By Hannah Christensen

Just inside the back Post Office door, Randy stomped his feet and shook the mist droplets off the long military coat he had inherited from his great uncle. A walk through the countryside before work was always worth the forty-five minute detour. Randy claimed his route’s pile of mail in its carrier case and began organizing.

“Any extra mail for the esteemed Miss Manchester?” Kaizon cuffed him on the shoulder.

Randy unconsciously slipped a hand into his coat. “Not today.”

“Don’t put it off, Fitzsimmon. The Alexander post leaves on time.”

Randy pitched his voice up a note. “I will see that I do not forget that.”

Kaizon laughed. He was forever tickled over the old story of Postmaster Baker’s rebuff of old Ms. Lambshanks when she demanded that the mail truck pulling away from its evening collecting should stop and take her postcard. It was just as well Kaizon relished the account, since Ms. Lambshanks was on his route, and had never stopped looking for tardy postal workers since that encounter. Kaizon relished the challenge instead of letting the woman’s faultfinding irk him.

“Randy, I need you in my office as soon as you have a minute.”

Randy looked over to see Rob Baker standing in the doorway of the postmaster’s office, arms crossed as he rested a shoulder against the door frame.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be right there, sir.”

He could see Mrs. Elvey to the side arching her eyebrows, and it wasn’t the you’re-in-trouble-now look. He was afraid he had a pretty good idea of what was coming.

Kaizon gave him a good luck slap before walking away.

In the postmaster’s office a stout, bearded man in a shabby greatcoat stood awkwardly by the desk. Rob waived a hand in his direction. “Randy, this Marlin Tyrus. Mr. Czascki stopped by with him this morning, hoping you’d take him on for a while. Marlin, Randolph Fitzsimmon. He’ll be showing you the ropes to delivering around here.”

Marlin stumped across the room and seized Randy’s right hand in both of his. They felt chapped and callused and strong enough to break more than slender finger bones. “I’m as slappy as a sea lion to meet you, Mr. Randolph. Can’t wait to plant these stumps in solid ground and see what a big city’s like.”

Randy refrained from suggesting that Steelton was a better place to experience big city life. “Driver?” he asked, with half a glance at Rob. The postmaster shrugged.

Marlin squinted one eye, the other eye remaining wide and slightly off track. “I’ve never been much of one for driving before the wind. Unless you mean slave driver, though I hadn’t thought the purple coated fellow one who would—”

Randy threw his palms up. “Nothing like that. I’ll just have to show you. Come on, we can get started.”

Marlin was certainly one of the more congenial oddities that Mr. Czascki had brought it. He poked his nose into almost everything as Randy finished sorting his mail.

“Mr. Fitzsimmon, your charge,” snapped Mrs. Elvey, leading him back over from where he had been rifling through the stamps. “Kindly instruct him as to his proper place.”

“Yes, Mrs. Elvey. Sorry about that.”

“Some day that Basha Czascki will drop in the same time the real MPOO is here and then we’ll see what happens.”

Randy scratched his cheek. “I know it’s highly unusual to have two of them, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Highly unusual? Completely unheard of! He’s no Master of Post Office Operations.” She leaned forward with a hushed voice. “MPOO isn’t even his real title. I’ve heard Mr. Baker call him…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “…MPOW.” Abruptly, Mrs. Elvey pulled back and scurried off, evidently fearful of being caught breaking one of Rob Baker’s strongest warnings: never meddle in Mr. Czascki’s business.

Taking the time to teach Marlin how to rubber band piles of mail together meant that Randy was the last carrier to leave the post office. On the way out, he snatched up a blue shirt and a badge with “Postal Trainee” printed across it in purple. “We’ll personalize it when we get back,” he assured Marlin, shoving them into his hands. “But this will have to do for now.” He led the way to his jeep, four parking spaces away from the back door. “The passenger’s door is unlocked.” Opening the back, he stowed his mailbags neatly and changed out his army coat for his postal uniform jacket, transferring his letter to Dulcibelle to the new coat’s internal pocket.

Marlin squinted up his left eye again to study the jeep. Randy led him over to the passenger’s door and demonstrated how to pull the handle. After quick seat belt instructions, he pulled out and headed for his route.

“So, where do you hail from?” Randy circled around the factory district, keeping close to Alexander’s surrounding belt of countryside for as long as he could before he had to plunge into the city.

“The country.” Marlin beamed.

Randy cleared his throat. “That’s pretty…non-specific. Any particular part of the country?”

“Just as long as it’s dry land.”

