Tuesday, 17 October 2017

The Leper, Part 2a



Our tale resumes in the halls of Uzulm, in between Glamorgan and Cornwall. An ancient trollish haven from before even the arrival of the Fomorians of the Northisle. The Leper and his men were deep in the keep, gazing at their goods on the table with open awe. They didn’t speak, so immense was their impression of the mighty weapons before them. Less impressed was Elegast, aesymnete of the trolls (an elected king): this was partially because he’d never seen them in action, but probably moreso on account of his generally languid attitude.
He eyed Avigdor, who he viewed as leader of the band, thoughtfully. “So, given that our original idea of selling them is off the table, what were planning to do instead?”
Avigdor motioned to the Leper, who was actually leader of the band. “Well, sir, the Leper was thinking…”
He would have continued, had not the aesymnete cut him off. “I asked what you thought, not him. You orchestrated this, you were the leader: while I’ll happily ask others, even non-trolls, you deserve the first opportunity to vent your opinion. So, what do you think?”
“I am a troll.” The Leper mumbled under his breath, half-heartedly. His words were lost to the tepid winds of the room before they had even half-passed his lips.
“But sir…” Avigdor was abruptly cut-off, this time by Hermione, who gently tapped him on the shoulder and shook her head. Arthur gave a little snicker at this, while the Leper just sighed. The problem with coming from the countryside is that few knew you from birth, such that most trolls of the old kingdoms just considered him to be transpeciest, and a vaguely specious one at that: he was too negative in his outlook, too temerarious in his actions, to be a true troll (though he certainly possessed the sense of deliberacy of one).
This coupled with rather un-trolllike appearance led most to think his insistence that he was a troll fallacious, or that his appearance was some sort of fa├žade. (It wasn’t: it was some birth curse, one which he’d always blamed on the hag down the riverbed: though this was an in-joke between her and him, for they were old friends who had shared tea many a time. In sooth, his father had never spoken of the event that led to his son’s deformity, and that had stolen his mother’s mind.)
As such, most regarded the experienced and withdrawn Avigdor as the leader of Tzaraath (their soldiering company), and paid the Leper little mind. This frustrated the pair of them, for both were by their own essence quixotic, and desired the credit to go where it was due. Avigdor had, in fact, even designed a little steparound for the pair to supplant this frequent misconception. They employed it now.
“Well…”Avigdor was looking at the Leper’s hands, as they subtly twitched hidden messages only he could read, “it’s clear we need to use them in our war against the humans, for they would avail us greatly…”
He paused, Elegast looking at him strangely as he wondered over Avigdor’s glazed eyes. “…however, I feel that before we do, it is imperative that we try to understand them better, to both use them efficiently and properly and keep them out of the hands of our enemies, who would utterly decimate our hidden cities with such arcane weaponry, as sure as the moon will one day crack like an egg, bringing on the Alkazitheion.”
Elegast nodded at this, but said nothing. There was nothing for him to say. Arthur, however, laughed. “Easy. What if we gave them to the gnomes, to see if they could replicate them?”
“No.” (This word was said simultaneously, and firmly, by all four people in the room.)
“Whyever not? The gnomes should be united with us in our quest against the humans: faerie unity shall trump all divisions, and all that.” The solidarity of the above statement had angered the volatile young faerie, and his voice rose in pitch appropriately.
“If we gave it to the gnomes then it wouldn’t matter if they could replicate it or not, because we wouldn’t benefit from what little we had.” This came from the Leper.
“What makes you think that?” Arthur was furious now, gazing at the Leper with open hostility. The Leper only sighed, and motioned to Arthur’s skin.
“You have grey skin, Arthur, don’t you?”
“Aye, all trolls do. Save perhaps for you, if’n you are a troll: no one’s ever seen your skin. So?” The Leper winced, for Arthur’s tone was quite strident when raised, but continued.
“Gnomes only respect fey with skin the shade of alabaster.” The Leper sighed as he said this, because it was a fact which hurt his soul, but a true fact nevertheless.
Arthur laughed in disbelief. “Stuff and nonsense! Gnomes are the only variety of fey with skin the shade of alabaster.”
“Exactly.”
Confused, Arthur looked to Avigdor, who only nodded sadly, before motioning to his empty right eye socket. “He’s right. I thought as you do, once. Went to visit the gnomes when I was young, seek their help during the Conquest of Wales. One of them did this to me when he caught me conversing with his daughter.”
Avigdor huffed, added, “only damn good thing about them is how long effective their gnomewraiths are at defending our barrows, burning or shooting any human who gets near. And even then, you should see what they do to faeries they catch dating their… oh, wait, you have.”
“Nevertheless, is not victory worth the cost?”
“You’d put Machiavelli to shame with that attitude.”
“But…”
“Better to lose because you died like a vampire than win because you fought like a werewolf.” This came from Elegast, silent until now, but suddenly stirred to a wrathful fury worthy of even the most redundantly superfluous of pleonasms. The others were quiet, watching him, and the entire room seemed possessed of a tense silence for a few moments till he returned to his usual, becalmed state.
“My apologies, Arthur. You have little experience with the other faerie courts, and I spoke out of turn. But we won’t work with gnomes: it’s just not worth it.”
He might have said more, for he seemed to have some ideas of his own floating around his mind, but he did not have the opportunity: at that exact moment (yes, that one), they were interrupted by a call to arms. “Sirs, humans!”

