are my ideal friend, for I talk without end. You see, I never learned
to hold my tongue, only to fold it—”

He started to fold his tongue in demonstration, then, seeing the homunculus’s blank expression, he gave up.

“What? I do not make you laugh…? You’re right, there was little fun in that pun. How’s this,
then—did you hear the one—? Oh, what’s the use? I can no more tell a joke than flap my wings and fly. A fine jester am I!”

He sank down to the floor and slumped against the wall, his enthusiasm draining away.

“But you, you are a living miracle,” said the Jester bitterly. “The talking homunculus. To see you, people would travel the
world. And what am I? A fool! Not even a full-fool, I am a half-wit. An idiot. No wonder you will not have me. I do not deserve
to work with a talent such as you….”

The Jester lifted his head, clenching his jaw in determination.

“Well, if I must, I’ll strike out on my own. I am used to working alone. I am a professional, after all. And you, what have
you ever done? It wasn’t you that made you! You are not your own miracle, you are Lord Pharaoh’s,” said the Jester scornfully.
“I offer you the benefit of my professional expertise, and you spurn me without so much as an ‘if you please…’ ”

He put his head in his hands, the picture of despair, while the homunculus watched, baffled.

“Forgive me, I know not what I say,” came the Jester’s muffled apology. “You have done no wrong.”

Now sitting on the counter, Cass contemplated the Jester in chagrined disbelief. Was this really the
great man she’d read and heard so much about? Only her experience listening to Max-Ernest prepared her to follow the Jester’s
wild leaps in logic. As for his radical mood swings, she was fairly certain Max-Ernest would diagnose the Jester as bipolar.

The Jester looked over at the homunculus again and took a deep breath. “It is time for my confessional: I am no more a professional.
I do not run from the King, the King has run me out. Now that Lord Pharaoh has his ear, he says my sense of humor is in doubt.
’Tis true, tonight I ate my last of the royal repast.”

Tears ran down his cheeks and it was all Cass could do to resist the impulse to offer him a reassuring hug.

“Yesterday, I was the King’s jester. Today I am merely the King’s yester.”

Pulling himself together, the Jester stood and addressed the homunculus once more.

“I hoped you would be my partner, but I will no longer try to barter. Let them not say of me that I failed to set you free.”

Eyes shining, he put his hand to his heart, overwhelmed by his own noble nature. “If I cannot be a proper fool, at least I
shall be a proper man!”

His words were punctuated by the bang of a door and the renewed barking of the beagles.

“Hark! What do I hear?”

Footsteps. The unmistakable synchronized footsteps of the King’s soldiers.

Cass quickly surveyed their surroundings. The closest thing to an exit was a window above the counter, large enough for a
homunculus but too small for a full-size human. She reached up and pushed it open.

“Look—an open window!” The Jester pointed, as if he’d personally discovered it.

“Wait. Your collar—,” said Cass aloud to the homunculus before she could stop herself. She was worried that the chain dangling
from the homunculus’s collar would catch on the window.

A large pair of gardening shears were sitting nearby. In a flash, she clipped his collar off.

“Ah, good, I’m glad you are rid of that!” The Jester, confused about what he’d just seen and heard, shrugged it off. “Now,
you climb through the window, and I… I will stay and face the King’s soldiers,” he said in an exaggeratedly strong voice.

The homunculus did not have to be told twice. He sprang up onto the counter like an oversize frog and climbed out the window
just as the soldiers stormed in.

Lord Pharaoh followed.

“Where is he?” he demanded, towering over the Jester. “What have you done with my homunculus?”

“He’s not yours,” replied the Jester. “He is his own self’s. And I have done nothing but what any man would do who has a heart.”

“You may have a heart but you have no brain. Arrest this baboon!” Lord Pharaoh pointed to the Jester’s hat. “I do not want
to hear those bells jingle again unless they’re deep inside the palace dungeon!”

As Cass watched helplessly, the soldiers hog-tied the Jester and dragged him out of the kennels, leaving Cass alone with the
jeering barks of the regal beagles.
^*

M
om, Dad, do you have any books on mental telepathy or second sight or anything like that?”

Max-Ernest found his parents sitting in what was now their joint office. Their desks arranged so that the back of one desk
touched the back of the other, they stared moonishly into each other’s eyes without having to so much as turn their necks.
Once two separate offices, the room was ringed by a ragged line of cracks and splinters where the two offices had been joined
together. On the floor were broken pieces of lumber and chalky chunks of mortar—a hazardous mess—but they didn’t appear to
notice any of it.

Or perhaps they were too in love to care.

Max-Ernest coughed loudly. “Hello, Mom. Hello, Dad. I’m right here, two feet away from you. I know you can hear me….”

In the old days, Max-Ernest couldn’t keep his parents off his back. These days, he had trouble just trying to get their attention.

“I asked if you had any books on mental telepathy—you know, like on psychic phenomena or any extrasensory brain stuff?”

Both his parents were psychologists, and they were surrounded on all sides by shelves full of books on everything to do with
the human brain as well as
books on animal brains and even robot brains, so it was a good bet they would have plenty of books on the subjects Max-Ernest
mentioned. But like many people who collect things, they were very possessive of their books. The rule was that Max-Ernest
had to ask for special permission if he wanted to borrow one. Then he was supposed to write the name of the book in a ledger,
so his parents wouldn’t lose track of it.