“Most country is.” Randy lifted two fingers in a salute to the courier from Humboldt Air Fresheners heading to the post office for the their mail, wondering if he should clarify the point.

“Grand, isn’t it?” Marlin was poking up one of the pink and green leaves of his coleus on the dashboard with a meaty finger. Randy decided to clarify the point.

“Where, exactly, did you come from?”

“Ah, I see I’m going to have to work on that.” Marlin winced and let the leaf fall back into place. He looked around as though he feared someone might have stowed away in the jeep and be eavesdropping. “Putting it to you straight, I ran away from the sea. And that’s the bowsprit truth. Hadn’t properly found a berthing place when the purple fog rent, if you get my drift.”

Randy guessed that purple fog was a subject perilously close to Mr. Czascki’s affairs and decided it was time to bite his tongue and pretend he understood.

Once they got to Caiman Tire Repair, he turned south and drove for five blocks before parking by the sidewalk and pulling out his bag. “This is where we walk,” he told his new partner.

Marlin opened his door on the second try, much better than Lillu, the trainee partner whose oversized eyes always bulged out from under his large-brimmed hat, and who had always walked with a shuffle. Thankfully, that one had lasted less than a week.

“Never skimmed across my mind that the land could take up so much sky.” Marlin cranked his head back to look up at the apartment buildings.

Randy led him over to the cluster mailbox and demonstrated how to open it up and distribute mail. By the end of the block, he let Marlin collect the outgoing mail and put it into the second pocket of the mail bag. Marlin beamed at this responsibility.

After going down the street and back, they returned to the jeep to trade out the mail bag.

“Our next stop is Rainview Apartments,” said Randy. “Go ahead and pull out the mail for them.”

Marlin rolled an eye suspiciously at the sky. “Does it rain there, then?” he asked.

Randy held out a hand, palm up. “No more than anywhere else in the city. I don’t notice any coming down right now, do you?”

Marlin reached into the mailbag for a bundle of mail and sniffed it. Then he reached in for another bundle and sniffed it, too. Randy took a step back when he started to reach in a third time.

“Um, what are you doing?”

“None of these smell like a rainy view yet.”

“They…uh, you’ll find that on the envelopes. In writing. The name, not the smell.”

Marlin drooped. “Never qualified for ship’s log training, did I. Always needed to work on the more basic skills—like rowing.” He shuddered.

“Sorry?” Randy tried to think how nautical skills came to bear on the conversation.

“I did learn how to read some o’ my numbers.” Marlin smiled hopefully at him.

“Ah, well, we’ll have to work on that, then.”

Marlin did not do half bad at matching the apartment numbers to the right boxes. Even there he needed constant supervision to make sure it was right, but by the time they moved down the street he had added two more numbers to his repertoire. It promised to be a much faster process than it had been with Marcellus, who had carried around a sheet of paper to translate the numbers into Roman numerals.

The apartments with their aluminum blocks of boxes gave way to dwellings with equipped with a mail flap by the front door.

“We don’t have any packages to worry about today,” Randy instructed. “They usually don’t fit in the slots. Later you’ll learn how to tell which packages to leave on doorsteps and which people have to come in to get.”

Marlin stooped over to inspect a narrow metal mail door.

“You can try the next one,” offered Randy, leading the way off the porch.

Marlin beamed. At the next house he took the bundle of mail Randy handed him, stooped to almost eye-level with the slightly dented mail-slot door, and carefully pushed it open. A pair of eyes set under furrowed eyebrows glared out.

“I thought I heard extra footsteps,” growled a voice from inside. “So you’ve picked up another impostor to trail you around, have you?”

“Good morning, Mr. Esquire.” Randy offered his friendliest smile.

“What I don’t understand is how such a good mailman as yourself gets caught up in these shenanigans, Fitzsimmon. Countless are the times I would have nominated you for postal worker of the month if it hadn’t been for your infernal habit of scraping up a following of phonies.”

Marlin jutted his bearded chin out. “Avast your words, scurvy knave. I sail under me own colors.”

“This is Mr. Tyrus’s first day.” Randy spoke soothingly. “He’s just started training.”

The eyes inside the mail slot narrowed. Randy quickly continued. “Marlin, this is Mr. B. H. Esquire. It’s a rare day when he doesn’t get any mail.”

As they retreated to the sidewalk, Mr. Esquire’s voice came trailing after them. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Tyrus, an eye on you and your fishy deeds. Don’t mess around with my Alexander.”

