A Sudden Glut of Gluttons

[Treadwell]

Just after midnight, going into the fourth day of the first month.

Aloisius Horatio Treadwell stands in a borrowed bedroom, half-wrapped loosely in his borrowed bedsheets, wearing nothing else but a borrowed body that belonged once to an ancestor of his. Dim, gleaming moonlight seeps in through the one window in the rounded walls, giving the elderly Tubbian enough illumination to see by. . . if his eyesight were not so pitifully weak, even in this borrowed self.

On go his eyeglasses, which sit much too tight on his newly plumped face. Off they go again, being set carefully on top of the nightstand they were taken from.

Up comes his walking cane, left propped next to the same stand, and, with breathing much more laborious than he has ever known, out of the sheets he eases, leaving them flowing from the bed and spilling onto the stone floor with its immensely plush, velvety rug that covers much of the cold surface.

The furnishings in the room are somewhat ample, for a priest who lives in relative solitude. Two round-bodied, almost egg-shaped, chairs are pulled over near the bed. A lovingly, elaborately carved writing desk rests to the north, missing its chair, with a wooden chest to its right. To the left of the exit door, which is to the west and opposite the window, is a wardrobe great and large. To the right of that same door is a bookshelf about six feet high but with all its books stored within the top two feet of it; no bending to pick up anything with this aged, painfully stooped body! Finally, beside the bed once more, in the south wall, is a fireplace. A wooden washtub, filled with what looks to be fresh, clean water, sits before it; a stack of clean and dry wood is stacked there, and a tinderbox of flint, steel, and a couple flasks of oil rest on top of the wood.

But there, on the nightstand on the opposite side of the bed from the fireplace and washtub, are Aloisius Treadwell's glasses that no longer fit his face and what look to be his Tubbian robes and miter. Cane in hand, this Tobias/Aloisius looks over at those garments, wobbles to quietly lock the door to his room, and then shuffles around the bed to set his miter aside and pick up his Tubbian outer robe and flap it out like a bedsheet.

Holding the purple silken garment to his swollen body gets a raspy laugh from his aged throat.

"My goodness, Aloisius! You have been a right fat little piggy in your sleep! You must have put on another seven or eight stone, as they say back home in Westenford! There is certainly no way at all that you're going to stretch this garment, or any of these others, mmph mmph, being so bloated and big. Mmph mmph. . . . But what do I wear now?" He folds up the robe and carefully sets it atop the nightstand. So, still unclothed, he slowly turns his waist and looks about, a hand on his cane and the other on his bed.

"There! The wardrobe!"

A few steps around the feather-fluffed bed later, he stops.

"But it feels right queer, mmph mmph, putting on another man's clothes, if there are any still in there at all."

A few more knee-aching steps, and he brings his naked belly within inches of the wardrobe door. So, gazing down at his navel a moment in thought, he starts to his senses with a huff.

"The Rings of Tubbius, Aloisius!" Fingers run over the puffily swollen, protruding circles in his gut. "They. . . they're still here! What does this mean?"

But that mystery goes unanswered a few more moments, yet, as he toddles back a step or two and reaches up jiggling arms to open the wardrobe. Its doors slide to the sides without noise or problem, and the moonlight from the window shines over the carefully folded purple and white robes, vests, trousers, and the rest--and, gleaming silver with their moonlike circles of frosted glass, eyeglasses heavy and massy!

Plump hands reach shakily for the spectacles, easing them onto plump face.

"A perfect fit, Aloisius, hmm hmm!"

A pause to breathe and to think.

"Is it really so terribly odd to put on another man's clothes, mmph, when you are the man in question?"

Another pause as he gently rolls his lower lip back and forth between his teeth--a habit he's never had before, and one he stops after a few seconds, feeling bewildered and silly.

"You might as well answer to 'Tobias' or 'Tubbius' as your proper name, at this rate, old fellow, mmph mmph, at least 'til you find out how long you're going to be like this! What would Alice say?"

A spine-tingling shiver here shakes the rotund priest, diverting his attention from the wardrobe of clothes to the fireplace with its amply stacked wood and its full bath. A smile warms across his fluffy-bearded face, and over to the tub. A dip of a thumb in the water finds it dreadfully cold, prompting the need to build a fire in short order--which he does, before he lets his great girth sink into the tub and take up a block of soap and the washrag hanging on short ropes from a side of the tub.

So it is an hour or so later that the Tubbian leader finds himself standing with a speed to make turtles laugh, stooped and grasping for an enormous towel from its hook on the side of the flickering fireplace. Drying off is a simple process, though long, and thus cleaned, with bathwater still sitting in the tub, he toddles back to the wardrobe, running his fingers over the first things he removes and takes with himself back to the bed to wiggle into: undergarments and the standard Tubbian button-up pajama jumper that is the first layer under every Tubbian's robes and other clothes. Every Tubbian dresses in numerous layers, a testament to their faith in the need for bulk and size, and the Tubbius Regalis is not an exception.

"Again, Tubbius! These things fit like you were born to wear 'em, mmph mmph, like you had 'em sized just for your, hm hm, blessedly large measurements."

He goes next for his shirt, trousers, and the horrid, breathtaking, slightly unneeded with the full jumper over his whole body save his hands and head. . . socks. The shirt is wriggled into and buttoned up. The socks take the wind out of the old tub for many minutes as he bends to work them onto his feet. But the trousers. . . squirming into the purple trousers is a different experience from forcing himself into his socks. It's almost the same delight he feels stuffing himself at his dining room table.

"These are the best tailored trousers I've ever put on my legs, mmph mmph!" He runs a hand down the silk-garbed length of his left thigh, grinning silly and wide. After he stands to tug the pants up around his behind and to tie the drawstring, so wonderfully hidden by his great tummy, his grin only grows with a whispered, breathy revelation that leaves him giggling merrily.

"Why, there's room for my whole arse in these!"

The padded pullover vest is tugged into place next, and following that the warmth of the inner robe with its sash and the outer robe with its sash. That merely leaves his head exposed to the cold, but that is fixed quickly enough by the addition of a miter much like the one he usually wears. And then the newly borrowed purple leather boots that so lovingly fit over his fat, flat feet, and the long, broad, golden sash that drapes easily around his middle to hold his robes closed.

And there Aloisius Horatio Treadwell stands, the fully dressed twin of a man named Tobias.

Beady eyes cast around the room behind those heavy glasses. They settle first on the bookshelf with its many volumes. . . and then on the writing desk with its shelves.

"You need to learn about all of this, hmm hmm, Tubbius! Where do you begin?"

[Treadwell]

Moonlight dimly washes over the tower bedroom still as the bodily changed Aloisius Treadwell stares at his predecessor's writing desk.

"It's too late, mmph mmph, to be trying to read at this hour, you know, but I've gone to the trouble of getting dressed and bathed already!"

Thus, with an aged and aching throb in his back, this new Tobias tugs one of the round-bodied chairs over to the desk and stands there by it, huffing momentarily as he mops at the sweat just popped out on his face. That is when his eyes, beady and tiny in his pudgy sockets, settle on something new and unseen before, resting against the side of the desk in question.

It is a wooden staff, a little over six feet long, with golden Rings of Tubbius affixed to the top of the shaft. Setting his cane aside, Aloisius reaches over to take up this new walking stick and, after a moment of leaning on its stout pole, smiles.

"This simply feels so wonderful natural and right, mmph mmph! I wonder if Jim will let me take this with me to Myrken Wood!"

That said, Aloisius yawns warbily and mightily as he returns the staff to where it rested. Both hands fold over his belly, and, as his bleary eyes continue to squint in the half lit darkness, he finds himself toddling back the few feet to his bed. Off come the outer sash, the two robes, the miter, the vest, and the rest all the way down to his pajama jumper with a simple declaration.

"Hang it all, Tubbius! Even you need your sleep! Read more about this all in the morning!"

Thus, his snores resume their rolling out over the mostly desolate church grounds.

Morning of the fourth day of the first month.

It is just after dawn when Aloisius Treadwell finds himself rousing where he rests. A cursory glance down proves a simple fact: last night's waking to being grown fat and round and old was no mere dream. All in all, though, it is not just sunlight that wakes the old man.

It is the incessantly demanding rumbling in his belly.

Another warbling yawn sees him to his feet. Wearing his bright purple pajamas and his glasses, and taking up his walking cane (leaving the staff for more ceremonial matters), he waddles across the floor and opens the door from his room.

His nose is twitching and sniffing the air before he even realizes that there is a most delicious aroma of meat cooking from somewhere below.

A merry, gleeful giggling sets his enlarged stomach to quivering, and, with a hand on his cane and a hand scratching at his navel bouncing as he toddles downstairs, he plods down the thirty steep stairs from bedchamber to dining room.

His feet and knees scream at him in agony while they lead the man into the dining area. His lungs and chest burn horribly, and his breath comes in short-winded, gusty huffs.

His ears pick up sounds before his eyes, bleary and blinded by daylight coming in from windows, pick up what they're seeing.

A clattering of metal platter onto the table.

A catching of wheezy breath.

A shrill calling of "Tobias! Divine, merciful Father! You return to us!" rings out from Lord Tubbian James Wilde.

Heavy feet lumbering across the floor.

Two immense bellies are soon smushing together, knocking the wind from both of their owners--this new Tobias and this ecstatic Lord Tubbian--and four arms are encircling as best they can two fine examples of gluttony in massive, squooshy, tightening embraces.