Sunday, 15 October 2017

Tuning Probability

Our story starts on a rock, as all stories generally do... though I can think of a few exceptions. This rock was grand in scope and size, gigantesque, so large that it had its own moon in orbit. This moon was exactly like ours, because this planet was nearly ours; earth, but another universe.
And there, I'm afraid, the similarities ended, for there was little else on the other earth that resembled our own: not, you understand, because this world was particularly queer in its forms or mannerisms. Rather, it was nothing like our world because there was nothing there for it to resemble. In point of fact, it was devoid of life.
It was one of those uncountable universes in which the fine-tuning of the cosmic fabric was just slightly out of sync with our own, such that it was barren of all but the most inanimate of features: stone wastes, punctuated solely by the occasional mountain or valley. Sometimes there was a body of water, though this was infrequent: while I am not a scientist, my own anecdotal experience with the planet indicated that there was likely something wrong with the atmosphere: for the skies burned hot against my skin, nearly as chafing as the harsh ground, resting against my bare feet.
I didn't spend long there, for while there was a setting, there was no plot to be found within it; nor, indeed, any characters for the plot to happen upon.

Wednesday, 4 October 2017

The Leper, Part 1d

It seems that the twenty minutes they’d allotted themselves had long-ago passed, although the trolls were still taken aback by the unwelcome interruption, lost as they were in a sense of whimsy at Jy’s masterwork. Just behind the front entrance were several soldiers, hidden from sight save for their shined boots (which could just be seen reflecting from underneath the tent, the soldiers be quite efficient with their polish), and a man in a vivacious red trench coat, whose features were at that exact moment indiscernible because of the wince predominating across his face. He lowered the smoking rifle, its spiraled barrel still sparking along its coils. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to set that off quite yet, and certainly not without warning you.”
  There followed a stunned moment of silence, interrupted only by the swish of the man’s coat as he gave a small bow. “Greetings. I am Can Candemir, presently employed with the Glamorgan Detective Agency and assigned to help with your arrest. If you wouldn’t mind returning the exhibits to their proper places and surrendering yourselves quietly, then I’m sure we can sort this all out quite equitably, without anyone having to get hurt.”
  The Leper blinked in surprise, but gave him a small bow in return (it was only polite). “In my own, admittedly anecdotal, experience, I’m afraid to say that I’ve found, well… the opposite, for lack of a better word. Humans can’t seem to solve problems without violence. Sorry, but it’s a commonly established fact, and one which I believe is held by many of your own men of learning.”
  Can assented to this point, reluctantly, for he himself had always been of the same opinion, however pessimistic it may seem to those of us with said anthropoidal tendencies. “Nevertheless, I would like to try.”
  The Leper raised one eyebrow. “And if we surrendered peacefully, as you request, then what, pray tell, would be the punishment for our crimes?”
   Can looked to the only soldier to have stepped into view, a florid man in the uniform of a captain, who blushed, shrugged, hung his head, and finally muttered, “hanging.”
  The Leper nodded, unsurprised, and went to put the otherworldly “gun” in his hands down. “Sorry, friend. You seem like a nice guy. Regrettably, that means little in these stark times.”
  Both groups acted, then, the time for discussion having ended only a short moment ago (or before it began, if we want to be more realistic). The Leper and his men, while skilled scouts and saboteurs (as all fey who travel amongst the Human Realms need to be), were not trained soldiers: trolls are a notoriously placid people, and it was only in the last few years that they’d felt forced to turn to such violent measures. As such, you’ll have to forgive them if they were a great deal slower with their draw fingers than the soldiers they were facing. It wasn’t their abilities, you see, just their experience.
  They were, however, very swift at ducking for cover. Preternaturally swift, from our point of view, although I’ve always found the classification of fey as being “unnatural” to be rather harsh and inaccurate, as fey are wholly natural creatures (as opposed to heavy machinery, which we never dare classify as such for some strangely inexplicable reason that still eludes me). This same implausibility can and should also be applied to the “gun” held in the Leper’s hands which – to those familiar with such things – could be identified as a Tommy gun, circa 1923. As he hit the ground, his finger slipped on the trigger, and from the barrel of the gun a stream of steel projectiles were released, howling with the noise of a tin butterfly in flight.
