Mid-winter found Brownbeard relatively settled. In truth, he was
not enamored with his work, but he had made many friends and
acquaintances. Though a small company, Snookie, Pitts and
Fropenheimer was prestigious, and they treated everyone well,
including the apprentices.
There were parties at the homes of various dignitaries, semi-
celebrities, and who-to-knows all around Charleston. The wife of
Frederick W. Snookie took quite a liking to Brownbeard, trying to
match him up with several beautiful young ladies from the best
families of the city. Mrs. Snookie even wrote Brownbeard’s mother
more than Brownbeard did himself, keeping her well informed
about how her only child was doing. Brownbeard was bored and
content. He could get used to living this comfortable life.
Everyone at work was quite impressed with Brownbeard’s ability to
do all sorts of fancy numbering without the aid of an adding
machine. Since adding machines were always breaking and
generally misbehaving, Brownbeard’s talent was highly valued.
Within a few months there were rumors and hinting that
Brownbeard would be given his choice of working at any office in
the Colonies. Things were going very well indeed.
One Tuesday evening Brownbeard was alone in the building and
working late. He was trying to balance some particularly difficult
numbers. A flicker in the corner of his eye distracted Brownbeard.
He turned to look out the window. His jaw slowly dropped in
amazement. Through a break in the clouds he seemed to be
seeing—what kind of looked like—what appeared to possibly be—
a being flying slowly across the face of the full moon! It was very
hard to make out the details, but Brownbeard thought he could
discern the figure of a woman riding upon a broomstick! The word
‘witch’ ran through Brownbeard’s mind. Then the figure was gone
and the clouds rolled over the moon.
A shiver ran up Brownbeard’s spine. He sat trying to figure out if
he really saw what he thought he had seen when—BOOM!
BOOM! BOOM!—a thunder of pounding sounded across the shut
door leading to the office where he was working. Brownbeard’s
heart raced. The booming grew louder and louder and more and
more insistent. Someone or something was trying to smash through
the door. Brownbeard was a frozen statue, just sitting and staring
at the door, his pulse pounding almost as loudly as the thing trying
to enter the office.
The door gave, disintegrating into splinters. Brownbeard
instinctively found a drop of courage from somewhere within his
trembling frame, managing to jump from his chair. He raced like
lightening to grab an antique sword mounted on a wall.
Brownbeard spun to face the intruder. He did not have time for his
jaw to drop. But if he would have had time, his chin would be
resting on his toes. Into the office marched numbers of all kinds—
integers and fractions, large and small, rational and not-so-rational,
of all shapes and colors—piling through the battered door,
crowding into the office, making quite a rumble and closing in
around Brownbeard.
Keeping the sword in front of him, Brownbeard turned slowly as the
numbers drew nearer and nearer, making the circle within which
they caged Brownbeard smaller and smaller. Brownbeard swung
the sword with fury in an attempt to keep the encroaching numbers
at bay, shouting “Aaaagh! Hey! Hey! Haaaa!” This made the
numbers, especially the smaller fractions, shirk away a little bit.
The idea of slashing through the digits and making an escape had
just occurred to Brownbeard when the numbers not only backed
off, but actually cleared a path between him and the broken down
door. Yet there would be no escape for Brownbeard. Ducking
through the tall doorway a huge 4 slowly glided into the office
brandishing a gleaming scimitar.
Now many huge beasts, although impressive in size, are often slow
of foot or paw. But generalities generally have exceptions, and this
massive 4 before Brownbeard was definitely an exception. This
was the kind of 4 with three arms, flashing and twirling its broad,
curved weapon from arm to arm to arm over and over and over
again.
Brownbeard was not ready to die, but he was not ready to fight
either. He murmured a quick prayer. The 4 let out a low rumble of
mocking laughter. The other numbers closed their circle back tight
around the two combatants. They crowded and jostled. They made
a racket consisting of annoyingly loud chatter mixed with whistles,
screeches, hisses and howls. The office rocked and shook with the
noise of overexcited numbers thirsty for the blood of a young
accountant.
Brownbeard and the beastly 4 before him circled one another,
making feints here and there. Then their swords clashed and the
numbers shrieked with glee. Brownbeard and the 4 smacked and
slammed their swords over and over, each seeking an opening to
cut their foe. The 4 was strong, but Brownbeard was strong as well.