Certainly, all is right in the Church of Tubbius.

[Treadwell]

Morning of the fourth day of the first month.

Two great-bellied Tubbian leaders stand a few feet from each other, now, eyeballing one another with great grins on their faces and tears in their eyes. From Lord Tubbian Wilde's perspective, this momentous meeting is infinitely wonderful, a sign of amazing growth yet to come for the church. From Aloisius Treadwell's perspective? Merriment is contagious, and the sights and smells of a breakfast that nearly overflows the round table's boundaries is most delightful.

Thus, Treadwell, in his new bodily guise, shuffles to his appointed chair--the one marked "Tubbius" in golden script--and settles "Mmph"ingly into it.

"I see your pajamas still fit you, Father," comes the chirpily shrill observation from Treadwell's still standing subordinate. "They fit you quite well, if I recall properly. I tailored them to your exact specifications, but I had such a difficult occasion with them all! You--"

"I kept growing, mmph mmph, because you were making my clothes at the time of the harvest feasts, yes yes, and I wouldn't stop stuffing myself silly every sitting! And-and-and that's when Lucy, rest her soul, started eating so much herself, thanks to our little Frederick Algernon in her tummy! We had just married, she with her belly about nearly swollen to match mine, and we were both eating like pigs!"

Both men fall dumbfounded for a few breaths, a few heartbeats. Treadwell drops his eating utensils against his first plate, despite having a hunk of beef already skewered by his fork. When Treadwell speaks, it is but a rough whisper.

"How did I know any of that, Jim?" He clears his throat with his usual "Mmph mmph" after, looking fearfully slack-jowled at the Lord Tubbian. He huffily speaks up. "I shouldn't know of when you made my pajamas, or how great with child my wife was at the time, or how the baby was named after her grandfather and father in that order because I didn't have a family line to speak of, or--" His eyes grow as wide as they possibly can stretch. "Or that her family line was started by a skinny little rail of a man, hmph hmph, named Frederick Treadwell and his matching small son Algernon!"

"My Lord, you are being blessed, allowed, to know--I'd dare to say 'remember', perhaps, should you not think me heretical for insisting you are Tobias in new flesh--all of these details, and I think you shall remember more as your time in your new body progresses."

"Tobias in new flesh, hmm hmm? But--but I'm not, am I? How can we have any proof of that?" Treadwell fumbles for his fork again, bringing the skewered beef back to his lips for the munching with an uncommonly loud slurp of the food from the fork.

"We can't, Holy Father. It is what our faith insists upon, however, as fact, and I should think that your, ahem, currently blessed state shows to be truth?"

Treadwell settles into eating as the Lord Tubbian speaks. After swallowing a few bites, he adds, "You cooked my favorites--" and stops. "Lord Tubbian, I find myself speaking now as if I were Tubbius Himself--'my' favorites, 'my' wife, and so forth. I know this isn't the case at all, mmph mmph! How long am I to be this way?"

A pause, then a wag of a finger at the other priest.

"No, you don't know any of that, I'm sure, hmm hmm. In my life, Lord Tubbian, I have been most unnaturally frequently the subject of many, many magical mishaps, mmph! I have been shrunken, assaulted, and put to sleep by fairies for a year of my life, hmph, shaped anew to resemble a pig man and a great round honeybee man both, granted magical powers and immortality itself by a man claiming to be the mythical Father Winter, and nearly driven to confusion and madness itself by being haunted by a former councilor and forcibly remade into another man's image! Mmph MMPH! And that's all in just the last eight years or so!"

A wheezy breathlessness seizes the irate old tub at this final sentence. After a few moments of the Lord Tubbian's toddling over and patting and rubbing his superior's back and chest, Aloisius asks a simple question with a not so simple answer.

"What does it all mean, Jim? Why am I always the target of all these life-altering, body-changing misfortunes?"

To this, Lord Tubbian James Wilde nods his head with a snort. He reaches to take Aloisius Treadwell's fork from its holy owner's hand, then stabs the fattiest, drippiest, biggest hunk of beef off his plate, a hunk wrapped in a green pepper that had magically appeared this morning in a barrel for cooking. Bringing it dangling up to Treadwell's mouth, he giggles happily as the seated old man takes it with a shlurp and starts chewing.

"Eat, Tubbius! Eat! You are gluttony and jollity incarnate! My Lord Treadwell, You are in truth the endlessly growing god of harvest, of eating, and of joy and of reverence at the doing of such! You speak of these hardships You have faced." Another stab of an onion-slathered, sauce-dripping piece of beef, and another mindless acceptance into his mouth from Treadwell. "They were not hardships at all, Holy One. They were Your body's trying to find its proper form, its proper shape and design, and they were Your preparation for Your life's destiny--to renew Your church, to make it grow as You do. Whether you choose to stay in this body," a friendly poke of the bottom of the fork to Treadwell's belly button, "or not. . . and You may not, given how You have a life of your own that Your man Alldale has told me of, I trust that You will remember all You learn here in days to come and that You will move ahead with renewed vigor toward Your destiny!'

A clearing of his throat. A third slipping of a delicious morsel (this one of a piece of cheese and a cooked piece of ham) to Treadwell's lips. A taking of the fork from his hand with a nod.

"Whether or not, mmph mmph, I am truly Tubbius in the flesh is a matter of debate, Jim. It will never be solved 'til I pass from this world, mmph, and see what happens to me in the next. But, in many ways, mmph mmph, I suppose you are right about my purpose in life, my destiny, hmm hmm--but we'll see about this god-business, hmm hmm? I feel very much a man. I think I would know were I truly a god in these many rolls of flesh!"

"What if You just don't know yet, Holy One? Now, I shall bring Your next course."

Treadwell thus resumes pushing his way across the food at his table. With a very satisfied nod, he picks up his pace and watches the Lord Tubbian disappear into the kitchen again. As Jim Wilde steps through the arch, Treadwell lets roll a jolly laugh that sets him smiling wide and calls back to the Lord Tubbian.

"Eat, Tubbius, eat! Then bring me more, my Son, for Tubbius aims to eat all Tubbius can eat!"

[Treadwell]

Noon of the fourth day of the first month.

"By Your great gut, Holy Father! Every morning, I have woken to find the kitchen stores full nearly to bursting with more than enough to keep me sustained rather well. . . ."

This new Tobias reaches up a hand to scritch-scratch at his white-haired, purple-jumpered middle. He has opened two of the buttons on the front to allow the great gut in question room to grow.

"But You have sat here all day so far, filling up on everything in those blessed stores! There was a time when You would be nodding off like a fat baby halfway through the second course. . . but now You show no signs of slowing, or even of feeling full at all!"

To which that swollen stomach gives a digestive blurble, which prompts slow and serious rubbing with a grease-spotted hand.

"How. . . how do You feel?"

A thoughtful "Mmmmm" escapes the one being questioned.

"Hungry, still, Lord Tubbian. I stay so, nowadays, as I have since I became Tubbius Regalis. No amount of food can satisfy my desires or lull my belly to warm sleepiness, mmph mmph."

And at that, the transformed Aloisius Treadwell yawns, blinking bleary, wet eyes behind his glasses. At this simple act, the Lord Tubbian smiles.

"But it seems to have convinced the rest of you of the need for it! Here, Father, take my arm, and I'll see you off to bed again! Oho! Nothing has changed, My Lord! Not a thing!"

Thus, the two men wobble upright, and Aloisius is shown back to bed for a post-breakfast nap. By the time that the Lord Tubbian sees Treadwell to sleep and returns to his post in the kitchen, the kitchen will be stocked anew, and Treadwell will be dreaming.

He dreams of a simple, curious dream, of walking lazily about in his own shape in a grassy field, with all of his Tubbians around him carrying baskets of food and wine. With a final stamp of the staff that, in reality, still rests against the desk opposite his sleeping body, he eases onto the grass, sitting with legs out before him. The Tubbians begin chanting in unison lyrics that Treadwell recognizes as the words of The Folds of Tubbius, and, as they recite their scriptures, they open their baskets and begins placing all manner of foods and drinks in arms' reach of their lord--foods and drinks that the Treadwell in the dream begins devouring with zest, despite the recent gluttony of his waking self. As he eats and drinks, he grows; as he grows, his clothes tear and sashes fly free and buttons pop, flying into the crowd of Tubbian believers. As he bursts his clothes, his followers cheer, and more baskets are brought forth, and the cycle rolls on, until Aloisius Treadwell is swollen fat and heavy, rivaling his Holy Father Tubbius in girth, height, and expansion to the sky--thunderously demanding more, and more, and more!

Aloisius-Tobias wakes with a start, dripping in sweat and jerking upright, huffing for breath in his bed. It is the early afternoon. Snow blows in from outside the bedroom. He is his newly normal size, and he is alone.

"What," the old man raspily croaks as he fumbles for a flask of wine on his nightstand, "was that all about, mmph mmph?"

He finishes the wine in but a few gulps. He then flumps back into his fluffy bed and falls fast into a deep, dreamless rest.

[Treadwell]

Afternoon of the fourth day of the first month.

A groggy, drowsy Aloisius Treadwell wakes anew where he sleeps, still shaped into that Tobias body, still feeling considerably older than his sixty-four years. He is still alone. He still wears the purple pajama jumper. He is still swollen with breakfast.

He is still hungry. That is not a new sensation, of course, nor is it one that ever ends, for him.

