to read, and it had been his legacy to teach the rest of us. It was a skill we were glad to have, especially whenever the paper came in.
I read the headline on the front page:
SHIFT UPROOTS FOUNTAIN IN HANOVER SQUARE,
still in working order.
Water everywhere.
The square: flooded.
Put a new lake on your maps, Albinos.
Prepare for Atlantis.
I glanced up after Johnny once more as I finished, even though he was long gone. Be careful, Johnny, I willed one last time. Then, interest dangerously piqued, I bent back over the paper and set about untying the strings as I turned absently to go back inside.
The usual morbid curiosity had a hold of me – it always claimed us, one by one, after Johnny delivered his paper. What bizarre developments had tainted the land since last week that we had not been privy to, we wondered, and soon all of us would have devoured the spine-prickling reports, and I, especially, would have filed it away for future reference, since I was so often plunged into the fray of things out there.
One had to wonder, also, after going over the numerous and wide-spread articles, how it was that Johnny managed to stay privy to it all himself. I knew he was efficient, but surely it was impossible for any one man to accomplish being that efficient. Besides, it was entirely too dangerous for one child to be gallivanting all over the countryside covering every dark occurrence, just for the sake of producing a newspaper for the rest of us who locked ourselves away behind closed doors.
It seemed more than likely, then, that he must have accomplices. And surely that was evident enough just because surely he couldn't deliver the news to the entire city by himself.
There must be a whole operation of newsboys, I decided. Perhaps Johnny only covered our sector.
It was impossible to say, really. The news business was a shady business. I had subscribed to the service by the Dorn's paranoid request – or order, I suppose – down a dark, broken alley in the city, where Johnny had met with me for the first time. I had paid and traded for it in a shifty sort of exchange like that of dishonest businesspeople trading illegal commodities. Conversation was kept to a minimum – maybe because Johnny was shy, maybe to keep from disturbing the city – but the effect was ominous. I left feeling like a criminal.
But the paper came, and we all devoured it. Only after the slaves had educated themselves did I deliver the crude bundle of parchment to the Dorns upstairs, on a tray with their lunch.
What good did it do them, I wondered, to stay informed about the happenings of the land, when they stayed cooped up and tucked away in one room for years on end? It wasn't as if the news covered the transpirations that crept up our own stairs and down our own hallways.
But I supposed not knowing would drive anyone mad after too long.
When the paper was well-read, it was returned on the lunch platter the next day, but rather than burn it, I tucked it away with the others of weeks past to return to Johnny when our month's subscription ran out. Then I would have to renew it, and bring paper to trade as part of the payment for a subscription. If we brought the old newspapers back to him, he crossed out the old headlines and squeezed in new ones, until every pocket, corner and margin was filled. Then it was up to me to provide new papers.
Johnny and his gang may be faring quite well in their business, I mused. Business in general was rare these days, but there were countless many who would subscribe to the news if they could. Who wouldn't? It was the only way to stay on top of this ever-changing world, the only way to keep up with the unpredictable anomalies roiling over the land. People wanted to know what was happening out there. They wanted to know without having to get out there themselves.
And who could blame them? The headlines that Johnny brought us only reinforced the instinct that kept us depending on those daring young newsboys in the first place. It was a dangerous game they played, I thought, but no one could blame them for that either. They were making a way for themselves. They were surviving.
They were the great voices of our time. The small, pitiful voices of street urchins