“He’s a bit of an eccentric,” Randy quietly explained as they moved down the street. “Cranky, but doesn’t do any real harm. Just do your job respectfully and eventually he’ll run out of things to complain about. I think that almost disappoints him.”

Marlin continued to stump heavily along for the next three houses, but then lightened up enough to slide a shy smile Randy’s way. “Mr. Tyrus,” he repeated, tasting the words. “Never thought I’d don an officer’s title.”

The route was barely half finished when they returned to the jeep at half past twelve, but Randy decided to call in lunch break. He scanned his name tag to sign out, then helped Marlin scan his own. “Any type of food you’re fond of? Italian? Mexican? Hamburgers? Sea food?”

“Sea food.” Marlin winced. “Me mother always told me you never get away from the sea. Though,” He brightened. “I wouldn’t say no to a lobster bought right out of the butcher’s shop when it’s so hot every bit of light breeze is fried away. Today’s not the day, though. The mist be gone, but it’s bound to be lurking right over the horizon.”

“Right. No sea food, then. Any other preferences?”

“Something that smacks of the land.”

Randy rubbed his chin. “There’s a sweet little cafe that specializes in Russian food. Beets sound pretty landlocked to me, and it’s one of the best lunch places in the city of Alexander.”

“Then let’s set a course for beets.”

After ordering, Randy reached into his internal pocket for the city map he kept there. It came out with the letter and list of business hours for restaurants and plant nurseries. He shook the map free and took a long sip of Coke.

Marlin leaned back in his booth with a sigh, stretched his feet out, and popped out his right eye.

Randy spewed out Coke. He tried to recover his composure, but started coughing. Marlin put the eyeball down to lean over and wallop him on the back, concern glowing from his whole face. “Never a good thing to take on water,” he sympathized. Randy tried to shake off the incident with a lighthearted agreement, but struggled to produce more than a croak.

“You lost an eye,” he finally managed.

“Yes, it was in the fearsome blow of ‘46. Cousin Kelwin says it was me own fault, seeing as it was me hitch that slipped loose.”

Randy stared at the eye. The back seemed to be expanding. Now two little tendrils grew out from a seam.

“And here’s Grimsley!” Marlin peeled off a cover on the back of the eyeball and cradled it in his hand. The foot and head of a snail oozed out. The two tendrils now became recognizable as eye stalks. “He’s used to long days, is he. Common practice is to soak a Mock-eyed snail in brine to shrivel it up and remove it afore using it’s shell as a spare eye, but I hadn’t the heart to do it. I fashioned a lid for the hole, and with only a little training he learned to stay in his shell as long as I’m wearing him. Can’t let him out too often on account of the salt air.”

“Ah.” Randy decided to try and ignore the snail and focus on the job at hand. Waiting for lunch, he showed Marlin the rest of the route for the day. The trainee proved to be quite skilled in maps. He could trace out the entire route of the day so far, naming landmarks and individual buildings along the way, and could mark out how long distances were and estimate how much time the rest of the job should take. Randy folded up his map, much impressed, as his borscht arrived.

“Ye’ve misplaced a letter, Mr. Randolph!”

“Not misplaced. It hasn’t been mailed yet. See? No postmark.” Randy pointed out the still pristine stamp.

“Is that what you’ll teach me next? How to mail a letter?”

“No. I’m not ready to mail this one yet. Someday, when the time is perfect…”

“What’s in it?” Marlin peered intently at the envelope as his snail climbed onto his plate to sample the cabbage.

“Just a letter.” Randy fondled the name, Dulcibelle Manchester. “Someone I usually see at lunch break two days a week. Someday I’ll get it postmarked and slip it into her mailbox asking her to meet me at a tea shop downtown instead of bumping into each other at the fountain.”

“Fountain?” Marlin pulled back. “In the midst of such lovely land, why would you go looking for a fountain?”

“We just…don’t worry. You won’t need to get near it. Now, I’ve come up with an idea to help you learn where to deliver mail until you can learn how to read. I’ll need to make some alterations to your coat.”

Marlin grew excited about the proposed changes to his greatcoat and wanted to take measurements right then and there. His buoyancy sped up the rest of day all the way until the retirement complex. Randy was reading the names and addresses off and letting Marlin match the numbers to the right boxes. One of the residents came out to get her mail in person. She dithered over Marlin’s bowing delivery.

“What a nice young man you have this time,” she told Randy. “Were there any parcels for Mr. Parsons?”

Randy opened his mouth to answer the daily question, but Marlin beat him to it. “Not a parcel, exactly, but one of those envelopes was pretty big and stuffed.”