It is in this case the hunger goes ignored as much as it can be, as he toddles upright, wincing as fat, flat feet touch cold, fluffy rug. Taking his cane in hand, across the floor he shuffles to his writing desk. He hefts its chair back into place as he goes, then bends breathtakingly to open the chest by the desk.

It is locked. A jiggle of the lock there informs him of that much.

However, as he gives a thoughtful, "Hmmmm," at this, Aloisius briefly closes his eyes. A foggy sight--a memory, perhaps?--comes of his Tobias-plumped hand setting a key inside one of the drawers atop the desk--and, sure enough, there it is, as he flips that drawer open to find the heavy brass key in question!

Click-tick-a-tick.

The chest is pushed open, and in it?

On top of a carefully folded stack of brilliant yellow clothing is a miter much like the one he wears, though yellow with purple trim instead of purple with yellow trim. Under that miter is a hefty, leatherbound book. The book is lifted and set on the desk; the clothing is pulled out together and, once the chest is closed, set on top of its flat surface.

The cover of the book gets pushed open after a candle is lit and this Tobias settles into his comfy, plushly lined seat, sized big enough for his expansive bottom--so comfy that it prompts a merry wiggling from the man sitting there!

The script within is nearly identical to Treadwell's sloppy, heavy own. Aloisius certainly has no trouble understanding the loops of the letters and the connections of its scrawlings--other than any problems caused by reading with eyes aged well over seventy years.

The opening line is scratched out and rewritten several times in different ways.

= = = = =
To my successor:

This is crossed out and scratched through.

To one loyal follower of Tubbius:

This, too.

To Tubbius:

This is also scratched out, with a note of "Not quite right!" beside it. Below this is a single word.

REVELATION!

A skipping of what might be the spacing of a few lines of text, and below that. . . .

A vision from Holy Tubbius!

The script takes on a shakier appearance, with heavy splotches of ink nearly marring the page. It was apparently written in a fitful, hurried spurt.

To my great-great-grandson, whom I know more of than you might ever think possible, though my own babe be not delivered for another week according to my Lord Tubbian, whenever you read this and find yourself assuming your destiny as Tubbius Incarnate, know it is an idea with which I have wrestled these long years, as well. I ponder the veracity of this seemingly incredulous claim, as I'm sure you will, as well, but I trust all will be revealed in glorious time when I pass from this life. All blessings, greetings, and lavish wishes upon you:

I start by saying you are a remarkably handsome fellow, a suitable descendant and a suitable replacement. You have certainly taken after me and my love, Lucy, and not after Lucy's rather frail father and grandfather, for whom our child will be named. I have seen you in the oddest, the most unusual, of visions in both my waking and my sleeping hours. My Lord Tubbian can attest to this.

You hold the fate of a church in your hands, and you will lead Tubbians all over Amasynia, as I have done, in a holy council of churches.

For now, I try to answer questions.

The clothing in this chest is for you. It is to replace your robes as Tubbius Regalis. These garments are meant to be the utmost in your ceremonial appearance, coupled with the staff beside my desk--our desk. Of course, the undergarments--the inner robe, the vest, the pajamas, and so forth--are for your wear at all times while you reside here. They will prove exceedingly comfortable, given your current state. . . but they will, of course, not fit your normally smaller proportions. This is unless you, of course, fatten yourself considerably more. Then they might be the only things you can wear! Hee hee! I see you in my dreams, and I chuckle in silly merriment when I wake. Being a son of mine, you can be much more. While you are here at this church, you will be.

What I have is yours, my son, including my body. I will not be buried in this earth. Instead, this body will appear again. . . but, yea, if you read this, then it likely already has done so.

If all is well, and my blessings span the gap of centuries, then you, my child, now resemble me, as I was at the end of my days. This should be both the most permanent and most temporary of conditions, subject to easing back and forth, a merry jester spiraling and dancing through folds not of motley but of flesh. It should only be like this whenever you stay at this church where I lived all of my life. Otherwise, you will live in your own, comfy, plump skin--a fact I am certain you can appreciate!

However, the more time you spend in this body that we share, the more you will learn of my time in it, and the closer we will become. But, even as I fear, in some ways, my coming ascension into godhood, attaining the body, name, title, and power of Tubbius Himself. . . I trust that you fear the same living in another man's skin and years. Thus, live in your own, as you must, but return here often--or, best, cast aside your worldly concerns and rule your holy council in this world from where you likely sit now, in my--our--bed chamber. Neglect not your attentiveness to Tubbius--to me. My Lord Tubbian is under a sacred charge to remain here until the end of time, if that is what is required, to serve as your guide.

As I grow by faith, fully believing I am to slip into Tubbius's holy frame and deity, I, of course, cannot help but assume that another might supplant me after the day of his passing.

Also, a visitor to the church thought me, and all of us, mad, two weeks past.

We have no proof but our own desires, our own faith, and our own righteousness.

I could be horribly mistaken, misleading a great many men--including you, my son--to utter damnation.

Thus, it is to my approaching grave I toddle. I fear I will not see my child live more than a few years. I know I will not be around to speak to you in person. . . not in this body, at the least.

Tread well, my son. Live certain of Tubbius.

Tobias of the Tubbians
= = = = =

Finished with his reading, Aloisius pulls a shaking hand back from the book in question. Beady eyes squint through heavy round glasses at the yellow garments beside him, and, absentmindedly, he finds himself playing gently with a roll of his stomach between his left thumb and forefinger.

"Dear me. . . . Either I am dreaming all of this, or I have just read, mmph mmph, a very personal letter that can only be addressed to ONE man! My great-great-grandfather? Good heavens!"

He turns that same forefinger around from where it plays with part of his side, pointing at his own bosom.

"Tobias took all this quite, quite seriously. . . and his magic still appears to work quite well, hmm hmm, at least while I reside here, hmm hmm, and here alone!"

"And," the transformed Treadwell stops with a hmm hmm and a cough, "he implies that I quite have the rest of my days on this great stage as scripted and planned, mmph mmph, as his were. . . . I must give this a great amount of thought."

Treadwell here gets back to his feet, closing the book and shivering there in the cold. One hand goes to scratching his middle; the other, his behind. Beady eyes fall again on the sunny yellow Tubbian garments.

"Well! I reckon I ought to try on those clothes, first, mmph mmph!"

[Treadwell]

Early evening of the fourth day of the first month.

It is safe to say that Aloisius Horatio Treadwell is getting more than a little comfy being in his new enlarged and reshaped self.

In fact, he now shuffles wheezily about his new bedroom wearing his new yellow robes with a great big smile on his face and a merry jiggliness to his steps.

And a great red apple magically spirited into his hand that he munches from.

And a lukewarm mug of beer in his other hand--this more normally sent for from the kitchen below.

The apple is devoured momentarily, its core tossed out the window to the snow. The mug is drained in a gulp or two, being set atop his writing desk.

Now, having delighted in his very slight snack, Treadwell returns his attention to the book he'd taken from the chest. The opening pages include the letter addressed to him that he'd read earlier. The pages after give a variety of things: a hand-drawn picture of the smiling face he now wears, a written report in a different hand discussing Great Tubbius's health in His current mortal, bodily state (signed Harlan Brody, Physician, and generally quite despairing of Tobias's overall health), a map of the surrounding area, another map of the church itself with the walls and rooms as they were two centuries past, and a chart regarding Tobias's ever-growing tailoring measurements over a three month period (with accompanying signature by Lord Tubbian James Wilde and a scrawled note of just how much Tubbius blesses His own mortal frame He wears now).

It is at this final page that the giggling Tubbian stops, glancing down at his yellow-robed middle and pat-patting it with both hands before squinting back at the measurements copied down carefully on paper.

"Dear, dear me! Bigger than anything I've in my wardrobes at home, of course! But, mmph mmph, then again, I'm much bigger than anything I've ever been at home!"

Another giggle, another flip of the page. A certificate of marriage, signed and witnessed by Tobias, Lucy Treadwell (daughter of Algernon Treadwell, Amasynia), James Wilde, and various other attending Tubbians.

Fingers tap-tap at the name "Treadwell," and then another flip of the page. A menu, extravagant and long--"No! Not a menu, Tobias! Err, Aloisius! Hmph! Not a menu, Tobias! Oooooh, hmph! Why can't I make up my mind about my own blasted name, hmm hmm?" There, in his moments of briefly addled frustration, is that curious rolling-folding of his lower lip around between his front teeth, something he forces himself to stop almost immediately.

"Ooooooooooh! Call yourself what you will, old butterball! It's not just a menu! It's a list of my favorite foods! Tobias's favorite foods! Oh, bother it all! MY! There!" He snorts and shakes his head, reaching to take the cover of the book and thump it closed. . . but stopping himself with another snort.

"This. . . This is serious business, Aloisius. You have to be very careful, here, hmm hmm, so as not to let yourself get swept away in this magical wash of a current! Tobias is one man, and you are one man, yes yes!"

A pause. In squinting at the words on the page before him, he's already started sucking-rolling at his lower lip again, and his belly has begun rummmmbling with desire.

"Oh, hang it all! I give up! If I'm going to get anywhere learning anything about any of this, mmph mmph, I reckon I shall have to accept a few things about my situation! Yes, 'tis rather peculiar and odd and likely to leave me quite, quite bamboozled! There! I just have to keep an open mind 'bout myself, yes yes, and just proceed carefully! I just have to keep my wits about me and remember just who's really inside all this extra lard!"

