Gravity Bend

Book Three: Taken to the Max

I

July 2

One of the many quirks of Gravity Bend was its apparent invisibility to cable television companies. The only way to pick up most channels was with a satellite dish. These were fairly common on the town skyline, sharing space with spruce trees. Stately old Norwich Lodge, a log chalet on a hill south of town, positively bristled with them.

But for those without, there were two channels. One was the CBC; the other was a public access station broadcast by the same company that printed the Gossiper.

Max and Lyra had initially had little interest in any of this. But when they mentioned to Soos that they hadn't watched TV since arriving in Gravity Bend, he guffawed.

"Man, you guys don't know what you're missing out on," he said.

"Is it that good?" said Max.

"Good? No. It's terrible. But it's, like, an experience."

"Remember that peer pressure ad the cops made?" Wendy put in. "That was sure something. You can avoid trouble with these simple words..."

Soos joined her in reciting, "Uh-uh! No-No! Bippity-bop kazow! I can't be pressured, no way, no how!"

So, the three of them crowded onto the couch in Stan's living room to watch something Soos called Ducktective.

"Ducktective?" said Lyra.

"Just watch," said Soos.

Ducktective turned out to be exactly what it said on the tin: a duck detective.

"No one knows exactly who makes this show," said Soos, "But it's someone in town with a pet duck."

Indeed. Said duck was filmed dressed in a custom-made tiny trench coat. It quacked on cue, and when it did, the quacks were subtitled as detective-like dialogue. In this way, the duck played the central role in a cast of more human, less talented actors, in a hyper-low-budget mystery series.

Soos was right. It was an experience.

"And just wait for the commercials," he said.

But rather than the shouting and shaky camera shots of local businesses the twins expected, the screen went dark after the last of the Ducktective credits. Even Soos looked puzzled. Soft piano music played, as an image faded in of a young man standing in the woods, lost in solemn expression.

"The future may be dark," whispered a man's voice, a hint of a Texan accent, "Debts, death, disaster. What's darker than the unknown?"

In an instant, the levity was gone from the room. Despite the July heat, Lyra shivered.

"But fear no more," said the commercial, and the camera panned about the sorrowful man, "For Delilah's here..."

The man stood now in front of a vast white tent, somehow ecclesiastical, pitched on a lawn in a clearing, fluttering in an unheard breeze. The production was slick, too slick for Gravity Bend Public Access Television.

Delilah. Who was Delilah? The TV showed dimly lit shots of tarot cards passed over by feminine hands, crystal balls, a single ice-blue eye.

"Delilah is North America's most admired psychic visionary. The future is within reach. All things can be made clear. Waste no more time with frauds who call themselves men of mystery. Seek the truth. Delilah is waiting."

The ad faded, to be replaced with more amateurish content. But the twins were too curious to be captivated by comically bad TV anymore.

"Now that seems like an experience," said Max, "I wonder if it's real? I mean... If fairies are real..."