“How charming! I don’t suppose you happened to notice where it was from?”

“No, ma’am.” Randy broke back in as he hastily stuffed envelopes into the boxes, trying to finish up as soon as possible. When they were safely out of earshot he turned on Marlin. “The proper answer to that question is, ‘You’ll have to ask him.’ A mail carrier—take that back, a postal worker, period—never breaks confidentiality or shares personal information.”

Marlin’s shoulder’s sagged. “Maybe Mr. Esquire was right. Maybe I am an impostor.”

Randy took a deep breath. “It’s only the first day of training. It will get better.”

Still, on the way back to the post office, when he asked Marlin to remove his snail from the coleus plant, the trainee looked so dejected that he almost wished he hadn’t said anything. Inside, they printed Marlin’s name on his trainee badge and took measurements from his coat. “I’ll need to borrow your coat in a couple of days.” Randy hesitated. “Don’t worry. It’ll be better tomorrow.”

“Hard day?” asked Rob.

“Overall, a pretty good first day of training. He’s just…taken Mr. Esquire pretty hard.”

The postmaster nodded. “I suspect he’s right, Tyrus. Things will get better. Are you ready to head out?”

The next morning Marlin was at the door almost bouncing with excitement when Randy walked in. “Look, I have a coat just like yours now!” he boomed.

Randy blinked at the long blue greatcoat. Sewn across the sleeves and the front of the chest were red and silver stripes. Over the right breast was a postal eagle hand stitched in yellow.

“That’s impressive,” said Randy.

“He stayed up most of the night working on it,” Rob told him. “I warned him there’s no nap time on the schedule.”

“Many’s the storm I’ve worked through the watches,” said Marlin. “You can count on me.”

“If you’re tired, you can take a nap during lunch,” Randy told him. “Did you bring something to eat today? No? Not a problem, we can pick up a sandwich for you before going to the fountain.”

“Unless you decided to mail that letter today,” razzed Kaizon. He gave Marlin a friendly punch. “You’ve got to see what you can do with that fellow. He’s never going to mail that letter until his long white beard trips him up and makes him drop it at miss Manchester’s feet.”

Randy just shook his head and scanned himself in for the day.

For lunch that day Marlin stayed in the jeep to eat his sub sandwich.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come meet Miss Manchester?” asked Randy.

Marlin eyed the fountain in the middle of the plaza beyond the side street where they sat parked.

“Perhaps another time.”

Randy nodded and started to get out, but then decided to take his coleus with him.

Humboldt Square, the plaza where the fountain was centered, was covered in subtle patterns of paving stones. Foot traffic only was allowed here. An arbor-shaded sidewalk sprinkled with shopfronts fringed the plaza. It had been built by Arnold Humboldt, the former head of Humboldt Air Fresheners as well Humboldt Fertilizer, Explorer’s Realty, and a host of other organizations. Word was that his son, though less visible to the public eye, was no less involved in the doings of Alexander. Randy believed this. After all, it was due to the current Humboldt that Alexander maintained its identity.

Laughter pulled Randy out of his thoughts and he turned around to see Dulcibelle Manchester. The noonday sun sparked out from her dark curls.

“I see you have a walking companion today,” she said.

“I just…wanted to make sure it was safe from Marlin’s snail. I have a new trainee,” he explained.

“Oh?” she asked, scooping up a handful of water from the fountain and lifting a leaf to pour a drink into the plant’s soil. “Is he as good Chiron was?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Randy leaned against the stone fountain wall and told her about the last two days. It was always good to share these assignments with her. Though interested, the unanswerable mysteries never seemed to vex her. She especially liked his idea of how to use Marlin’s coat to organize mail delivery.

“Have you bought the fabric yet?” she asked.

“No. Last night I just worked on coming up with a pattern.”

Too soon lunch break was over. Randy returned to the jeep and scanned himself back in before handing the scanner over to Marlin.

“Do only real postmen get one of these?” he asked wistfully.

“I’ll talk to Mr. Baker about it,” promised Randy.

On the way back to the office that day, Randy felt his cell phone vibrate. Having just missed the green light on the longest light in the city, he felt he could indulge in glancing at the text.

“Dulcibelle.” Randy bit his lip, considering the risk of opening the text. If he started a a conversation now, he doubted he could just drop the it when the light changed. Not such a good example for a trainee besides its own inherent hazards. He decided he just wouldn’t answer right away.

“What’s that?” asked Marlin.

“Dulcibelle wants to know if I can meet her at the farmer’s market square on the way back to the post office.”