Another suck at his lower lip. He giggles again, the seemingly hundredth time this day, and turns the page once more. "Hoo hee! Deeelightful! Splendid! I'll have to have Jim start work on these recipes at once! But--!"

The next page is brief: a short note, in James Wilde's hand again, in admonition. "Holy Father Tobias, do keep Your mind about You regarding Your disgraceful mortal habits that defy Your Holiness: Your chewing gently on Your lip when You rejoice or puzzle over something, Your giggling incessantly at the same, Your sucking at your thumb when You think You are in solitude and private thought. Do recall I found You doing the last while in the bathtub--a man of Your years and state!--and, though I hold myself no creature worthy of disciplining a god in mortal flesh, e'en my creator and master. . . I fear for Your representation before the Tubbians who adore Your Reverence."

A faint suckling noise reaches Treadwell's ears with a gentle up and down pumping of the elder man's thumb in his mouth. Out eases the thumb, getting wiped hastily on his side, to Treadwell's own red-faced embarrassment.

"Ahem! Well! Erm. . . Umm. . . He, err, mmph mmph, he knows me quite well, eh? Mmhmm!"

Treadwell reaches up that same thumb-sucked hand to close the book in question, still flushed in giggly silliness, but again stopping himself from doing so. A sigh leaves him quivering all about, and then, "Aloisius. . . Old man, what will you do about all of this? You're in a rather odd state of affairs!"

Back a page he flips to study the list of favorite foods (salivating all the while), and then, getting his cane in one hand and the book in the other, out his bedroom he shuffles with a jovial, "Yoo hoooooo! Jim! Jiiiiim! Fancy we get a start on supper, hee hee!" as he shuffles down the steps back to the dining room.

[Treadwell]

Night of the fourth day of the first month.

Another meal of the day is finished. Another food-swollen Treadwell rests slumped and sluggish in his dining room table. Lord Tubbian Wilde has moved on to bed after nearly exhausting himself fixing his Tubbius's amazing demands. Jack Alldale of Myrken Wood sits within arm's reach of the engorged priest, staring at his face and stomach before finally reaching a shaky hand out to gently nudge the pudge of the latter.

"Counc'lor Tready?"

"Mmmmm? Jack?"

"Wha's 'app'nin' to ye, sir?"

"Whatever do you mean, mmph mmph?"

"Wha'd I mean? Look at yeself, sir! Ye've put on like near a hunnerd pounds, ya have, in some'in' like two, three days! Yer face don' even look the same! It's like ye 'came somebody else!"

"Mmph mmph." A pause to ruuuuuuub slowly at a glorpling, burbling stomach under all those sunny yellow robes and garments. "In a sense, Jack, mmph, I most assuredly did, at least on the outside!"

"But you're all outside, Tready!"

"Hmm hmm! Indeed! Jack, do you remember what I was saying about how we Tubbian folks believe Tubbius came down from His endless field to spend time 'mong us as a man, hmm hmm?"

"I think ye tol' me 'bout that, yep. What of it?"

"Well, lad, mmph mmph, what I'm trying to figure out is if He's done that again."

"Now whatchee mean b'that, Tready?"

"I mean I'm starting to think that there's more to me than even I think, my boy!"

"Y'cain' be ser'ous!"

"Have I any way to prove otherwise, mmph mmph?"

"Poo on that, Tready! It's more li' have ye any way to prove it at ALL!"

"Hmph. It's a matter of believing, Jack. . . . All I'm saying is there's a distinct possibility of something very big at work in this old flesh!" A greasy left hand slaps that jiggly mountain of a left thigh.

"I don' know, Tready. I think ye might just be lettin' yer belly go t' yer head."

"Well, maybe I am, hmm hmm, maybe I am. . . but what if I'm not, lad?"

A pause. Another poke to Treadwell's flabby side, this time with the blunt end of a knife handle.

"Then you're like t' be big 'nough to be in the runnin' for ol' man Paddin'ton's fattenin' hog contests ever' year, and just as like to win 'em!"

"That's the spirit, mmph mmph!" A grin breaks across Treadwell's face--still Tobias's face, but a face that Treadwell has grown quickly to accept and enjoy.

"But what 'bout yer wife an' kids?"

"When I go home to 'em, Jack, I'll look like my old self, mmph mmph. I won't wear another man's face once I'm off these grounds!"

"But iffen y'keep eatin' like ye've done today, you'll cert'ly be wearin' 'is clothes!"

"Quite likely, ho ho!"

"Huh. . . Tready. . . I've got some bad news."

"What's that, Jack?"

At this, Jack Alldale nudges his way to his feet, bracing himself with a smushing inward of a hand into Treadwell's side. He crosses over to a window and points out.

"The snow, Tready. It let up earlier today, but it ain't had no time to melt, and look--it's done startin' again out there. We're like to be stuck here a few days more, an' maybe a week!"

"As I've said earlier, lad, that's fine. None of us--you, me, Jim, Arnie, or even the ghost of dear old Lucy Treadwell--will starve a bit!"

"Ghost o' who? Lucy Tready?"

"My great-great-grandmother, m'boy. The woman you said's haunting this place."

"Oh! Her! Well, guess we know where ye get your looks from, eh?"

"Actually, Tubbius, in His mortal shape, was just like you see me here! I'd dare say I'm much, much closer to His looks than to hers!"

"Welllllll. . . like I said, Tready: 'nother hunnerd pounds or so, an' ye'll be th' spittin' image." A pause to return to his seat by Treadwell. "Jes' don't be too much a pig, eh? I've got t' drive ye 'ome in the coach, an' Arnie's got to pull ye."

"Oooooooooh, Jack! All right!"

"Now, get yer fat butt up, an' I'll get ye back to bed. It's gettin' late. What say ye tell me s'more about bein' a Tubbian t'morrer? Got to pass the time some'ow."

"Splendid! I'd be deeeelighted!"

[Treadwell]

Night of the fourth day of the first month, going into morning of the fifth day.

A huffy-breathed Tubbius Regalis wobbles over to his bed, having just been helped there by Jack Alldale of Myrken Wood. He stands there wearing his newest attire--his yellow-bodied pajama jumper and matching undergarments beneath--and he rubs at that overfed stomach sleepily before he settles himself into that fluffy, feather-filled expanse of comfort before him. In moments, the drowsy Aloisius snores mightily, and he dreams again.

He sees himself right back where he last left off: grown up and out to immense, mountainous proportions, his faithful Tubbians all scurrying about his great, unclothed self and bringing their now barely speck-sized baskets of food and barrels of wine with them. He finds himself still feasting greedily on these specks that mean nearly nothing to his seemingly endless hunger, and he still gives thunderous voiced rolls of "More, more, mooooore!"

It is clear that the amounts they feed him are not enough. A deep, empty rummmmmmble in his stomach sets the grass and dirt beneath them all to shaking, loosening. His legs sink a little lower into the earth, and, after another gastric roar, a little lower, and another, and another, until the bottom half of those legs are buried, with his feet and toes sticking up like great oaks from the surface.

Tubbians quake fearfully all about their lord, their feeding stopped for now as he rubs his incessantly moaning, emptily aching stomach, empty despite their frenzied efforts. Beady, tiny, severe eyes sweep over them, over the grassy expanse, over the enormous body they now inhabit, from high above. For a few moments, all is still, and then he makes a rumble of an announcement.

"Ploav Tubbius, Tubbius of the harvest, Tubbius of the earth, is hungry! He starves! He must have more!"

And at this self-identification, another stomach rolling-quaking shakes the ground for what must be miles. Even his legs are soon buried almost entirely, to a purpose now revealed.

Those legs, until now human and flabbily rotund, take on a new appearance and a new feeling--the former hardly visible due to the covering of overturned dirt and grass, the latter entirely obvious to the changing Tubbian leader. Baggy flesh of legs and now earth-covered toes reshapes to smooth, tentacular, pale-colored roots, unfurling and digging into moist dirt and feeling their way along.

Above this scene, this changing Treadwell-Tubbius looks just as he has the whole dream: a fat, elderly, bare-bodied human now contentedly buried up to his waist in the earth; below, these reforming legs now have a new mission: not to carry himself around but to ground himself lazily in one spot and spread out in search of. . . what? whom?

Aloisius wakes from this madness with a breathtaking wheeze as he jerks upright in bed. It is still night. He is still this new Tobias shape to which he is growing accustomed. He is still in bed. And, as he runs his hands over his thighs, he finds that "They're still legs! Still legs!"

Once his breath returns, the Tubbian leader rises shakily, grabbing his cane and lighting a lamp as he makes for his writing desk. His head spins. His mind frantically reels, addled. His stomach grumpily, hungrily complains.

"More, more, more mmph mmph! More of what? What are you doing here, old man? What are you supposed to be doing? Right now, mmph mmph, all I'm doing is hallucinating, it seems! Going rather loony, hm!"

Thus, with a sound, "Mmph!" as he plumps into his writing chair, he sets the glowing lamp on his desk, finds some ink, some quills, and the book from within his storage chest that has everything else written in it, and, his right thumb getting absent-mindedly sucked at, the left-handed Tready begins to write.

[Treadwell]

Breakfast of the fifth day of the first month.