All those years as captain of the ninepins team had a beneficial
effect on his physique. Still, Brownbeard was beginning to tire. The
4 was relentless. Its blade was large and heavy. Brownbeard was
reduced to circling backwards and blocking the 4’s increasingly
savage blows.
With weakening arms, Brownbeard backed into a desk. The 4
raised its scimitar high above Brownbeard and then brought it
down. Brownbeard backward somersaulted over the desk. The 4’s
weapon swished through the air where Brownbeard’s beard had
been the moment before. Brownbeard jumped upon the desk and
swung his sword in a desperate, quickly cut arc, but the 4 slid
backwards out of harm’s way. The numbers moved their circle with
the movement of the sword fighters. They jumped up and down with
mounting excitement.
Brownbeard leapt off the sturdy oak desk the instant the 4 brought
its scimitar down upon it, cutting the beautiful piece of furniture
neatly in half. Now Brownbeard’s arms were aching with effort, and
his breathing was labored. Ninepins had not left him in good
enough shape for this! The numbers barred Brownbeard from
retreating to the exit.
Papers, ink, bits of tables and chairs—all sorts of stuff went flying
this way and that as office supplies were sliced, diced and chopped
into bits by the advancing 4. Brownbeard wanted to cry, but there
was no time for that. He was losing this battle. He was going to die.
He would never see his folks or his friends or his cousin
Blackbeard again. Brownbeard’s retreat led him into a corner
where a cast iron stove pushed into the small of his back. He swung
ferociously. Clash went the blades.
“Aaaagh!” cried Brownbeard.
“Aaaagh!” screamed the menacingly mocking numbers.
Swish. The 4’s scimitar whizzed right before Brownbeard’s head. It
flew with speed and power. Brownbeard felt a kiss on his right
eyebrow which went flying into the crowd of numbers. Their shrieks
of glee intensified.
Short an eyebrow, Brownbeard collapsed against the stove, his
sword out of position. Readying to deliver the final blow, the 4’s
sword hung in the air above Brownbeard’s head. And there it
remained. Time stood still. Or Brownbeard simply felt really weird.
He knew this had to be the end. He saw everything about him with
amazing clarity. He observed his position, his blade unable to rise
in time to block the blow which would claim his life. Yet all panic
and fear left him. Brownbeard felt calm. Totally calm. Time began
to flow again, but very slowly.
Brownbeard started to roll to his right. The 4’s scimitar descended
inch by inch. Brownbeard continued to roll. The scimitar continued
downward. Brownbeard could see that the blade of the scimitar was
going to miss! Barely. Not even a hair on his head or a thread on
his coat sleeve would be harmed.
With no more noise than a knife cutting butter, the scimitar sliced a
foot deep into the iron stove against which Brownbeard had been
pressed. Brownbeard lifted his blade to resume the battle. The 4
heaved upwards, but failed to yank its weapon from out of the
stove in which it was now embedded. Brownbeard pulled his sword
back. The 4 heaved and hoed, letting out a terrible, angry holler.
The scimitar squeaked and sparks flew as the enraged 4 struggled
to free its weapon from the trap. The beast should have let go at
this point, but it was a stubborn 4. Brownbeard’s sword ran through
the numerical nuisance. In fury, the monster howled a howl full of
anger and menace, chilling Brownbeard’s blood a couple degrees.
Brownbeard withdrew his sword. There was a hole in the 4 where it
was wounded. The 4 regarded Brownbeard with a terrible, eyeless
gaze.
The 4 sagged a couple of feet, appearing much diminished. Shamed
by defeat, it was no more the huge foe that Brownbeard had fought.
Slowly, looking quite unhappy, the 4 turned away from its
vanquisher. The other numbers cleared out of its way as the 4 did
not glide, but limped to the exit. At the doorway, the 4 turned to a
stunned and trembling Brownbeard, gave a slight bow, and then
disappeared into the night. The other numbers poured from the
office just as fast as their little invisible feet could carry them,
whimpering and crying the whole way.
not enamored with his work, but he had made many friends and
acquaintances. Though a small company, Snookie, Pitts and
Fropenheimer was prestigious, and they treated everyone well,
including the apprentices.