Marlin squinted his good eye at the phone. “That’s Dulcibelle?”

“No, she just sent a message.”

Marlin continued to survey the phone with skepticism. “Is that the letter or the mailbox?”

“The, um, mailbox, I suppose. It’s not quite that sort of message.”

The traffic light changed to green.

“We’re taking a slight detour.”

“Does that pass manifest? We didn’t do that yesterday.”

“We’ll sign out so it isn’t on paid time. It will be fine.”

Looping around the block, Randy made his way to the south of Alexander where the farmer’s market ground hugged the southbound paved road. Pulling in, he scanned them both out and texted Dulcibelle back. She did not take long to arrive.

“I’m heading out to Steelton, and thought I’d pick up some fabric for your project. Hello, you must be Marlin. I’m Dulcibelle Manchester. Is it all right if I borrow your coat for the evening?”

Marlin squeezed his lapel in one hand. “I don’t rightly know, ma’am. It’s me mail delivery coat, y’see.”

“Absolutely. I’ll make sure to get it back to the post office first thing tomorrow. What time will you need it?”

Collecting the coat and a marked map of Randy’s route, she waved good-bye and drove away.

“Steelton be the name of a farm?” asked Marlin.

“No, it’s actually bigger than Alexander. You just can’t see it from here.” Randy started his jeep back up. “It was always one of the biggest cities in the area. A while back it started growing so much it swallowed up the cities around it. Mr. Humboldt got worried when Coalville started to go, so he bought up all the land around Alexander. He said the most famous Humboldt wasn’t getting swallowed up by some factory town, so now there’s a three-to-five mile belt of countryside around Alexander. Some is put aside for parks and nature reserves, but he rents other bits out to farmers and the like. I’d take you walking out through the pastures before work sometime if you like. Though we should wait until after tomorrow, when you have your coat back.”

The next morning Marlin paced back and forth in his blue shirt sleeves, waiting for Dulcibelle. He held Grimsley in his hands and absently stroked its smooth shell. Randy gave up trying to get him involved with sorting mail. It was a quarter of an hour before they were due to leave when a knock came at the door to the lobby. Marlin darted forward but Mrs. Elvey waved him back. “We don’t accept any business until 8:30,” she reprimanded.

“But…”

“None.”

Footsteps plunked across the lobby and muffled scraping sounded in the mail slot. The top part of a familiar blue great coat poked through.

“Thar she blows!” Marlin whooped and dodged around Mrs. Elvey.

“Well, I never!” said Mrs. Elvey as a whole crew of postal workers trooped out of the door.

“Miss Manchester!” Kaizon grinned and wagged his eyebrows at Randy. “We might have a deli—”

Randy slugged him on the shoulder.

Marlin pulled his coat back out and held it out, beaming.

Dulcibelle laughed. “Look on the inside!”

Inside the two front halves of the coat were panels of fabric, doubled back over and buttoned on top to hold them in place. Arranged along the linings were pockets patterned after the streets of Randy’s route, a pocket for every place mail was delivered.

Marlin smiled and smiled, unable to say a word. Then he crushed Dulcibelle in a hug.

“Gentle,” whispered Randy. “Make sure she can breathe.”

Marlin let go and spread the coat out.

“It’s perfect,” Randy said for him. “Thank you.” He smiled at Dulcibelle. “You’re amazing.”

“Yes, thank you!” echoed Marlin, then dashed back into the rear of the post office.

“I know where the postmark stamp is,” Kaizon told Randy out of the corner of mouth.

Randy stepped on his foot.

“Mr. Fitzsimmon!” called Marlin. “Let’s load the mail!”

In the next couple of weeks, Marlin grew in leaps and bounds. Even Mr. Esquire couldn’t find anything particular to complain about, though to demonstrate his continuing distrust he installed a jointed moving periscope over his door that followed every movement of the postmen.

One day Rob met Randy at the door with an extra scanner in his hand. Randy grinned. Rob cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure enough to cover the counter today? Mrs. Elvey is out sick.”

Randy nibbled his lip. “I haven’t given him any driving lessons.”

“I’ve been working on it. He can take a golf cart.”

“I’d be more concerned about that than his mail delivery.”

“In that case…”

Marlin was ready to walk over the moon with elation. He slapped everyone on the back at least once and polished his hand held scanner six times. The only thing that kept him on track was his fervent desire to prove himself.