A sleeping Tobias snores heavily at his dining table, wearing his yellow pajamas. He showed even more haste than usual in slopping through his morning meal, a feat that left Jack Alldale and James Wilde slackjawed and gawking. Now, Lord Tubbian Wilde stands behind his snoring Tubbius, still rubbing slowly at the sides of the seated man's stomach--the action that lured Tobias into snorey sleep in the first place.

"The poor fellow looked exhausted, Mr. Alldale, when he came down for his breakfast."

"D'ye think he's gettin' enough sleep?"

"I should hope so. He certainly requires it at his age."

"Heh. Well, now, t' change what we're a-talkin' about, when's som'in' goin' t'appen 'ere?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"We got 'ere on the mornin' o' the first, an' it's now the fifth, an' innat time, I've seen my Counc'lor Tread'ell go from bein' his fat, ol', jolly self to bein' someone else's fatter, older, jollier self, which was a sight t'see, but we ain't done nothin' other than sat 'ere an' stuff ourselves silly a few times a day, ever' day, since we met ye an' all 'is 'appened!" He waves a hand over at the snoring, swollen priest.

There are a few more seconds of gentle rubbing at the gurgling gut belonging to that priest. "I do as Tubbius leads. He simply hasn't led yet, sir. Your Councilor Treadwell is in a most confusing spot in his life right now. He's having to accept, to understand, quite a lot about himself and his place in our order in a very short time. Once he tells me what we must do, then we will see it done, immediately!"

"Does 'at include takin' on a diet an' slimmin' a mite?" Jack grins wide at this. "In just 'ese couple a-days o' eatin' with y'all, I'm done findin' my pants drawin' up a lil' tight, now!"

Lord Tubbian Wilde's face warms in a smile. "I should think that you would, sir, as you've been eating like a born Tubbian! But, as to your question. . . I rather very much doubt that! This isn't the first time that Tobias has gladly stuffed himself into a nap and never gotten up from his table, and he expected--he expects--his followers to share in his joys at such."

"It still seems a mite odd, though, 'ow ye worship 'im 'cause ye think he's a god come down waddlin' 'mong ye. I've known Tready since 'e came to Myrken Wood, an' he's been ever'thin' from a greedy, sneaky son of a cuss tax man t' a fat, lazy, happy belly of a fella who owns a toy shop!"

"A toy shop?" Another smile. "A remnant of his life, here, I'd wager. Tobias was a little skilled at carvings and woodcuts, and having a child was one of his dearest dreams. It quite nearly killed him when he found his Lucy had passed in childbirth."

"I wouldn' be so sure o' that. Tubby got that shop from a friend o' his--round lil' guy named Rod'ric--who made toys 'imself. He learned all he knew 'bout it from 'im."

"Hmph. He was merely opening up old talents long forgotten and dusty from disuse, my son."

Jack's eyes fall on Tobias's swollen middle at these words; the elder Tubbian's fleshy rings pooch visibly, notably in the sunny, yellow fabric.

"Well, whate'er ye say, sir. Now, what 'bout those circles in 'is belly?"

"Ahhhh. Tobias was born with those, Jack. When I found him a babe wrapped at our door, he was a round child in need of two things: a good bath and a good meal! We were blessed to have a few sisters staying with us at the time; one of them, named. . . Guinnevere, if I recall right. . . took care of both as I watched. While that plump, holy infant was sleeping in his bath, that is when we noticed those very same circles. We took it as a curious sign demanding reverence."

"But I've seen Tready once without 'is shirt on, sir. Had to help 'im dress one mornin' when I came by to run 'im a package, a couple months 'go. He had 'em, then, too."

"Then his blessed body had already started righting itself, Mr. Alldale."

"So ye say 'at 'is nat'ral shape as Allie Tread'ell is. . . wrong?"

"No, my son. . . not entirely. It is indeed right for him, when he's not here where his power is at its fullest, and he must lead a mortal life 'mong mortals who know not to revere him."

"But ye think what 'e ought t'do instead is come live 'ere forever and stay like 'e is now."

A nod, a final rub of fleshy hands on gurgly sides, and a slow withdrawal of those hands. "Indeed. I cannot accompany him elsewhere unless he so blesses me. I cannot leave these grounds of this church--not and remain more than dust. However, I do suspect that your church in Myrken Wood is. . . very likely quite quickly becoming as important a place for him, spiritually, as this is--the place of his life as Tobias and ascension as Tubbius."

"Beggin' yer pardon?"

Wilde sighs. "I live here because, before Tobias passed--before his heart gave out, and his body disappeared in a golden glow, and we slowly became aware that our Tobias was now the same as our Ploav Tubbius--he promised me that I would do just that. It would take another miraculous stroke to allow me otherwise."

''That's dreadful. . . ."

"I long to see my Tubbian family again, Mr. Alldale. I seek to entreat Tobias, to beg him, to set this right for me after his nap."

"An' ye think Tready can do 'at?"

"I know he can. I know not if he will."

[Treadwell]

Night of the fifteenth day of the first month.

Normally, it might be considered time for supper.

However, from the eighth day through the tenth, Aloisius Horatio Treadwell's eating schedule had been very different from its usual because of a simple dilemma: how does a man approach another man whom the first believes is a god to beg of him a miracle?

Lord Tubbian James Wilde's answer to that question was to give him everything he wants, to endlessly pamper him to the point where he didn't even have to move a muscle other than the ones in his jaw.

For two days, Wilde had hinted to his Tobias that he had been planning something special for him. On the third day--the eighth of the month--Wilde came to Tobias's bedroom and woke him gently for breakfast, but he ordered the man he thinks a deity in the flesh to sit right where he was until he felt he had had enough to eat and drink.

Tready went along with it as a little of a joke. Both men know well enough of his endless, unstoppable hunger. Treadwell thought he might stuff himself silly for all of a day, stop himself come supper, and simply play the game to learn what Wilde wanted.

But as time went on, and Wilde and Alldale were busily shuffling in and out of the bedroom, up and down the stairs, with what would be a three day procession of plates and bowls and mugs, something odd happened. Near night of the first afternoon, Aloisius, this man in a rented Tobias body, found himself in a pleasantly bloated, tummy swollen daze with a supernatural warmth welling up through his whole body from no particular source. He found no particular need to wobble away to visit a bathroom or use a chamberpot or even to sleep. He found he loved eating nonstop with no other responsibilities. It seemed the most natural--indeed, the only!--thing he ought to do be doing.

Thus magically warmed and sedated, this so-called Stomach of Tubbius had nothing to do for the next three days but eat until the pair serving him ran out of food and nearly collapsed from being too weary to go on.

As the pouring on of food came to a sluggish halt, that eternal drowsiness finally took hold. Aloisius Horatio "Tobias" Treadwell fell very soundly asleep, snoring immensely heavily, sleeping in his bed with his pajamas completely unbuttoned as of a day and a half earlier lest he burst their yellow confines.

Lord Tubbian Wilde and town crier Jack Alldale were nothing short of amazed at the whole event. They fell asleep from exhaustion shortly thereafter, but when they awoke, and their lord was still asleep, as he would be for five entire days with no seemingly ill effects, they found the reprieve quite, quite welcome.

Now, the present--the fifteenth of the first month.

Tobias eventually wakes to a welcome sight in candlelit darkness: that of James Wilde peering down over him, the round old priest's hands resting on that still gurgly, swollen belly. The snoring tub's first word isn't a word at all. It's a long, sleepy yawn followed by a meek, slight smile. It is followed by one like it from his cook, his servant, and his currently lone companion.

"It is wonderful to see you awake, My Lord. I have but a minor request of your endless, infinite power."

A giggle escapes the bulgy, bloated man in the bed.

"I simply knew you had to be feeding me for a reason, mmph mmph!" This bodily altered Treadwell then comfortably eases into what is, for the Tobias whom he now mimics in nearly all ways, an age old habit that the man above him despises: without thinking, he slips his right thumb inside his lips, and, just to have something to do with his mouth after feasting for so long, gently takes to sucking mindlessly. It gets him the briefest of frowns.

"Normally, my Lord, you know I would be reprimanding you for that, but I will let you do as you will. I do have a reason for the excessive feast from a few days ago. I beg you, great Tubbius, to extend the life-giving magic you placed on my humble self before your first passing."

"Mmph?" curiously squeaks forth. The thumb-sucking stops for just enough time for the dozing man to ask, "Are you ill?"

"In a manner of speaking, I suppose I am. I. . . I cannot stay here forever, knowing there are other Tubbian brothers devoted to your cause, elsewhere. Solitude for two centuries worries a man. It leaves him unsettled, nervous, alone! Should you leave this church, as you likely should, my Lord, then what of me? I cannot come with you, lest I fade into dust when I leave the grounds."

"And you say I was the one to bless you before like this, mmph mmph?"

"On your--" A pause as Wilde's complexion fades slightly. "On your deathbed."

"And I should think that blessing has worked remarkably well since then?" Lips curve in a tease of a grin as the simple in and out of digit in mouth resumes.

"Indeed. I have felt ample vitality for two centuries longer than any man ought. I have been granted copious food for my pleasure in your absence. Both of these were given at my staying here, awaiting your return."

"Then I give you here the life and power to stay with me, where'er I go, with you as my private and personal servant and companion! Come closer!" It seems the right thing to say at the time. Treadwell feels confident in the declaration, as if he somehow knows that he can do anything at all to extend this faithful fellow's life span by magical means. How can he see himself as just a mere tax collector, now?

