Leon: Did you get any of that fuzz off the East-end Shuttle last night?
Short pause
Weeble: Fuzz? You know that I only talk to you on here, right? I’m not constantly listening in the off-chance of talking to anyone else or listening to someone else’s conversation. I don’t care. I’m not even sure if this thing works on other frequencies.
Leon: A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed.
Short pause
Leon: Well, they nearly threw a guy from the train until his friend beat the ever livin’ out of about half the staff.
Weeble: Sounds about par for the course.
Leon: Yeah. Anyway, about the same time some riders found a massive break in the track about two miles ahead. They were able to divert to the A line through Harrisburg, but they lost contact with the group almost immediately after they recorded the line break.
Weeble: Weird.
Dead Air
Leon: And? What do you think happened?
Weeble: With what?
Leon: Goddammit. With the riders. Obviously something’s happening. Those guys are constantly chattering back and forth with each other on their channel. It doesn’t make sense for a line like that to go dead.
Weeble: What do you want me to do about it?
Leon: I don’t want you to…Ahh! Nevermind!
Dead Air
Weeble: I found a car engine.
Dead Air
Weeble: I think I’m gonna attach it to a wagon I have outside.
Dead Air
Weeble: Dammit, where are you? I listen to your crazy bullshit about trains and mysterious messages. It’s my turn.
Leon: Why not attach the engine to a car?
Weeble: Good question, I’ll tell you later. The damn thing’s started leaking again. Have a good one.
Leon: And you.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Chapter 45
The men carry him…
…away from the house…
…lifeless.
Click.
A sharp clicking of heels prophesied the abrupt wake-up call that burst into the small compartment aboard car number eight. Witticker opened his eyes to a door thrown open only inches from his face. The train staff moved with direct intent, seizing Marcus from his seat and pulling him out the door. Witticker jumped up from his corner only to be pushed back down by one of the many blue-suited individuals that had entered the room. As Witticker fell back he was shoved quickly to the side towards Edward by a raging Oliver who had begun the process of fighting his way out the door. Edward caught Witticker and tossed him on the floor as he leapt to follow Oliver. No sooner had Witticker hit the floor than he was alone in the tiny carriage compartment. Light bumped around the room as the lamp swung wildly above him, rocked from the recent commotion.
Witticker rose to his feet and quickly followed the herd of frustration out into the hallway. As soon as he appeared in the corridor a dark shadow ran towards him with the air of attack. A blue suit seized him by both shoulders, forcing him down the hallway towards a sudden gust of cold night air. Witticker could see both Oliver and Edward at the end of the hall being detained by several individuals each as Marcus lay curled up on the floor beneath them. The full company was in proximity of a small door being held open by several train employees.
“Him,” shouted one of the blue suits pointing at Witticker, “Toss him.”
The man holding Witticker began pushing him towards the source of cold air. The landscape rushed hurriedly by the door as Witticker moved closer. He shoved against his assailant who acted as mechanically as he had been ordered. Grabbing him by the scruff of his cloak, the drone seized Witticker and shoved him out the door, dangling him outside the moving train. The wind whipped through Witticker’s cloak turning his human figure into an abstract, churning ball of fabric.
Witticker felt the grip loosen on his collar. His mind clicked on as if it had always been in a dormant state. In an instant he saw several things, through all the insecurities and reservations he had so carefully built up throughout his life. As if a dusty mirror had been polished clean of every imperfection Witticker saw himself clearly, as if observing another person entirely. The hand released his cloak and for the shortest moments Witticker floated in the space outside the train. Body matching mind.
Not a second after he had been released was he forcibly caught and pulled back into the corridor of the train car. The force of movement sent Witticker stumbling into the corner of the hallway.
“What the hell was that?” yelled one of the train staff from down the hallway.
“That,” answered Edward softly, “was entirely inappropriate.”
Witticker gripped the wall of the train car and pulled himself up from the awkward angle of his arrival. He found Edward standing close to him at the end of the hallway, unfettered by his four captors who lay newly subdued on the floor surrounding them.
“Now,” queried Edward, “why were you trying to throw my friend from the train?”
The employee closest to him, a shorter and rounder version of the rest, spoke first.
