Six Literal Molehills

Originally published in The Rabbit Hole Co-Op Anthology

I'm pressing my cheek to the tile on the floor in the kitchen because this is how I say good-bye to it. I have to because the kitchen floor is a place where I didn't die by ant poison. Let me explain this by saying my mom put cinnamon on the floor to keep the ants away, and I ate it with my tongue. If she had used ant poison, I would be dead.

Somewhere along the way, she stopped putting the cinnamon down, so now there are ants under the counter, just crawling about their business. They got a little anthill. It looks a lot bigger from the floor. "The animals went in two by two, the wasp, the ant, and the kangaroo, and they all went into the ark --"

That's my sister's preschool music, from the other room. I don't know what it's supposed to be teaching her, because nobody in my family believes the Bible. Maybe it's just the two-by-two thing, like that will somehow help her understand math someday. Or maybe the lists of animals. What does the wasp say? Bzzzz. What does the kangaroo say? Boing. What does the ant say?

"Good-bye, Raspberry Jam."

Apparently, that. The ants are looking at me with their jaws opening and closing, and words are coming out. I'm so pleased I don't even mind that they got my name wrong. Anyways, it's probably a compliment to get called Jam by an ant. They like jam a lot.

"Baby girl, you want to bring your bowls from Uncle Fred?" says my mom's voice.

"Yes, and the spoons, too," I say from the floor. I want to bring everything I can. Otherwise I won't be able to touch it anymore, and that would be a hard thing to handle.

"Good-bye, unpoisoned ones," I whisper to the ant children, and I think that the way their jet-black bodies shine is very beautiful. I have never thought this before, about ants. I pause. "You have shown me a new thing."

"We have only just begun."

***

At college I have a roommate. Her name is Dan-short-for-Danielle. She has long hair which she just chopped off and keeps in a bag. She is an atheist, but not really.

"I just reject the premises of all the major world religions," she says, chewing on French fries which she collects from the dining hall in paper cups.

She takes me to the Campus Atheists Skeptics and Agnostics. I don't know where I am in this, which she says makes me agnostic. I meet this one guy. He talks very fast. He is a real atheist. He explains to me why Six-Day Creationism is wrong. I've never heard of Six Day Creationism so I thank him for the information. He tells me he grew up in this homeschool co-op and they had these books with pictures of Noah's ark with dinosaurs on it. This makes me laugh, but not because it's funny.

***

I'm starting to think that tiny people live in my clock radio. Because when I open it up to take out the batteries I hear them scuttling away. They're the ones making the music, I bet, and jabbering on about politics. I guess they'd need: 1) a symphony orchestra, 2) miniature versions of all the rock bands, and 3) some democrats. So they've probably got a whole town in there. Maybe a whole world.

And maybe Narnia exists but only because C. S. Lewis wrote it, you know?

I call my mom. She says, "Baby girl," and "Oh, is that right?" and "Yes, dear," and I wish I could reach out and touch her words. But they scuttle away from me like the people in the radio, leaving only sounds.

***

I go to Campus Atheists and Co again because I want to talk to the real atheist (this is not to disparage Dan, but sometimes you want a different kind of atheist).

He has this book. He says it's very funny. It shows why Six-Day Creationists are wrong but in a clever way and there are diagrams. Secretly, I'm wondering what he would think about the ants.

He shows to me a page. There are diagrams of Parasaurolophuses, and it shows how if they tried to breathe fire it would blow up in their nose. I don't understand this at all.

"There's this thing in Creation Science where they try to argue Parasaurolophus breathed fire, see," he says, really fast. "Because they're trying to explain how we got dragon legends by saying dinosaurs were still around when humans were, because, you know, that could only work if the earth was young, see, but they gotta have a fire-breathing dinosaur I guess to prove that's where dragons came from; but it's all nonsense, see, cause all the mechanisms they suggest would never work."

And he points an instructive finger at one Parasaurolophus. It looks sort of sad, like it's unhappy with the burn on its nose, which I guess it is.

"What's your name?" I say, because I realize I don't know.

"Oh. Jake."

"Jake, something's been bothering me."

"What?"

"How would brachiosaurus fit on the ark?"

"What?" He stares at me like a fish. "It wouldn't. It didn't. Because it never happened. Because it's all nonsense, see."

"I know. But if it did, how would it?"

"It wouldn't." He looks at me like I'm crazy.

This seems like a good time to change the subject. "When you were little, did you think there were people who lived in your radio?"

"No," he says. "I built radios."

Secretly, I think this would make him think it more. But I don't say this. Instead, I take home the book that disproves Creation Science, because maybe it will make me laugh, like the dinosaurs on the ark.

***

I open the book to the Parasaurolophus page. I stare at those sad Parasaurolophuses until I feel like crying. What's wrong with me? Isn't this supposed to be funny?

Oh, look. They're standing in a white world where there's nothing but walls and ceiling, like an experiment room. And they're all so very large. Much taller than me: terrible, grave, hulking things with eyes like giant birds. I'm sitting at their feet like a child.