The sucking comes to an easy stop, and the thumb wriggles loose. Both pudgy-fingered hands wave inward, and then the resting Tubbian pontiff huffily starts sitting up. Wilde scurries over, bending to hug his master and help him upright.

At that hug, he feels a comfortable warmth flow through his body and through Tobias's body immediately. A heady dizziness accompanies it momentarily, for both men, and there the two men sit together on Tobias's bed, beaming faces--and, for the transformed Treadwell, two golden glowing rings of flesh in his gut.

"I should think that does it, my lad!"

Thus, Lord Tubbian Wilde does something rather inappropriate for a priest to do with the mortal figurehead of his church and alleged embodiment of his deity. He embraces him as tight as he can, with tears washing down his jowls in wet sheets.

"Now, mmph mmph, dear boy. . . ." Boy, to a man of nearly three hundred years who looks two hundred years younger than he is? Treadwell jests! "Dear boy, you take on a special role in this church, forevermore! You are no longer a Lord Tubbian among Lord Tubbians, hmph hmph! You are Tubbius Princeps, a prince to your brothers, a man to be much admired!"

A pause follows. The warmth slowly fades from the two men. The gold light from Treadwell's stomach dims--but does not entirely fade. . . and beneath those golden-glowing flabby rolls, a starved rumble echoes. Where did all that food go as he's been asleep for days?

"Now, I'm feeling a touch peckish, dear boy. Might you and Jack and I see to some supper?"

Divinely blessed or not, in his own natural appearance or not, it seems that Aloisius H. Treadwell always manages to remember his priorities in order!

[Treadwell]

Morning of the first day of the second month.

Just after breakfast.

Three men are sprawled lazily around the dining table that has fast become a second home to them all. One is the former Lord Tubbian Wilde, drowsy and tired from a terrible night's rest. One is Myrken Wood's town crier, Jack Alldale; formerly a man rail thin but a month and a few days ago, he has taken to his Counc'lor Tready's teachings with unprecedented relish. In fact, Mr. Alldale is already putting on a bit of a paunch of his own, even in so short a time. Then there's that bodily altered Councilor Treadwell himself, still merrily living in another man's roly-poly flesh and still enjoying the girth around him, the magic so obviously coursing and radiating in him, and the food that is spread out before him numerous times every day.

But even Treadwell must return to his own real life sooner or later.

"Gents," he begins with a shlurp at the last of a bowl of lukewarm soup, "I propose we pack up everything we can carry with us into my carriage and that we, mmph mmph, move on."

"Whyzzat, m'lord Tubby?" Yes, even Jack Alldale has taken to acknowledging Aloisius as "Tubbius" from time to time. He even wears the simple green robe of a beginning Tubbian, sewn recently by Tubbius Princeps Wilde.

"It's quite simple, Jack. Before we were caught in that horrid fall of snow and ice, mmph mmph, we were on our way to Westenford. We're a few days out, yet, if I recall rightly, hmm hmm, and I'd reckon that Alice is worried terribly sick about me--not to mention your wife and children being worried the same about you, lad!"

"Mmmmmm" comes the drugged, mumbled moan of a too-fed Wilde.

"So my books and scrolls upstairs, my clothes--both sizes, the robes and suit I wore here in my own natural body, and these of Tobias's that I'm wearing now!--and my ceremonial staff and my walking stick and--"

"An' how're we goin' to fit all this, and y'all's big ol' butts, in that there carriage out'ere? Arnold's about as well off as the two o' ye, an' he ain't got no easy time o'pullin' ye around by yerself, Counc'lor Tubby."

"Ooooooh, I'll be back to my usual self once we're off the church grounds, I should think, my boy. That will help some, mmph mmph." Plump fingers pat-pat the overgrown, engorged middle.

"Maybe a hunnerd pounds! Still! It's a lot t'pull 'tween the two of ye and the one o' me!"

"We'll be fine, Jack! Now, all of us--let's get up and busy! We've work to do!"

By noon, the three of them have everything that they want to take with them at the ready. Arnold is hooked up to the carriage, and into it the great-bellied priests squeeze, one on either side.

However, they are in for a noteworthy surprise.

By dusk, they are several miles distant.

They roll lazily, slowly, ploddingly sluggishly away from the site of the church, after having taken time to lock the many doors and seal off what they could. . . but at no time does Treadwell return to his normal, less rotund, less elderly shape, not even after a good, long nap. Thus, when they stop for supper at a tiny inn in a similarly tiny hamlet named Wane. . . .

"My Lord Tobias?"

"Mmph mmph?" Beady eyes flit from the last hunk of bread on the elder priest's plate and up to the heavier of the man's two traveling companions.

James Wilde's question is in a much lowered voice, barely above a whisper, raspily put forth but inches from the altered Treadwell's flabby face.

"Why aren't you returning--shrinking, even--to your normal self?"

"To be quite honest, my lad, I don't know!" is the similarly husky reply. "Maybe it's, hmm hmm, a matter of a good night's rest? Maybe it's a matter of being very far away from the church? Maybe, mmph mmph, it's something I have to work at, consciously?"

"Well," in the same aged, whispered croak, "I'll bring in your other clothes from the coach and have them laid out for you. I should hope that by the morning, your body makes up its mind and sets you to rights! While I and all your followers would much prefer--" he waves up and down at Treadwell's middle--"this, we can't expect it of you all the time, can we?"

"I honestly don't know. . . ." Then, in his normal, squeaky pitch, "Jack! Step outside and fetch me my other clothes! We'll see how things are in the morning!"

The three men are separated by the rooms of the inn. Treadwell is on the eastern side. Wilde and Alldale, the western. Treadwell's bed in this inn is small--too small, really--and hardly comfy at all.

Dawn, the second day of the second month.

When Treadwell wakes, though, he is very much swallowed by the sunny yellow pajamas of Tobias that he fell asleep in. He feels tired, ravenous, hungry, weak, and old. In short, when he wakes, he is very much himself.

And thus he hollers throatily for "Jim! Jack!"

Jack Alldale, younger and fleeter and more used to being up so early, comes running first. "M'lord Tubby! Tready! Ye--ye're set arights!" is what he breathily huffs out on barging into his new religious leader's bedroom.

And then James Wilde comes lumbering along, blowing and puffing and huffing his way up the hall.

As Wilde lumbers within about fifty feet of Treadwell's room, Aloisius Treadwell is unexpectedly awash in magic once more, a brilliant golden gleam lighting him from within. He gasps breathlessly for air in surprise, caught again in the same metamorphosis from the previous month. By the time Wilde fully appears in the doorway, Tobias's round-bodied frame once again more than fills out the sunny yellow pajamas and the bedsheets. As the golden gleaming from within fades away, Treadwell again feels healthy, energetic, and lively--but still ravenous, ready to consume anything set before him.

"Wh--what is it, My Lord? I saw some glowing lights?" comes out from a winded Wilde.

It takes a few moments for the newly changed--and changed again!--Treadwell to get his bearings and make a simple announcement.

"My dear, dear Jim--you're doing this to me, now, my dear boy!"

[Treadwell]

Dawn. The second day of the second month.

"I'm doing this to you, my Lord? Doing what to you?"

"Why, making me fat!"

"Pooh! Your blessedly large girth is a gift of--"

"No, no, no! I mean look at me, mmph mmph! Come over here and put your hand on this great big belly of mine, if you must!"

So, at the invitation, James Wilde toddles breathlessly into the room, shutting the door behind him. There's a huffingly-puffingly shuffling past Jack Alldale, who is still rubbing his eyes from the golden radiance of moments before, and then he puts both sweaty, fleshy hands on his leader's pajama-garbed middle.

"You feel that, yes yes?"

"Feel what, my Lord?"

"All THAT!" Treadwell here slaps the side of his stomach, setting his entire belly to quivering. "When you started coming across the inn, mmph mmph, I grew again and changed again from being myself, hmm hmm, to being again in the body of Tobias!"

"'e did, sir! 'e was 'is usual ol' buttery ball self 'fore ye came back in 'ere!"

Tubbius Princeps Wilde pulls his hands slowly back, resting them on his own stomach. "What does this mean, my Tubbius?"

"I don't know!" He stops talking and, after a few moments of thinking, quietly adds, "Or maybe I do know."

"Do you?" Two voices in unison--one old and shrill, one younger and country.

"Indeed! It's a matter of devotion, my boy. It seems that you, my dear Jim, embody the faith and devotion of the believers who used to embody the church where, hmm hmm, we found you, just a short while ago! It seems that you, mmph mmph, are meant to follow me about and keep me--"

"Keep you what, my Lord?"

"--keep me. . . ." Treadwell stops.

"Fat an' 'appy?" Jack Alldale chirps out with a grin, scratching his own hungrily gurgling stomach.

"Indeed! But I was thinking more of 'keep me presentable!' You see, 'til I return home to our holy church of Myrken Wood--and announce it, officially, the source of my authority and power, as this church we just left has been for ages. . . " His eyes twinkle merrily as his face spreads into a jowl-quivering grin. ". . . someone has to help me keep up appearances!"

Wilde's face stretches to match the merriment showing in Tready's own.

"And you think, my Tubbius, that when You do, umm, so bless Your holy residence. . . that such an enchantment will extend to Your presence there?"

"I do not merely think, my dear boy. I know it will--if my children, your spiritual brothers, believe in their Tubbius!"

Dawn's light continues to wash over the portly pair of priests and the new Tubbian to the side, although it gets a little bit of assistance: at this last declaration, the visibly puffy rings in Tobias-Aloisius's stomach shine their usual sunny gold for a few seconds. Following that?