The bullets, for that is what they must have been, flew towards the door, sending Can and his men dashing for cover. By the time they’d pulled themselves back from their panic and returned to the tent, it was devoid of life, empty of even the vaguest remnant of the fey folk.
  The florid captain, a young aristocrat by the name of Ezekiel, looked about at the ruined tent in shock, then turned his attention to the destroyed fair across the field. From behind, he called out, shaken, “good heavens, lads. That was most of Mr. Jy’s artwork, gone. And if just one piece could send us scrambling so, imagine what the entire armory can do. Even these new rifles of yours might not help us, Turk.”
  He used the moniker for Can that the others had coined, an exceedingly imaginative nickname based solely off his nation of origin. (This was erroneous – he was from Arbanon, to the northwest of Thrace, but no amount of cajoling could convince them of this.)
  Can rolled his eyes, but said nothing: it was preferable to before, when they had insisted on calling him “Mr. Demure.” (It apparently had not occurred to anyone – even now – that the “Can” in his last name was actually independent of the “Can” that formed his first, and so they had settled for merely mispronouncing the latter part of his name while simultaneously mocking him for repeating his first name twice.)
  “I can assure you, captain, they will be more than sufficient.” Can didn’t so much as glance at Captain Ezekiel as he said this, for his attention was fixed solely on the Papuan Colossus.
  “But how do you know? You know what, we should contact Artimaeus – get him to make us some more of this stuff, help in the war.”
  “I wouldn’t bother: I doubt you could find him now, and even if you did, he wouldn’t help you. Everything is going according to his plan, after all.”
  “Wait, what? What are you talking about?”
  “As to the efficacy of my weapons, I’ve seen them in action, and you need not worry. Mr. Jy’s ‘artwork’ was designed not that far from now, and some of it is positively archaic by today’s - I mean the future’s - standards. Mine is state-of-the-art technology, designed in Xinjiang near the end of the Third World War – although neither of our machinations will amount to much, I’m afraid.”
  The captain was flabbergasted, and gazed at Can as if he’d found a leprechaun eating honey. (Leprechauns possess a notorious allergy to the stuff, and will evade it like their life depends on it - which, given the symptoms should they come in contact with the sticky syrup, is not unreasonable.) “You don’t mean to imply that you believe Mr. Jy’s poppycock, do you? But… but… how? His is clearly little more than a fabrication, carefully crafted to conceal his great genius. Unless… he gave you the blueprints for these guns? Is there some kind of cult I don’t know about, one that the grand intelligentsia of England are secretly involved in, a second Great Game for the sole purpose of mocking us piddling, immaterial hoi polloi?”
  Can continued as if he hadn’t heard Ezekiel, though his words spoke otherwise. “No, no… he’s not here for a cult. He’s here to expedite the Leper’s discovery of automated weaponry, speed up the revolution. The fool. As if he could: you can’t change the past, at least not the end result. The journey, yes, but as Machiavellian as it may sound, all you can really do is alter the way things happened. End point’s the same…”
  He looked at Ezekiel sharply, as if he’d just noticed him. “As for me, my motives are far simpler. I’m just here to see the Leper’s face.”
  The captain, by now, was thoroughly convinced of Can’s insanity, although his admiration for the man’s elusive genius was such that he didn’t speak his mind. (Although Can’s words made him think of a line from a favoured childhood poem of his, by the Frenchman Vlad de Vrai: “And as the war of the lunatics entered its final fray/the madmen destroyed each keep, rook, and mainstay.”)
  Rather, he tried a different tract, hoping to maintain savoir faire - a sense of tact. “His… face, sir? Seems an awful lot of effort to go all this way back in time just to look at a troll’s face.”
  By now, Can had returned to looking distractedly at the Colossus, and it took him a few moments to haphazardly reply: “no, no, no, not at all. You won’t know this for a while – a long while – but the Leper will become one of the most famous revolutionaries in history: more notable, in fact, than any revolutionary to come before or after him including – though a precious few disagree – Otto Frederick Rohwedder.”
  “Who?”
  “Never you mind. After your time. The important point, captain, is that I’m here to see the man’s face, if only because all through his life, the only thing people ever saw of him was that damnable rabbit mask… which, really, is disrespectful, if not downright ridiculous in appearance. But you really shouldn’t worry about me. I’m not ‘here’ at all, nor is Artimaeus: the machinery of our time is such that our physical bodies are unnecessary – both of us are imaginary, just Figments of Your Babbagination.”