“We heard reports of unusual activity from your room,” grumbled the short man.
“Yeah,” said another pointing at Marcus, “and when we got there we heard that one from outside the door. He was moanin’ about the price of bricks and cryin’ for his mother.”
Marcus scowled at the train officer from his place on the ground as Oliver made another surge to throw off his detainers.
“When we got in the room he was shakin’ about, so we grabbed him and took him out. That’s when the big guy came at us.”
“I see,” said Edward, “but what led you to dangle my friend outside the train?”
“Well,” said the shorter officer, “as we was draggin’ the first one down the hall he was talkin’ about seein’ stuff. Scared out of his boots and shakin’ like he’d been beat. We got him down to the end and asked him who’d done this to him. That’s when he fingered yer boy there.”
“Ah,” resolved Edward, “Well, officer, it seems there’s been only a slight misunderstanding, but nothing that we can’t forgive. I think it would be best now if we just called this a night. We’ll be back to our rooms and you can all go back to dealing with real problems.”
“Wut about my guys?” sneered the short man pointing at the four beaten officers on the floor. Edward stopped and looked at the bedraggled huddle. He stopped for a moment before turning to the short blue-suited man.
“In the future tell your men of the dangers in assaulting a group of strangers based on a hunch. Goodnight, sir.”
At this Edward helped both Witticker and Marcus up from the floor as the guards released Oliver from his place on the wall. Oliver dusted himself off and huffed back into the room followed immediately by Marcus, as if the two were connected by an invisible string. Witticker stood in the hallway feeling out his new position as the train staff slowly dispersed. Edward moved to the open door and looked out over the land skipping by.
“That was very close,” said Edward in a very somber tone, “and at such an inopportune time.”
“Yeah?” whispered Witticker, his first words since they had boarded the train, “and what time is that?”
“Time for something extraordinary to happen,” said Edward as he pulled the door shut, “don’t you think?”
…away from the house…
…lifeless.
Click.
A sharp clicking of heels prophesied the abrupt wake-up call that burst into the small compartment aboard car number eight. Witticker opened his eyes to a door thrown open only inches from his face. The train staff moved with direct intent, seizing Marcus from his seat and pulling him out the door. Witticker jumped up from his corner only to be pushed back down by one of the many blue-suited individuals that had entered the room. As Witticker fell back he was shoved quickly to the side towards Edward by a raging Oliver who had begun the process of fighting his way out the door. Edward caught Witticker and tossed him on the floor as he leapt to follow Oliver. No sooner had Witticker hit the floor than he was alone in the tiny carriage compartment. Light bumped around the room as the lamp swung wildly above him, rocked from the recent commotion.
Witticker rose to his feet and quickly followed the herd of frustration out into the hallway. As soon as he appeared in the corridor a dark shadow ran towards him with the air of attack. A blue suit seized him by both shoulders, forcing him down the hallway towards a sudden gust of cold night air. Witticker could see both Oliver and Edward at the end of the hall being detained by several individuals each as Marcus lay curled up on the floor beneath them. The full company was in proximity of a small door being held open by several train employees.
“Him,” shouted one of the blue suits pointing at Witticker, “Toss him.”
The man holding Witticker began pushing him towards the source of cold air. The landscape rushed hurriedly by the door as Witticker moved closer. He shoved against his assailant who acted as mechanically as he had been ordered. Grabbing him by the scruff of his cloak, the drone seized Witticker and shoved him out the door, dangling him outside the moving train. The wind whipped through Witticker’s cloak turning his human figure into an abstract, churning ball of fabric.
Witticker felt the grip loosen on his collar. His mind clicked on as if it had always been in a dormant state. In an instant he saw several things, through all the insecurities and reservations he had so carefully built up throughout his life. As if a dusty mirror had been polished clean of every imperfection Witticker saw himself clearly, as if observing another person entirely. The hand released his cloak and for the shortest moments Witticker floated in the space outside the train. Body matching mind.
Not a second after he had been released was he forcibly caught and pulled back into the corridor of the train car. The force of movement sent Witticker stumbling into the corner of the hallway.
“What the hell was that?” yelled one of the train staff from down the hallway.