“Why would I need a book on mental telepathy? I can read your mind right now,” said his father, not turning away from Max-Ernest’s
mother.

“There’s no need to read about mental telepathy—I already know what you’re thinking,” said Max-Ernest’s mother, not turning
away from his father.

When they were divorced (but still living in the same house) Max-Ernest’s parents had gotten into the habit of repeating each
other’s sentences as though the other parent weren’t there. Unfortunately, now that they were back together, the habit persisted.
It made speaking to them very disorienting—even for Max-Ernest, who was used to it.

“So does that mean I can borrow some books or not?”

“Oh, come on now, Max-Ernest,” said his father, never averting his gaze from Max-Ernest’s mother.
“There’s no need to pretend. Your thoughts are written all over your face.”

“Oh, please, Max-Ernest,” said Max-Ernest’s mother, never averting her gaze from his father. “It’s clear as rain what you’re
thinking. Don’t play dumb.”

“Remember, we’re not only your parents,” said his father. “We’re psychologists.”

“Don’t forget, we’re mental health professionals,” said his mother. “Not just the people who gave birth to you.”

Max-Ernest looked at them in confusion. “What are you guys talking about? I’m not thinking anything.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking so much as what you’re feeling,” corrected his father. “Don’t forget about your feelings, son.”

“We’re talking about emotions,” corrected his mother. “Not everything is always rational, Max-Ernest. Not even you.”

“OK, what am I feeling, then?” asked Max-Ernest, resigned. He sat down on the long couch reserved for his parents’ patients.
But he refused to recline the way their patients did. That was going too far.

Surreptitiously, he scanned the shelves for books
that might contain what he was looking for. One title caught his attention:
Second Sight: Seeing with Your Third Eye in Four Easy Steps, Fifth Edition.
The book was level with his shoulder, tantalizingly close.

“It hasn’t escaped our notice that you’ve been a little, shall we say, depressed,” said his father, finally turning to face
Max-Ernest.

“Don’t think we haven’t seen that dark cloud you’ve been carrying around,” said his mother, finally turning as well.

Brilliant, thought Max-Ernest. My best friend is in a coma. It really takes a genius to figure out I’m depressed. Even
I
figured that out.

But he didn’t say that. He figured listening to his parents was the price he had to pay if he wanted to borrow their books.
They had to get back to the books at some point.

“We can tell you’ve sensed what’s going on,” said his mother. “Many children do.”

“Like many kids, you’ve guessed without our having to tell you,” said his father.

Guessed what? he wondered. Were they getting remarried? Or re-divorced? Or splitting up the house but staying together? Or
not staying together but keeping the house? It had to be something like that. Although Max-Ernest had no idea which was most
likely. Or which he would prefer. All the scenarios were equally problematic.

Max-Ernest inched closer to the book on second sight. Maybe he could sneak it off the shelf.

“Call it fraternal telepathy if you like,” said his mother.

“It’s a sixth sense that siblings have,” said his father.

Max-Ernest frowned, unable to grab hold of the book with his parents’ eyes trained on him.
Fraternal?
Like fraternal twins? And
siblings
? What siblings? He was an only child. Only-childhood had pretty much defined his childhood. Were they going to tell him he
had a secret twin somewhere? Or an older sibling who had died at birth?

His father smiled knowingly at him. “Tell us, Max-Ernest, when did you first realize your mother was pregnant?”

His mother smiled the same way. “Be honest, how long have you known you were going to have a brother?”

“A… bro… ther?”

Max-Ernest stared at his parents, his mouth open, momentarily forgetting all about his book-sneaking mission.

He was going to have a brother? How could he
not have seen this coming? Where had he been that such a big development could escape him?

“Yes, the baby you sensed is a little boy,” said his mother. “We understand if you feel replaced in our hearts.”

His father nodded wisely. “Children in your situation often feel like somebody else is taking their place.”

“It’s completely expected that you would be jealous,” agreed his mother.

“Your mood is a natural reaction to your circumstances,” added his father.

They thought he was depressed about the baby? Had they forgotten about Cass? His parents used to obsess about every aspect
of his life. Did they care nothing about what was happening to him anymore?

He was so taken aback he didn’t bother to correct them.

“Please try to keep your anger in check,” cautioned his father. “No pouring mayonnaise on the baby in the middle of the night!”

“Control yourself,” cautioned his mother. “We don’t want to wake up and find you standing over the baby with an empty jar
of mayo!”

“OK. No mayo,” said Max-Ernest, forcing a smile.

He assumed they were joking—at least he hoped
they were—but he still couldn’t believe they were talking to him like this. As if he were a two-year-old boy so jealous of
his soon-to-be baby brother that he would pour his least favorite substance all over him. Besides, didn’t his parents know
he was so horrified by mayonnaise that he wouldn’t even be able to touch the jar?

“Good. I’m glad we’ve had this conversation,” said Max-Ernest’s father. “And in case you’re worried, we want to assure you
that your little brother will be in good hands. We’ve learned from our mistakes—that’s a promise.”