There were parties at the homes of various dignitaries, semi-
celebrities, and who-to-knows all around Charleston. The wife of
Frederick W. Snookie took quite a liking to Brownbeard, trying to
match him up with several beautiful young ladies from the best
families of the city. Mrs. Snookie even wrote Brownbeard’s mother
more than Brownbeard did himself, keeping her well informed
about how her only child was doing. Brownbeard was bored and
content. He could get used to living this comfortable life.
Everyone at work was quite impressed with Brownbeard’s ability to
do all sorts of fancy numbering without the aid of an adding
machine. Since adding machines were always breaking and
generally misbehaving, Brownbeard’s talent was highly valued.
Within a few months there were rumors and hinting that
Brownbeard would be given his choice of working at any office in
the Colonies. Things were going very well indeed.
One Tuesday evening Brownbeard was alone in the building and
working late. He was trying to balance some particularly difficult
numbers. A flicker in the corner of his eye distracted Brownbeard.
He turned to look out the window. His jaw slowly dropped in
amazement. Through a break in the clouds he seemed to be
seeing—what kind of looked like—what appeared to possibly be—
a being flying slowly across the face of the full moon! It was very
hard to make out the details, but Brownbeard thought he could
discern the figure of a woman riding upon a broomstick! The word
‘witch’ ran through Brownbeard’s mind. Then the figure was gone
and the clouds rolled over the moon.
A shiver ran up Brownbeard’s spine. He sat trying to figure out if
he really saw what he thought he had seen when—BOOM!
BOOM! BOOM!—a thunder of pounding sounded across the shut
door leading to the office where he was working. Brownbeard’s
heart raced. The booming grew louder and louder and more and
more insistent. Someone or something was trying to smash through
the door. Brownbeard was a frozen statue, just sitting and staring
at the door, his pulse pounding almost as loudly as the thing trying
to enter the office.
The door gave, disintegrating into splinters. Brownbeard
instinctively found a drop of courage from somewhere within his
trembling frame, managing to jump from his chair. He raced like
lightening to grab an antique sword mounted on a wall.
Brownbeard spun to face the intruder. He did not have time for his
jaw to drop. But if he would have had time, his chin would be
resting on his toes. Into the office marched numbers of all kinds—
integers and fractions, large and small, rational and not-so-rational,
of all shapes and colors—piling through the battered door,
crowding into the office, making quite a rumble and closing in
around Brownbeard.
Keeping the sword in front of him, Brownbeard turned slowly as the
numbers drew nearer and nearer, making the circle within which
they caged Brownbeard smaller and smaller. Brownbeard swung
the sword with fury in an attempt to keep the encroaching numbers
at bay, shouting “Aaaagh! Hey! Hey! Haaaa!” This made the
numbers, especially the smaller fractions, shirk away a little bit.
The idea of slashing through the digits and making an escape had
just occurred to Brownbeard when the numbers not only backed
off, but actually cleared a path between him and the broken down
door. Yet there would be no escape for Brownbeard. Ducking
through the tall doorway a huge 4 slowly glided into the office
brandishing a gleaming scimitar.
Now many huge beasts, although impressive in size, are often slow
of foot or paw. But generalities generally have exceptions, and this
massive 4 before Brownbeard was definitely an exception. This
was the kind of 4 with three arms, flashing and twirling its broad,
curved weapon from arm to arm to arm over and over and over
again.
Brownbeard was not ready to die, but he was not ready to fight
either. He murmured a quick prayer. The 4 let out a low rumble of
mocking laughter. The other numbers closed their circle back tight
around the two combatants. They crowded and jostled. They made
a racket consisting of annoyingly loud chatter mixed with whistles,
screeches, hisses and howls. The office rocked and shook with the
noise of overexcited numbers thirsty for the blood of a young
accountant.
Brownbeard and the beastly 4 before him circled one another,
making feints here and there. Then their swords clashed and the
numbers shrieked with glee. Brownbeard and the 4 smacked and
slammed their swords over and over, each seeking an opening to
cut their foe. The 4 was strong, but Brownbeard was strong as well.
All those years as captain of the ninepins team had a beneficial
effect on his physique. Still, Brownbeard was beginning to tire. The
4 was relentless. Its blade was large and heavy. Brownbeard was
reduced to circling backwards and blocking the 4’s increasingly
savage blows.