Randy tried hard not to fret. He had always preferred to work outside over sitting at a desk. To keep his mind from wandering along his route and wondering how Marlin was doing, he focused on seeing how many bits of outside found their way in: a swirl of crunchy brown leaves, a brisk bit of breeze, scattered puddles of late autumn drizzle. In between customers he promised to bring his coleus plant inside to keep himself company if he filled in for Mrs. Elvey again Friday.

Early afternoon the phone rang.

“Alexander post office, how may I help you?”

“Is that Fitzsimmon? Decided to stay in your comfy plush seat today and take a break, did you? Let me tell you what your nincompoop impostor is up to today. I got tired of waiting for my mail and went out to look for you…”

Randy missed the next few word in his shock over Mr. Esquire leaving his house to go on a search for his mailmen. He wondered what the rest of the face belonging to those fierce eyes looked like.

“…cowering under an insurance office awning on Fourth Street, blocking the entire sidewalk. What kind of mailman is that, may I ask you? What happened to ‘Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers’, eh?”

Randy pushed away from the desk. “I apologize for the inconvenience to you, sir, and hope to correct it as soon as may be. Thank you for bringing the situation to our attention.” Hanging up the phone before Mr. Esquire had a chance to start another tirade, he strode into the back and pounded on postmaster’s office door, then opened it.

“Mr. Baker, could you spare me for a bit, I need to go check on—oh, excuse me, sir. I didn’t know you were here.”

Rob Baker and Basha Czascki turned to look at the interruption to their conference. Randy took an uncertain step back.

“Is Tyrus having problems?” asked Mr. Czascki. “I was just getting an update on his progress.”

“He’s…doing really well as a whole. Only I think this is the first time he’s been out in the rain and he might have run into a spot of trouble.”

Rob made a wry face and sighed. “Go. I’ll make sure the desk is covered.”

Randy closed the door behind him as Mr. Czascki told Rob, “Keep me updated, but you’re reaching the anomaly threshhold—”

The old army coat came first to hand, and Randy did not take time to switch to his uniform coat in the jeep. He did not follow the outer curve of the city, but cut directly through to Fourth Street. There, in front of Hartman and Brothers, huddled Marlin, staring at the rain in stupefied horror. In a raincoat and umbrella was what sounded like Mr. Esquire, yelling at Marlin for being a disgrace to honest postmen everywhere. Randy walked past him and gently touched Marlin on the shoulder.

“What ails?” he said.

Marlin shivered. “Never thought the country could get so wet.” He tried to laugh, but it turned out as more of a sob.

“Well, you are in the big city now,” pointed out Randy, “But I suspect it rains everywhere. Don’t let it get you down. We can order you some rain gear.”

“I can’t. I just…”

Randy levered him off his seat and dragged him over to the jeep. Mr. Esquire followed, maintaining his tirade of criticism. Randy continued to ignore him as he hitched the golf cart to his jeep. Then he turned to the irate elderly man and asked for assistance. That threw him off kilter.

“Assistance? Assistance doing what?”

“Would you steer and apply the brakes on the cart while I tow it.”

Mr. Esquire spluttered, then turned and stomped off.

Randy sighed. It had been worth a try. He hauled the cart to an out of the way parking place, then returned to the mail route, working as quickly as he could. Marlin stayed in the jeep. On the way back he finally said something.

“He said…he said I broke the mail carrier’s vows. He said a mail carrier is bound to deliver his mail despite rain or snow or…”

“That is not the postal worker’s vow,” snapped Randy. “That is the motto.” He took a few moments to make sure the heat had left his voice. “Though it would help to learn how to deal with the weather.”

Marlin heaved a huge, wavery sigh. “I’ll try.”

The rest of the week he took off. When he came back after his three day weekend, Marlin seemed much recuperated. His zeal, if anything, had grown. “This time,” he assured Randy, “I will be a true mail man. Delivering in the rain may only be a motto, but delaying the mail is prohibited.”

“Mm,” answered Randy.

“Also, it be prohibited to advance a kinsman, destroy newspapers, counterfeit and forge transportation requests, participate in lottery…”

“You’ve been…memorizing the Postal Manual.”

“He’s discovered Text to Voice,” explained Rob. “He’s already gone through all the library mail to make certain all the books are long enough to qualify.”

Randy scratched his chin. “That’s not very long, is it? Only about pamphlet size.”

“At least eight pages, being only reading matter or scholarly biography. No advertising or blank pages allowed, excepting some of the longer books can have blank pages if the printer needed to put them in there to make everything come together right.” Marlin beamed.

“I see,” said Randy with a sideways glance at Rob. The postmaster swallowed a smile.