Thursday, 28 September 2017

The Eldest Oyster

The Eldest Oyster sat a while,
    And pondered deep in thought.
For he’d let his siblings all go up,
    To overland to rot.
They’d met the walrus, and his friend the carpenter too,
    And somehow ended up in an oyster stew.
And as he sat he cried salty tears
    Into the brine.
Where they were lost to the sea,
    Interminably entwined.
He wondered if the fault were his,
    If maybe he’d set forth cry
They would have all been saved…
    Or all the sooner to die?
He realized it mattered not,
    For he couldn’t change the past.
All he could do was take them to their rest,
    In peace everlast.
His coat was brushed, his face washed,
    When he traveled to the shore.
But his shoes he took not,
    For he wanted them no more.
The sands stretched everlasting
    Upon the briny beach.
The sun and moon aglow with light
    As far as eyes can reach.
He knew he wouldn’t find his quarry
under flaming sun.
And so to the nearby forest
Our oyster began to run.
Amongst giant trees and creatures bizarre
He traveled through, and back.
Till at last amidst the flowers
He saw a ruined shack.
With nervous determination,
    He knocked upon the door.
But to his horror he saw sights
    That one abhors.
The door swung open to reveal,
    Within the greasy light,
The walrus and the carpenter
    Made fat by oysterous delight.
They looked at him with hungr’ing gaze;
    Eyes of lust, longing, brought to a glaze.
‘Twas odd; they knew him not,
But with slavering jaws crept
Forwards and, I’m sorry to say,
    Our fain hero panicked, backwards lept.
He fell into the flowers, alack,
    For under blossoms hidden
Were roses’ stems, which pricked and tore
    At our hero’s skin.
And as he lay amongst the roses,
    He realized he’d have to rise
And rose, determination in his eyes.
“If love is like a red, red rose
    Then is hate the same or less forlorn?”
He asked, and with the rose
    Choked the walrus with its thorns.
As the walrus’ red, red blood
    Landed upon the carpenter’s head
Our intrepid oyster took his vorpal toothpick
    And with a <plicker plack> the carpenter was quite dead.
The saddened Eldest Oyster went galumphing back,
    To his ocean home.
For he’d gotten his revenge, and yet,
    He still was all alone.

