Weaveworld

I

PORTRAIT OF THE HERO AS A YOUNG LUNATIC

1

hat’s happened to Cal Mooney? the neighbours were saying: what an odd fellow he’s become, full of half-smiles and sly glances. Mind you, weren’t they always a peculiar family? The old man was related to a poet, I’ve heard, and you know what they say about poets: a little mad, all of them. And now the son’s gone the same way. So sad. Funny the way people change isn’t it?

The gossip rang true of course. Cal knew he had changed. And yes, he probably was a little mad. When he looked at himself in the mirror some mornings there was a wildness in his eyes which was no doubt distressing to the cashier at the supermarket, or the woman who tried to pry some potential scandal from him as they waited in line at the bank.

‘Are you living alone then?’

‘Yes,’ he’d say.

‘It’s a big house for one. You must find it difficult cleaning.’

‘No, not really.’

He’d get a quizzical look from the questioner. Then he’d say:

‘I like dust,’ knowing the remark would fuel the tittle-tattle, but unable to lie for their benefit. And he could see, as he spoke, the way they smiled inside, filing the remark away for regurgitation over the laundry.

Oh, he was Mad Mooney all right.