"Now, Jim, wait yourself outside, but wait very close! You too, Jack. I need to get dressed." A hearty cackle shakes the elder Tubbian. "Besides, I am Tubbius. I am hungry, I am downright greedy for food and drink, and I am simply not going to miss a chance to play a happy prank on the owner of this inn by eating him out of his breakfast stores!"

A happy prank, indeed, but is Treadwell going a little too far?

[Treadwell]

The second day of the second month.

After breakfast.

The inn in Wane is a decent-sized building for the town it's in. It is a building run by a short, stout, middle-aged couple named Edgar and Mabel Bumpo.

This morning, they are incredulous, staring at the trio of men sprawled out lazily at their table, wringing their hands in their aprons and whispering to each other.

"Mabel, love, we had enough food in the kitchen for about fifteen folks an hour ago. . . ."

"The one on the left ate right sensible--the littlest one, Ed--and the one on the right, well, he ate 'bout enough for three or four. . . ."

"But the big fella in the middle, darling! He ate everything else we had in the house, and he's still looking around like he wants more! And he just shook the room with a belch that kept a-going, too!"

"Oooooooh, innkeeper, mmph mmph?"

Fleshy hands rub lazily at that warm, well-fed middle of the man in the middle.

"Y--Yessir? Umm, y-yes, Father? Least I reckon you're a priest. You look like you're dressed like one, but I've never seen a priest quite like you folks, sir, and--"

"Ho ho! Oooooh, come here, you and your lovely wife, sir! I've something to say to the both of you!"

Over to the table of Tubbians they come, hands still wringing their aprons. Mabel gives Edgar a sound nudge to the side as he simply can't keep his eyes off Treadwell's--Tobias'--massive gut. To this, Aloisius smiles.

"I trust the two of you are very, very puzzled by our sitting here and eating everything you had handy, yes yes?"

"Ummm, begging your pardon, Reverend. . . . Ed and I were a little concerned. . . . We don't get many here, you see, and that food was to last us here for three, maybe four, days."

"I see, hmm hmm." A pause, here, to reflect briefly, to let the stomach gurgle. "So simple money won't be enough. You two need, mmph mmph, more food."

"If you please, Preacher."

"Ed!"

"Well, he is, isn't he?"

"What think you of, mmmm, our, ahem, appetites, then?"

"Quite frankly, Preacher, I think you've got somethin' of a pig in your blood, or an empty hole in you somewhere where that food goes and just don't come back!"

"Speak for yourself, Ed!"

"Mabel! You're just as broad around the beam as I am!"

"Shush!"

"Hoo hah! Ho ho! My wife and I, loves, we're just the same--a bit older, mmph mmph, but still back and forth about our bellies, and we've babies to raise who're little butterballs themselves!"

"Tha' they are, misser and missus! 'is youngins and 'is ol' lady are right fat 'uns like 'im!"

"Novice Alldale!"

"Ummm, Misser Wilde--"

"Tubbius Princeps Wilde to you, my boy!"

"Jim! Jack! Shush!" Another pause, this time for breath. "That's quite what I thought you might say, Mr. Bumpo."

"How do you know my name, Preacher?"

"I know a good many things, dear boy, mmph mmph! Now, you very likely think me and my, ahem, rather voracious eating something beyond mortal reckoning, yes yes?"

"Vorapping what?"

"Sounds like he's saying he eats as much as Farmer Blinney and his five sows and their piglets AND his dear fat Lotha who's eight months 'long with their twins, Ed."

"OH! Why, yes! Ain't no man can eat like that, Preacher! You've got to be a right god sitting here in front of us!" As Mabel nods emphatically, Edgar skillfully flips Treadwell's fork up into his fingers, twists it around, and prods it deeeeeeply into the Tubbian leader's middle, which sets the Tobias stand-in to laughing merrily a few moments.

"Then I propose the truth to you, Edgar and Mabel Bumpo! Because the two of you believe wholeheartedly that something more than a mere man, mmph mmph, came to visit you this morning, because you accept that the holy one known as Tubbius came to eat in your inn in mortal flesh--"

"An' lots of it, sir!" Jack Alldale gleefully interjects, but the magicked Treadwell continues.

"Then that Tubbius blesses you, your house, your family, and your inn! May your chickens lay the roundest, greatest eggs ever seen in this town! May your stores of cheese, meat, bread, milk, and ale never run empty! And, should you spread the word of my time here to others, may this blessing so pass from generation to generation, mmph mmph, so be it, forever!"

Jaws drop around the room--all save the one producing the alternately bellowing and piping declaration of good wishes and blessings. The Bumpos nod their heads emphatically, dropping slowly to their knees to wrap their arms around Treadwell, both at the same time, as tears and praise come forth. They haven't, of course, checked in their kitchen, simply giving in to emotion for the moment even if it doesn't make sense, even if they don't understand or maybe even really think that the man blessing them has any such powers. They are simple, generally upright, mostly religious folks who know a blessing when they hear one, though, and that is what they are grateful for.

They are unaware that, in their kitchen, that blessing is taking physical shape as boxes and buckets and barrels refill instantly with food and drink.

They will remain unaware of those facts until the party of traveling priests are well on their way again an hour or so after Treadwell's declaration, gone in a carriage creaky and slow, pulled by a horse much the same, but when they learn of such, the inn does not contain them. By lunch, they are inviting the entire population of Wane--all sixty-four (and a few on the way in their mothers' bellies)--to, in the words of Ed, "Come to the inn, make right piggies of yourselves, and put these words of this Tubbius fella to the test!"

An unusual proposition makes for. . . an interesting town meeting.

[Treadwell]

The second day of the second month.

The village of Wane.

After supper.

Edgar Bumpo's call to the town to come to the inn to "Come to the inn, make right piggies of yourselves, and put these words of this Tubbius fella to the test!" was initially met with curious skepticism. The people of the town of Wane first believed that perhaps this Tubbius fellow had simply gifted Ed with a great deal of food and been on his merry way; many of them had seen his ornate carriage roll sluggishly into the town, pulled by an immensely corpulent horse out front. Thus, interested in a free meal but not really thinking it to be anything more, everyone showed up, from the fattest folks in town (Farmer Manfred Blinney, his round wife Lotha even rounder with her baby belly, and Mayor Tom Kutch and his wife Mrs. Belinda Kutch and their children Graham and Tom, Jr.) to the smallest folks (including the local priest, a shriveled up old prune named George Cobble). Everyone expected to eat just a little and be on his or her way.

Then the food simply kept coming. Edgar and Mabel, under the watery and baggy-lidded eyes of Mayor Kutch, continued plopping food onto plates and pouring drinks. Much to his florid-faced, jovial delight, Mayor Kutch found himself beaming from ear to ear as lids were opened, food taken out, lids replaced, and lids opened again to reveal no change in their containers' contents.

Surely it would have ended after lunch?

Surely not! A number of the elderly townsfolk plopped into beds in the inn to take naps after lunch, and some of the children ran out to play, but the many underfed in town found themselves enjoying the wave of food and drink. Bellies were stuffed almost to bursting all around well before Mayor Kutch gave up his supervisory role and, with a declaration of, "Let's see if I can exhaust this Tubbius's blessings!", started digging heartily into the feast.

He failed to make the slightest of dents despite gorging himself for an hour and some before he finally just nodded off at his table with his vest, shirt, and the top of his trousers unbuttoned to allow his tummy more room.

The only one not impressed was, of course, Father Cobble. Devoted to a little known goddess of healing and reproduction named Marta, he refrained from touching any of the "cursed, horrid, unholy food" at all and simply shuffled out the door.

The excesses continued all day until now, until after supper.

"Well, Mayor," a tuckered out Edgar finally pipes out, "what do you think?"

The Mayor's undignified response of Urrrurrrrrrrrrrrrurp as he shovels down the last of his latest plate sees chuckles all around.

"I think, Ed, that this Tubbius is certainly someone to regard--nay, to venerate, to worship, as I feel he has certainly solved all our woes regarding food and drink!"

"Meanin' ya can eat all ya like, y'old devil!" Mrs. Kutch jests.

"Well, yes, but we've had three hard years as late, my love. Our farms are floundering. Marta fails to answer our prayers. And now here is one named Tubbius--" Mayor Kutch stops in mid-thought. "I do wonder something. Graham, my boy, come here!"

Graham Kutch comes shuffling over to his father with a plaintive, "Yes, sir?"

"Your uncle Graham," "Yes, sir?" "the priest," "Yes, father?" "does he not worship a god named Tubbius? You know your uncle, yes? The one from Westenford?"

The child's reply is a short, and expected, "Yes, sir. He does, sir."

"Good. You may go, my boy."

"Thank you, sir!"

"Ed," Kutch continues, "my older brother Graham has been worshiping a god named Tubbius for his whole life. What he's told me is fairly extensive; he says Tubbius is a very fat god who seeks veneration through being the source of food, drink, and merriment for his followers, all of whom tend to be rather. . . " he pat-pats his own still bloated stomach by way of explanation. "Tubbius apparently is a god of growth, harvest, and the like, having been known before by the name of one of the names of the old gods from generations ago--Ploav, I think? According to Graham, all the Tubbians are expecting their Tubbius to return to them in mortal flesh."

"Mayor," Lotha Blinney asks curiously, "are you saying that your brother's right? That we just had a god stroll through our town, and we didn't know it?"