As the week progressed, Randy had to admit that Marlin was trying his best. During mail sorting he would study each piece of mail he picked up, his lips moving almost silently as he reviewed the sound to every letter on it and read off the numbers. His mail delivery was quick and accurate, and after-hours when Randy let him experiment driving out of town, he had to admit Marlin was quick to learn even a stick shift. At lunch meetings with Dulcibelle, he even cautiously approached the fountain itself, though he shivered at the touch of its splash.

“Soon it will be time to shut it off for the season,” said Dulcibelle, trailing her fingers through the pool of water.

“Unless they actually build that greenhouse roof for the Plaza that they keep arguing about.”

“As much as I love the fountain, it is a little silly.” Dulcibelle pointed toward some girders spaced around the edge of the plaza earlier in the year. “Would they leave up a greenhouse all year, or take it down in the spring? And what would they make it with? It would have to be strong enough to stand up to the winter storms.”

But over the weekend, more framework went up. On Thursday Randy was looking forward to seeing how tall the structure was when he went to lunch. “One more block to go,” he told Marlin, sliding away from the curb. “Do you want to do this one, or should I go?”

A mist had crept up and threatened a drizzle at any time.

“And haven’t I got me rain gear?” protested Marlin. He slipped his right eye out and laid it on the dashboard. “No need for you to go out, too, Grimsley.”

Randy parked and watched as the growing purple mist twisted around the retreating figure. A flash slid along the sky on the edge of his vision. “I don’t like this,” he decided, throwing off his seat belt and jogging to catch up. Above, purple mist seemed to have consolidated into a stream of purple cloud.

They had just turned into the third house on this stretch when Mr. Czascki slipped out from behind a parked car. “Tyrus, it’s time to go. Give your mail over to Mr. Fitzsimmon.”

Marlin took a step back. “I’ve thrown in soul and sinew here, and found meself a new home. I’m a real mail carrier now. No cause to take me back.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of your hard work, but unfortunately the more anomalies a place has the more susceptible it is to rifts. The strain in Alexander right now is pulling the universal fabric to the parting point. You need to leave.”

“Mr. Czascki, please,” interceded Randy. “I know he isn’t the most normal mail carrier, but we’re working on it, and his heart’s in the right place.”

Mr. Czascki sighed. “Fitzsimmon, Robert speaks highly of your discretion and diligence, but I’m afraid that staying is not an option. The eccentricities of the Humboldts have always made Alexander more susceptible to rifts than other places. Bompland had made it worse than ever. It is not that abnormalities make that part of the universal fabric weaker, it’s that the shift in its pattern leaves a seam, a place that can catch on elements, and there are currently some very nasty elements trying to break through. Your coat, Tyrus.”

Marlin pulled off the coat and sadly handed it over to Mr. Czascki. Mr. Czascki in turn handed it to Randy, but before he could make another move, a flash of light slid around the corner of Randy’s vision and materialized into a young man with curly hair wearing a plum colored waist coat and matching baggy pants.

“Chiron,” gasped Randy, recognizing him as a former trainee. Chiron graced him with a quick smile, but addressed himself to Mr. Czascki. “He sent it, Basha. I told him the mass was too great, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“What’s the Focal correspondence point?”

“Above Humboldt Square.”

“Put a shield around it while I hold the seams as long as I can. We don’t want anyone in the destruction zone.”

Randy’s stomach went cold. As Chiron flashed away, Randy shook off his stupor. “Dulcibelle’s at the fountain. I need to go warn her.”

“It’s too late to get there,” said Mr. Czascki, pulling out what looked like a tube of interconnected fans. “She’s either there or she’s not.”

“Couldn’t you slide him on the undergirders, like you do to zip around?” asked Marlin.

“I am currently trying to hold back a pack of angry gryverns from breaking through there. I am not going to slide someone in and compromise the shield that is going up.”

“I should have sent that letter.” Randy dropped his head into his hands. If only today were the day he had pulled together his courage, she would already be waiting safely in the tea shop for him.

Mr. Czascki turned his keen gaze on Randy. “You have a letter that would help?”

“It isn’t postmarked.” Randy pulled it out and showed him.

Mr. Czascki inspected and nodded. “Very proper. Now that I may be able to manage. The mail for this street is usually delivered by 7:43, is it not?”

Randy had not known Kaizon was that precise with his delivery.

“Our timing must be exact. I dare not open a window until the gryverns are on the point of breaking through, but it must be done before they do. Delivery is a much simpler matter than reversal.” He adjusted the fans and cranked at a corkscrew. “My hands are a little full, so I will need some help. Tyrus, you said you wanted to be a postal worker?”