And they're all trying to breathe fire, trying to light up the oxygen air with holy flame, but it all keeps blowing up in their heads or in their faces and it's all they've ever wanted to do, all they can want to do, to breathe fire like a dragon, and the Parasaurolophuses can only keep trying, and failing, and all the while there's the sound of people laughing and laughing. And the Parasaurolophuses don't understand that the people are laughing at the Six-Day Creationists. They think they're laughing at them. And the Parasaurolophuses just keep on trying, but they only end up with burnt noses and hurt in their eyes because they think they're being made fun of and they can't help it --

I look away because I don't want to see those giant things like that. And then I hear this sound, this loud, snuffling, sobbing sound, oh, the one over there, he's crying --

I go to him. I try to put my arms around his enormous belly.

"Don't worry," I say. "I'll take you somewhere else. I'll take you away from this terrible place."

His color is orange. I press my face close to him like I did the unpoisoned floor, press into him and away from all that white, mocking, lonely world. I imagine we are sitting together in my dorm room with Dan and she's explaining to him how Christianity and feminism are incompatible, and he's telling her about his wife and children that he now has somehow, and I'm saying, WHAT IF GOD WAS REAL IN A BOOK AND I FELL INSIDE, because, because --

I open my eyes. We are standing in my dorm room! Alone. And he is so large that his neck is cramped against the ceiling and his tail has knocked over my bookshelf and Dan's wardrobe.

I smile in a friendship way. "Let me get you something for that burn."

But, oh, I forgot. Dinosaurs are extinct now. Because when I come back to the dorm room all that's left of him is bones.

***

I am so sad and Dan doesn't understand why. She shifts her chair to make room for the pile of bones and asks me where I got them.

"A Parasaurolophus," I say, because I don't want to explain. I have my head pressed against my laptop so I can feel how much of a thing it is.

"Aw, get real," she says.

I am real, I cry out in my silent mind. Because I don't know if I believe it anymore.

I fell inside another book. It was my Econ textbook. It wasn't very interesting. I call my mom and listen to her speak words which I think are carried by tiny people who run in the telephone wires. I wonder, when the lightning strikes the wires, are they afraid? Do they die?

My radio doesn't talk anymore, though. Dan says, get new batteries. But I know the real reason. Everyone left. They moved out. Maybe it was the bones, or maybe they were just tired of me always opening it to try to find them. I wish I could tell them I'm sorry, that I want them to come back, that I don't need to see them to love their music and I appreciate them regardless. But all these words don't matter when they are alone in my head.

I have to tell someone. So I tell Jake the real atheist. I tell him everything. He tells me I need medical assistance.

***

One day, I hear the radio again. It comes on with a violin solo, twirling up and down and all over the scale, a minor key, like a cry dancing alone. I don't want any sadness, so I change the station. The violin plays another tune, zip-zip-zipping so fast it's half-shriek. This is a little too crazy. I change it again. It plays something folksy and mellow. But it's still just the same violin.

"Ohh, I get it now," I whisper to the clock radio. "Everyone's gone, except you." It just keeps on playing, all slow and summery.

"I want you to know I really appreciate you," I tell the lonely violinist. "I love you very much. I wish I hadn't bothered you about being invisible. You can be invisible if you want. It's okay. I just want to hear your music."

The violin stops. "Baby girl," he says. "Nobody's mad at you. It was sort of a game to us, you know, to see how fast we could get away."

There are tears in my eyes because he called me baby girl, like he knew it was the important word that made me feel important. 

"Then why did they leave?"

"Just restless," he says. "I stayed on because it seemed wrong to leave you alone." A pause. "I can help you, you know."

"How?"

"Go to the shop on the corner of 6th and Bearpaw. I think you'll find what you need." And with that he goes back to playing the song that sounds like cornfields ripe with corn.

***

I go to the shop. I have every reason to trust the violinist's word. When I get there I see it's called Amazing Grace Books & Gifts, but the sign is very ugly. This is unfortunate, because things should match what they say.

Inside there's books. And something called VeggieTales. And really stupid Christmas ornaments. I'm wondering how this can help me until I get to the section called Homeschool Curriculum. I see a book on the shelf. It's called Dinosaurs and the Bible. And there's Noah's ark on the cover, and Noah's ark is full of dinosaurs!!!

THE ANIMALS WENT IN TWO BY TWO HURRAH (I don't say this out loud because it would be disruptive).

Instead I run up to the man at the front. "This is Creation Science, right?" I say, thrusting the book at him.

"Oh, yes," he says. "All our textbooks cover science from a Biblically literalist perspective --"

I don't let him finish his sentence. I race back to the section with a cart. And I grab every science textbook and every fossil book and Dragons of the Deep and Dinosaurs By Design and everything, everything, all the Creation Science and the Flood Geology and the Six Literal Days and I fill my cart with every single one. And I run back to him and I buy them all.

"Are you preparing your curriculum?" he inquires.

"No," I say. "I'm helping out a very dear friend."

***

I get back to my dorm at eight pm. It's winter now which is perfect for my plan. "Dan," I say. "Can you help me carry these bones down to the river?"