Tuesday, 26 September 2017

The Leper, Part 1c

 The box imploded as it hit the ground, spewing forth a great cloud of Haberdasher Moths, far more than should ever have been able to fit in such a small space. (A species of Faerie, Haberdasher Moths were extradimensional in nature and could fit any space they were put into, no matter how small. Purportedly, during the 16th century Battle of Preveza, the pirate Sinan Reis had stored one hundred thousand Moths in a paper lantern, and used the natural light they emitted to beach the opposing Imperial fleet on the beaches of Epirus.)
  As the Moths twisted skywards, their lurid brown bodies emitting a soft, effervescent light barely noticeable in the noonday sun, their ecstatic voices could be heard hissing of freedom’s triumph:
  “At last! Ho hum and a fiddle-dee-dee! We’re free!”
  “By Jove how great it be’s, to at last be finally, finally free!”
  “Hip hip hooray and a pinwheeling weeeeee!”
  There were many other such exclamations, but you get the gist of their feelings. Unfortunately, the people below didn’t quite share these sentiments, though this was not out of any particularly malevolent attitude but, rather, had to do with the very nature of Haberdasher Moths: you see, Haberdasher Moths were known for consuming any form of cloth at breathtaking speeds, before reassembling it in newer, fancier forms. Regrettably, however, the fumes from the glue that Haberdasher Moths used in creating their hats had driven them quite insane, and so their conception of “fashionable” was one not shared in the slightest by any one save for, perhaps, those of a similarly erratic mindset.
  In sooth, the Haberdasher Moths had been plotting their redecorating since they before they’d even escaped the wicker box (heck, they’d been planning it since before they knew they were going to be put in the wicker box), and now chose this opportunity to put their plan into action. They descended on the startled exposition in a joyous frenzy, happy to share their vision with the world, and began stripping down and repurposing every piece of fabric in sight. This put a swift end to the fair, as the tents and many of the exhibits were, naturally, made of fabric.
  The rabbit heard screams drifting over the hills from one area of the Exposition and laughed, euphoric. One of the four had been opened early, as he hoped. The other three would follow in a few moments, Haberdasher Moths chewing their way through the wicker first, wetting their taste on the cloth covering after. But he had no time to celebrate, he knew, for there was a great deal more to be done in the next few minutes.
  He dashed off towards the Exhibit of Anachronisms, an obscure and odd little exhibit at the end of the exposition, past even the Japanese and Polynesian exhibits. Supplied in large part by Artimaeus Jy, a “time travelling explorer” from a far future in which the “Steampunks,” whoever they were, took over, the exhibit featured a number of technologies from various ages of the future that the explorer claimed man would discover.
  His claims were considered to be little more than stuff and nonsense, the work of a dreamer let loose upon their inner lunacy. He likely would have been confined to an insane asylum ages ago, were it not for the stunning nature of his art. Combining Victorian traditions with some insane conception of the future, his works were a largely “practical” array of machinery ranging from a variety of manufacturing technology, to ray guns, to the electro-staves used in the “successful Zomian Uprising after the Boxer Rebellion” (as if anyone could beat the British), and even a “Papuan Colossus” from the “Fourth World War” (as though European diplomacy could ever degrade to the point at which a first was possible), which according to the claims of its creator was fought between the Judaeo-Arabian Republic and the United Transcendental Republic of Polynesia over claims of “bio-editing.”
(This last one was widely considered the most ludicrous of his tales. Purportedly, a Middle East and Asia Minor united by a Jewish, Arabian, Turkic, Iranian confederacy had discovered evidence of claims presented before them by refugees from the Australian Governorate that their Papuan overlords were engaging in acts of illegal bio-experimentation. When further evidence surfaced and diplomatic attempts to resolve the issue only exacerbated the situation, the Judaeo-Arabian Republic had finally been forced to declare war in a long-ranging conflict centred around the Autonomous JAR Provinces of Bengal, Pakistan, and the Hui Free State. Apparently, the war had still been raging at the time of Mr. Jy’s sudden arrival in London, but after a more recent “time travelling trip back to his present” - it was widely believed that he had simply went to a hermitage in the Scottish mountains to work on his story - he had returned in a state of extreme relief with paper correspondence from a Rohingya friend of his confirming that the Caliphate had, thankfully, finally, won the war. The story was considered absurd, not only because of the fact that men’s bodies were a gift from G-D, and therefore could not be changed by their fellow humans, but also, and perhaps more importantly, because no true Yorkshire gentleman would ever have correspondence with a Burman.)