With weakening arms, Brownbeard backed into a desk. The 4
raised its scimitar high above Brownbeard and then brought it
down. Brownbeard backward somersaulted over the desk. The 4’s
weapon swished through the air where Brownbeard’s beard had
been the moment before. Brownbeard jumped upon the desk and
swung his sword in a desperate, quickly cut arc, but the 4 slid
backwards out of harm’s way. The numbers moved their circle with
the movement of the sword fighters. They jumped up and down with
mounting excitement.
Brownbeard leapt off the sturdy oak desk the instant the 4 brought
its scimitar down upon it, cutting the beautiful piece of furniture
neatly in half. Now Brownbeard’s arms were aching with effort, and
his breathing was labored. Ninepins had not left him in good
enough shape for this! The numbers barred Brownbeard from
retreating to the exit.
Papers, ink, bits of tables and chairs—all sorts of stuff went flying
this way and that as office supplies were sliced, diced and chopped
into bits by the advancing 4. Brownbeard wanted to cry, but there
was no time for that. He was losing this battle. He was going to die.
He would never see his folks or his friends or his cousin
Blackbeard again. Brownbeard’s retreat led him into a corner
where a cast iron stove pushed into the small of his back. He swung
ferociously. Clash went the blades.
“Aaaagh!” cried Brownbeard.
“Aaaagh!” screamed the menacingly mocking numbers.
Swish. The 4’s scimitar whizzed right before Brownbeard’s head. It
flew with speed and power. Brownbeard felt a kiss on his right
eyebrow which went flying into the crowd of numbers. Their shrieks
of glee intensified.
Short an eyebrow, Brownbeard collapsed against the stove, his
sword out of position. Readying to deliver the final blow, the 4’s
sword hung in the air above Brownbeard’s head. And there it
remained. Time stood still. Or Brownbeard simply felt really weird.
He knew this had to be the end. He saw everything about him with
amazing clarity. He observed his position, his blade unable to rise
in time to block the blow which would claim his life. Yet all panic
and fear left him. Brownbeard felt calm. Totally calm. Time began
to flow again, but very slowly.
Brownbeard started to roll to his right. The 4’s scimitar descended
inch by inch. Brownbeard continued to roll. The scimitar continued
downward. Brownbeard could see that the blade of the scimitar was
going to miss! Barely. Not even a hair on his head or a thread on
his coat sleeve would be harmed.
With no more noise than a knife cutting butter, the scimitar sliced a
foot deep into the iron stove against which Brownbeard had been
pressed. Brownbeard lifted his blade to resume the battle. The 4
heaved upwards, but failed to yank its weapon from out of the
stove in which it was now embedded. Brownbeard pulled his sword
back. The 4 heaved and hoed, letting out a terrible, angry holler.
The scimitar squeaked and sparks flew as the enraged 4 struggled
to free its weapon from the trap. The beast should have let go at
this point, but it was a stubborn 4. Brownbeard’s sword ran through
the numerical nuisance. In fury, the monster howled a howl full of
anger and menace, chilling Brownbeard’s blood a couple degrees.
Brownbeard withdrew his sword. There was a hole in the 4 where it
was wounded. The 4 regarded Brownbeard with a terrible, eyeless
gaze.
The 4 sagged a couple of feet, appearing much diminished. Shamed
by defeat, it was no more the huge foe that Brownbeard had fought.
Slowly, looking quite unhappy, the 4 turned away from its
vanquisher. The other numbers cleared out of its way as the 4 did
not glide, but limped to the exit. At the doorway, the 4 turned to a
stunned and trembling Brownbeard, gave a slight bow, and then
disappeared into the night. The other numbers poured from the
office just as fast as their little invisible feet could carry them,
whimpering and crying the whole way.
The Adventures of Short Stubbly Brownbeard
Alan J. Levine
* * *
Chapter Six - The Fantastic Four
Buy yer hard copy
at . . .
at . . .
Want to read more?
Maybe you should see
a doctor. Anyway, ye
can buy yerself a copy
at by followin' the links
below. Brownbeard is
also available to
schools and libraries
through wholesalers
like Follett, Ingram,
and Baker & Taylor.
Maybe you should see
a doctor. Anyway, ye
can buy yerself a copy
at by followin' the links
below. Brownbeard is
also available to
schools and libraries
through wholesalers
like Follett, Ingram,
and Baker & Taylor.
The
Savannah
Children's
Book
Festival
Savannah
Children's
Book
Festival