She does. And by the river, in a circle of snow, I make a pile of all the books. I page through them lovingly as I put them down: Adam and Eve dwarfed by a towering sauropod, a Kentrosaurus pulling the chariot of some Assyrian king, an Apatosaurus in the jungles of Africa, a chart showing the similarities between Mosasaurus and Leviathan. And that Parasaurolophus, breathing fire at an attacking T-Rex.

Now we lay the bones on top of them. And now we light it all on fire.

"Stand back," I tell Dan.

The bones quiver. The bones shake. And then by inches, they rise up, they twist in the air, they join; the skeleton of the orange Parasaurolophus stands in the flames. And now, sinew on bone, fat on sinew, his body forms on his skeletal frame, like a paleontologist is tracing him out in pencil lines along the photograph of his bones. And then, his scaly skin, and shining, womb-deep eye, dark like the primordial void before God said LIGHT and the Big Bang happened.

We stare. He turns to look at me. And then he raises his head and roars. The fire dies down, leaving only him. He is very great and very terrible, as a dinosaur is meant to be. No one is laughing at him now.

And then he opens his mouth. Fire pours out. Smoke from his nostrils. Flames bursting like he really is the dragon from all those stories. He roars again, with joy, and there are tears in his eyes as he dwindles away again, melting into the Creationist books, where he will stay.

We breathe out. Dan thinks she is dreaming. I go to the fire and the Creationist books are all burned away, except one. I go to the page.

Oh, this is right. All's well with the world. For where there was only one fire breathing Parasaurolophus, there are two. And I know my friend is safe and proud and happy.

And even though no one will ever learn science from him, they will learn fire breathing Parasaurolophuses. They will learn the terror and nobility of those large and sad and lonely things. Or, even better, they will laugh at him, and be happy. And my Parasaurolophus will be safe from their laughter, because he is the one with fire in his mouth and love in his eyes.

***

"Look, Jake," I say, "I found one of those Creationist books." And I show him the picture of the two Parasaurolophuses.

"Yep," he says, with a rueful laugh. "There's my childhood, right there."

I give him a friendship smile. "You love dinosaurs, don't you, Jake?"

"Yeah."

"Me, too," I say. "I think they're very important."

"I get you," he says. This doesn't need any other explanation. Someday, we'll both understand things better. For now, I'm just happy I'm not dreaming.

***

I go home for Christmas Break. My mom and I touch and touch because we have been too far away from each other, and words are not enough, especially because I think sometimes the telephone people change them just out of spite. My preschool sister knows the names of the animals and she knows two by two, but she still listens to the animals going into the ark.

"The wasp, the ant, and the Parasaurolophus!" I sing, and she giggles and throws her many small bears at me one by one.

Then I go into the kitchen. I lay my head on the floor.

"Hello, ant children," I whisper.

"Hello, Baby Girl." Oh!!! They have learned my name!

"What are you doing?" They are racing to and fro, and I want to understand it. "We are making a mountain out of a molehill," they say.

"Oh!" And then, "I don't want to be rude, but your hill is smaller than a molehill."

"Correct," they say. "But it is a mountain. That is the secret of the whole universe, Baby Girl. Molehills are mountains1, if only you're lying on the floor to see them properly."

"Is it then a matter of perspective?"

"No! Don't even suggest such things! It is a matter of what is really and already there, that you could not see because you were far away. And when you are very close you see what is real and what is not, within each little and dear thing. And you understand more why things are loveable, or not loveable, and what is the truest Truth above all else, that lives in the realest of the Real worlds, and invades all the little books and radios and anthills even when they don't want him to. And that Truth, that Reality, is the mountain on which all these things lie. And his name is God. And he Creationed and he Evolutioned and he will be real no matter where you go, because he shines a little light in all things that are not wholly illusive. And in time you will find the One track of truth which he has left on the soul of all Creation, who is named his Son Jesus, and who stands alone in his undying affection and love!"

"Oh of course," I say, forgetting to whisper. "I understand everything!" 

"No, you don't," they say.

And we go inside the anthill. It is very big inside, with lots of rooms. I think I could stay here forever if my mom could fit, too. But the ants are moving me along and moving me along, and there's this air of terrible excitement, and then everyone is cheering; all the ants are cheering. And they open up a door deep down inside the anthill.

I look out. I see a prehistoric jungle of ferns and ancient conifers. On the other end of it is a kitchen just like where I came from, only a little better.

"What's that?" I whisper.

One ant looks at me. He is crying from happiness and joy. "The Real World," he whispers back.

And we all stream out, into the jungle. We run and run and run, but not from fear, and all around us we hear the roars of the dinosaurs. And we all run into the kitchen and my mom is there and I put my arms around her and scream:

"THANK YOU FOR LEAVING THE CINNAMON ON THE FLOOR!" Because, of course, that's the most important thing in the world.

Story Notes:

"If anyone says that I am making mountains out of molehills, I confess with pride that it is so. I can imagine no more successful and productive form of manufacture than that of making mountains out of molehills. But I would add this not unimportant fact, that molehills are mountains." ~ G. K. Chesterton, Tremendous Trifles