"Well, Lotha, even Father George has tales in his holy book of Marta taking on the shape of a woman in very similar condition to yourself to spread her faith. Why shouldn't Tubbius, mmmmm, make an appearance from time to time, too? If he truly is a god, rest assured he's still hearing all his faithful's prayers and being fed enough by those to merit a little levity and traveling about!"

"Yes, Mayor," Lotha replies with a rub at her belly, "but, my babies aside, this Tubbius seems to be who we need for Wane at the moment, not Father George's Marta."

"Ooooooh, Lotha, I don't know why there can't be room for both! Tell me, Ed, did you and Mabel get a good look at this Tubbius?"

"Ed couldn't take his eyes off the man's fat stomach to look long enough at his face, Mayor."

"Oh, yes, I could!"

"Either way! I want you two to talk with Ned Smith in the morning! We're going to put up some kind of shrine for Tubbius in the town square! He deserves praise for this, much praise! I'll be sending Graham a note to ask him to come bless it and, if people wish, start a proper church here, too. If this food and drink in this inn keeps flowing like this, we'll all be happy, well-fed, and back to our old before-the-drought-and-famine selves in no time! Praise Tubbius!"

[Treadwell]

Night. Going from the second day into the third day of the second month.

Two great-bellied priests and their driver are snoring soundly in their carriage, parked under a small patch of trees on the Amasynian plain. Jack Alldale dreams of his family, being with his children who are likely to poke merrily at their father's new, slightly plumped tummy. James Wilde dreams of lazily floating along in a literal gooey and warm sea of milk and honey.

Aloisius Treadwell dreams of decidedly more unusual things. His body (when awake) is that of a man he has never met. His temperament is changing fast to be much more bombastic, self-centered, gluttonous, and greedy than before. His mind is facing a trickling of knowledge both about the Tubbian faith and about the people he meets on the road. His beliefs involve his finally thinking he is a god in mortal flesh, something his followers have been trying to convince him of for nearly two and a half years. His dreams?

When Aloisius Treadwell sleepily drifts into dreams this night, he faces a peculiarity. It is not his usual dream of being in a Tubbius shape, towering over the Amasynian plain with a rolling muffin of a belly spreading over the grass and oddly plantlike roots still spreading slowly through the dirt below. Instead, he is drowsily aware of lying on his side, heavy and massy, with a pig's sharp, bristly fur and snorty-oinky breath. He is aware of hooves and a tail. He is thus aware of not being human at all, being thrust into the form of a fat wild hog and, though feeling quite drugged, oddly being at ease with it.

He also grows aware of a smooth, soft hand rubbing back his pointy fur and of a melodious voice singing-speaking him awake. "Gray Pig, open your eyes, face the light of truth, and wake to Marta."

Despite how good it feels to sleep in the sunshine, though, he does just that, and as beady eyes fall on a woman who is youthful with golden hair and who is great with child, he finds himself being restored to his normal, human, elderly shape of Aloisius Horatio Treadwell, wearing for the first time in ages his burgundy velvet robe and golden medallion of office from Westenford, as he blinks at his new visitor.

"Madam, mmph mmph. . . ."

"Wait, Old One." A soft finger goes to Treadwell's lips to shush him. "I will speak, and, for once, you will listen. Aloisius Horatio Treadwell, of the lands men call Amasynia, you face experiences and understandings almost unprecedented among your people."

"Well, my dear, I just dreamt I was a pig, something I've lived through before, and--" Another tap of a finger at the politician's lips.

"I am Marta. My faithful are few. Chief among them, but barely faithful at all on the whole, are the men and women of the village called Wane, which you and your men just visited, which you just blessed."

"Mmph."

"Mortal, you know nothing of the power, size, and history that the Glutton looks to force into mortal being again through you. The Glutton has done so before with men, with animals, and with great beasts, and he grows, he searches, he hunts new bodies to bloat, new minds and souls to win so he might ensure his own existence, his own greed, and his own continued, overbearing corpulence."

"You mean Tubbius, my dear?" A third tap of the lips, with a caution to "Remain silent for now. You must know more."

"Your Tubbius is but the latest name and shape of one of the oldest of our number of what men call gods. A primal urge in all creatures that eat is to eat more than their fellows, to have more than their kin, and in doing so, to unbalance nature. Thus, the Glutton came into being when the world was young, and he has held fast since while others of us have come and gone. You are merely his latest conduit." Marta nods again and withdraws her finger from Treadwell's mouth, bringing her hand to rub her swollen middle.

"He first took shape in times long past--" Marta pauses, then smiles. "I could tell you of this in your dreams all night. Why should I not show you and save the time?"

There is a brilliant, white gleam from the pregnant goddess. Treadwell shuts his eyes to shield them (uselessly, in truth). . . .

And there is then immensity, girth, power never felt before, but it is accompanied by slimy, hard skin, bulbous growths and layers of blubber all around, tentacles shoving a great body through the darkened depths of--water! It is salt water, almost uncomfortably warm, soothingly dark to eyes unadjusted to the sunlight warming the tops of the waves a hundred yards upward. Driven by a singular need, this beast lurches on in the water, hunting, searching for its next school of a fishy feast.

"The Glutton tried to take too much at a time when the world was not ready. Nearly mountain-sized, he ruled the seas, and he fed much and greatly, but he fed too much and too greatly. He became useless, a floating blob of a beast, unable to urge himself the long distances to new oceans to find new meals. That body perished and was swallowed up in the cracks of the sea, with no followers, no faithful. But the urge, the force, lived, and thus, the Glutton merely waited for thousands of years in a sort of stasis, seeking another. . . perfect opportunity."

A breathtaking, body scorching wave crosses over Treadwell's senses. He comes to them again in a spread out mass of hooves, silver fur long and bristling, heavy belly. . . and young pigs suckling at seemingly inexhaustible teats. "Yes, Aloisius, next, the Glutton made a peculiar choice among the things of nature that still remained: a gray, but female, swine, mother to many of her own, a queen among them who embodied all of the Glutton's values of greed, growth, and self-importance. He stayed with her, passing through her descendants, though always staying with the females to ensure his opportunity to pass to a new generation. Men began to notice them. Legends were written of the Gray Pig--of its size, of its childbearing, of its ferocity to defend its food and children."

A pause here as Marta smiles, stroking the pig's swollen middle despite the other squealing babes. "Foolish men. Some of our followers confused their faiths at this. They proclaimed everything from the two of us being one to these pigs being our offspring." Another pause. Her hand slips back.

"And that is precisely how he passed from pigs to men. Ploav was a farmer, a jolly old man who ate much, sang much, and played much with his children. He was also quite important where he lived, praised much for his farming. He was also quite faithful to me."

As her description of Ploav begins, Treadwell's body alters again in this dream: he is tall, imposing, beer-bellied, and merry, wearing simple clothes of wool and fur. Children continue to flow about him--but human ones, of course, dancing and singing about (and, mercifully, not suckling at his breasts!). The landscape alters to that of farmland for as far as eyes can see, farmland well-plowed and well-loved.

"Ploav was one of the men who mistook the Glutton's rampant lust and growth among the pigs as a sign from holy Marta. The Glutton realized this, and he moved. Acting through Ploav and abandoning the pigs to live as pigs, he corrupted my teachings, coupling them with his own calls for feeding and feasting in the name of protecting the unborn children. . . a truth that was soon twisted further to stretch to cover the bellies of the men and the women, for, as he commanded and inhabited Ploav, the Glutton knew he must find a way to excuse his newfound laziness and constant dining."

There is another pause as Marta runs her fingers down the changed Aloisius's swollen front. He lets forth a pained gasp as he begins to wither, to shrink, ending as a frail, fragile man with a heavily drooping mustache and beard. Agony reads in his eyes, although, still forbidden to speak by Marta's earlier shushing at his lips, he stays quiet.

"This was short lived. The most important people of the community turned on Ploav, while a few of his faithful carried him away to found a church in the middle of the Amasynian Plain. Their faith floundered. Unable to support themselves with sufficient food to stay suitably rotund, their sizes dwindled. The gray pigs dispersed. The Glutton felt all was lost. . . until the birth of a fat infant named Tobias."

The first real noise since Marta's quieting crosses Treadwell's lips; the portly politician is, for the briefest of moments, a fat baby wailing at the foot of a restored version of a familiar sight: the church he, Jim, and Jack had just left behind in their travels. He is scooped up in familiar arms by a then young man barely into boyhood and carried through doors.

"The Glutton rested in wait until Tobias grew older and bigger, and, through the guise of religious fervor and devotion, urged him to revive his brethren, again twisting their message further to express the need to eat--not to save their lives, but to save that of their god! Incredulous! But. . . it worked."

From being a roly-poly infant to being the currently held shape of Tobias to ending up in his own tubby flesh, a series of final changes occurs. Marta taps her fingers at Treadwell's lips again and smiles.

"Aloisius Horatio Treadwell, you are the next in the Glutton's plan, but you are different. The Glutton grows tired, weary, and old. He has plans unique to you besides merely his own growth, but neither I nor others may share to you what those are. Either way. . . you must choose."

"Choose what?"

There is a shrug of Marta's shoulders, a soft smile, and, in a brilliant white glow, she disappears. . .

And Aloisius Horatio Treadwell awakes, still in his Tobias body and yellow pajamas, soaked in sweat, huffing for breath, and quivering all about.