  Nonetheless, his art had found a home in the European aristocracy’s hearts, and a single piece could sell for thousands of pounds on the open market; twice that, if not thrice that, on the black one. The rabbit, whose name I now feel obliged to relate to you was the Leper, intended to take full advantage of this.
  By the time he arrived at the entrance to the Exhibit, a small covered tent whose only occupants he knew would be esoteric art collectors, the others had already got there: a trio of trolls, equally small in stature to him, with pockmarked flesh, bat-winged ears, and hooked noses. Their feet were uncovered so as to better connect with the Soil King. All three wore scraggly duffel coats over ragged shirts and pants, and bore a bandana over their mouth - although the Leper fancied he could see their thin-lipped mouths scowling at him as he approached, and their bald heads, covered with scars and scabs, under their red caps.
  “Took you long enough to get here, boss.” This was the youngest of them, the newest to the group, a wrathful troll with negligible practical experience, who went by the name of Arthur.
  The smallest of the trolls, Avigdor, scowled at Arthur over the top of his long nose, a hooked barb that made him easily visible from any distance. “Took him just long enough.”
  The last and tallest of the three, Hermione, slammed her staff on the ground. “Enough bickering, both of you. We don’t have a ‘long enough’ period of time to waste.”
  She motioned across the field (the Exhibit of Anachronisms had been placed as far away from the main exposition as was conceivably possible, so as to capture the ‘far-off’ sensation of the future) to where clouds of moths could be vaguely seen, consuming and regurgitating vast amounts of cloth. The Leper nodded. “Hermione’s right, although I thank you, Avigdor. We really don’t have much time at all, for Gwyn ap Nudd can only smile on us so long.”
  So saying, he motioned to the tent doors, and all four entered, Avigdor raising his rifle (a sawed-off shotgun made out of gunmetal, as steel was an iron alloy and would burn fairies) and firing it into the air. Instantly, the dozen or so people in the room froze in horror. The Leper stepped forwards, drawing one of his revolvers (also gunmetal), and loudly tried - and failed - to project his voice with an aura of magnificence. “Leave now and no one gets hurt. Stay and I can’t make the same promise - in fact, I’m more likely to make one contrary to it.”
  Nevertheless, despite his frankly underwhelming tone, it was a very… efficient threat. Within moments, the population of the room had dropped to four. The Leper surveyed the tiny room of marvels, technology which supposedly covered almost two centuries of human achievement. “It will take them six minutes to cross the field, maybe ten minutes to get reinforcements, and another six to cross back. That gives us, at best, twenty-two minutes before we have some rather impolite company to deal with. Let’s aim to be gone before - .”
  He stopped then, because the others had already started to work. Taking big sacks off their backs, they went from fantastical exhibit to fanciful display, doggedly taking every piece of “technology” and dumping it haphazardly in their sacks - the Leper had warned them beforehand not to worry about any accidental damage, as Artimaeus Jy was notorious for his sturdy designs. There wasn’t much to steal, however - not because there wasn’t a lot numerically, but rather because what there was was quite small in size, with even the machinery being pieces of a larger design and therefore quite easy to fit in their sacks. Only the Papuan Colossus remained untouched, because it was two stories high and thereby impossible to move, nevermind fit in a tiny sack.
  The Leper picked up a wormhole grenade and tossed it into Avigdor’s sack, musing to himself all the while… “A very interesting fellow, this Artimaeus Jy. Might like to meet him one day; anyone capable of designing such a thorough universe, however fictional, is well worth my time.”
  “Even though he’s human?” Added Arthur, surprised, a sneer vaguely fixed somewhere in the back of his mind (though his features only expressed a slight, righteous astonishment).
  The Leper shrugged, unperturbed. “Humans aren’t bad: they have irrational fears just as we do, with the sole difference being that they’re more prone to act on them, and often do so quite rampantly. But I’ve met quite a few nice ones. The species has really grown to accept their failings in the last couple hundred years. You should’ve seen them during the early 17th century. Oy, what a nightmare. I had to leave the continent for a while, it was so bad. Traveled through Bukhara: people weren’t any better, but the Kyzyl-Kum is almost completely depopulated, so you don’t notice. Remind me to tell you about it later, if we ever find enough time to waste.”
  Avigdor began laughing. “Oh, wait, is that the one with the Khagan, the teapot, and a good pair of socks? I love that one…”
  He likely would have said more, were it not for the fact that he was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a tesla rifle firing into the air.