Marlin thrust his shoulders back and stood up straight. “Yes, sir.”

“Are you willing to take the oath? The job will take dedication and courage and discretion and loyalty, but if you approach it with the same will that you have for your training here, you should make a good Postal Window deliveryman.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Then repeat after me. ‘I, Marlin Tyrus, do solemnly swear that I will uphold and defend the Universal Constitution and the Fabric of the Universe against all enemies, cosmic or terrestrial…”

Randy listened in solemnity as Marlin repeated the oath back, phrase by phrase, to faithfully perform the duties of a Postal Window Serviceman.

“Then,” concluded Mr. Czascki, “In the authority vested in me as an Manager of Postal Operation Windows, I do certify this oath and do usher you, Marlin Tyrus, into the service of the Universal Fabric Postal Windows. Your first duty will be to deliver Fitzsimmon’s letter. Take it and stamp it with my signant.” He dipped into a front pocket and tossed a cylinder over to Marlin in flash of bronze.

Marlin caught it and carefully rolled it over the stamp on Fitzsimmon’s letter, leaving an intricate indigo pattern.

The trail of purple clouds overhead seemed to bulge.

Mr. Czascki pulled a cylinder out of his pocket and opened it to pull out a contorted fish hook. “Shortly it will be time to open the window.” He twisted the hook and seemed to catch it on a tendril of purple fog. “When I do, you must insert the letter into the proper receptacle. Afterwards I will bring us to the reconnoiter point.”

Randy fidgeted as seconds ticked by. Mr. Czascki added what looked like a saxophone bell rimmed with keys to his fan contraption.

The air quivered—quaked, more accurately.

“Now,” said Mr. Czascki, pulling on the hook. A circle of misty air pulled away and thick purple fog poured out. Just through it, Randy could see a row of mailboxes with the early morning sunlight softening their edges. Marlin shifted sideways. His mouth moved as he read the numbers to himself. Then he reached forward and pulled open Dulcibelle’s mailbox and placed the letter. Purple fog enveloped Marlin, shooting him through with sparks of colored light and making him look transparent. Peace seemed to sift its way in through the foggy window as Marlin pulled his hand back out. The mist dropped away from him, leaving him solid, and the window closed with a pop.

The air quaked again, and the bulge of purple cloud above Humboldt Square ripped open with a roar. Mr. Czascki grabbed hold of Marlin’s arm and they both disappeared with flash.

Randy stood rooted to the spot for a few more raging heartbeats. Then he turned and ran toward his jeep. Dulcibelle’s answer to his letter had just become ten times more important than ever. The rest of the block could wait. He needed to see if she had decided to go to the tea shop instead of the fountain.

“At least if she didn’t, she wouldn’t have gone to the fountain, either,” he told himself, but he couldn’t be sure of that. He revved the engine at a red light. A subtle weight against his hand caused him to glance down. Grimsley was sliding up his wrist with what might be imagined to be a quizzical expression about his eye stalks.

“Yeah, he’s not coming back,” he told the snail. “I guess it’s just you and me for now. And maybe Dulcibelle.”

Two more blocks to the tea shop. Now one. The explosion over Humboldt Square seemed to have stirred everyone in the city up and onto the streets. Randy could feel a growl of frustration growing in his throat by the time he parked and tore around the corner. There, in full profile inside the shop window was Dulcibelle. He sagged with relief, then tore open the door.

“Randy!” She sprang to her feet. “There was some sort of explosion a while ago, and no one knows—”

He swooped her up into a tight hug, cutting her words off with a startled yelp. As soon as he loosened his grip, she pushed away, blushing. “Really, I don’t—Randy? Is something wrong?”

“Marlin’s gone. He left Grimsley.” He plucked the snail up from where it perched on his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you want a pet snail?”

“Well…” Dulcibelle offered a finger for Grimsley to slide onto. “Maybe for a little while.”

Post Script

Basha Czascki turned up the path to B.H. Esquire’s porch. A long, segmented periscope structure followed his every movement.

Mr. Czascki folded his hands quietly in front of his dark purple coat and announced: “Mr. Bonpland Humboldt, Esquire: due to the compromise to the integrity of the Universal Fabric, I must insist on the removal of this anomaly.” Reaching up, he grabbed the periscope by its base and ripped it from the wall.

Sputtering came from within.

“The postmaster will hear about this!”

Mr. Czascki just smiled as he walked away.

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