“That,” answered Edward softly, “was entirely inappropriate.”
Witticker gripped the wall of the train car and pulled himself up from the awkward angle of his arrival. He found Edward standing close to him at the end of the hallway, unfettered by his four captors who lay newly subdued on the floor surrounding them.
“Now,” queried Edward, “why were you trying to throw my friend from the train?”
The employee closest to him, a shorter and rounder version of the rest, spoke first.
“We heard reports of unusual activity from your room,” grumbled the short man.
“Yeah,” said another pointing at Marcus, “and when we got there we heard that one from outside the door. He was moanin’ about the price of bricks and cryin’ for his mother.”
Marcus scowled at the train officer from his place on the ground as Oliver made another surge to throw off his detainers.
“When we got in the room he was shakin’ about, so we grabbed him and took him out. That’s when the big guy came at us.”
“I see,” said Edward, “but what led you to dangle my friend outside the train?”
“Well,” said the shorter officer, “as we was draggin’ the first one down the hall he was talkin’ about seein’ stuff. Scared out of his boots and shakin’ like he’d been beat. We got him down to the end and asked him who’d done this to him. That’s when he fingered yer boy there.”
“Ah,” resolved Edward, “Well, officer, it seems there’s been only a slight misunderstanding, but nothing that we can’t forgive. I think it would be best now if we just called this a night. We’ll be back to our rooms and you can all go back to dealing with real problems.”
“Wut about my guys?” sneered the short man pointing at the four beaten officers on the floor. Edward stopped and looked at the bedraggled huddle. He stopped for a moment before turning to the short blue-suited man.
“In the future tell your men of the dangers in assaulting a group of strangers based on a hunch. Goodnight, sir.”
At this Edward helped both Witticker and Marcus up from the floor as the guards released Oliver from his place on the wall. Oliver dusted himself off and huffed back into the room followed immediately by Marcus, as if the two were connected by an invisible string. Witticker stood in the hallway feeling out his new position as the train staff slowly dispersed. Edward moved to the open door and looked out over the land skipping by.
“That was very close,” said Edward in a very somber tone, “and at such an inopportune time.”
“Yeah?” whispered Witticker, his first words since they had boarded the train, “and what time is that?”
“Time for something extraordinary to happen,” said Edward as he pulled the door shut, “don’t you think?”
Friday, January 25, 2008
Chapter 44
Witticker and Edward shuffled awkwardly down the cramped hallway of the train car towards their room. The faint glow of the sunset peered into the walkway, pouring in through every window like water through an unsound dam. The hallway was cluttered with several mild obstructions; luggage too small or too valuable to be stored by the train porters, passengers opening and closing their doors in a ritualized preparation of settling for the trip, and train staff moving from car to car in a drone-like manner. These single-minded officers, dressed all in blue save for their shiny black shoes, rushed quickly through the tiny hall. Their frantic footsteps clicked against the wooden floor of the train like a hundred typewriters operated with hammers.
The two travelers kept their heads low to the ground as they wandered down the busy corridor. Witticker pressed close to the wall as several children rushed around his feet followed quickly by their herding parents with stern voices and even sterner threats. Witticker looked back to follow the race only to run full-on into Edward’s back who had suddenly stopped in the middle of the corridor. They had arrived at room thirteen.
Edward shot Witticker a ‘look’, presumably to remind him of the seriousness of their unique circumstances. Through a combination of overly expressive mouthing and emphatic gesture he repeated his message from earlier, “Stay quiet and agree with whatever I say.” Witticker nodded and bowed his head back to the floor, his black hood covering the length of his head. Edward opened the door of room thirteen and swiftly slid inside. Witticker, with his sight significantly impeded by the hood, shuffled in behind and closed the door.
As Witticker carefully groped for his seat in the room Edward began to engage their new traveling companions. Due to his newly-hooded solitude, Witticker resigned himself to a very static role in the conversation. Edward introduced both he and Witticker as he had previously with the ticket-taker in the train yard; courteously and ambiguously. The two men accompanying them in their train car also happened to be traveling together, but under much less suspicious or false pretenses.
The first of the two men, who spoke with a warm and bright tone, identified himself as Oliver Tuckchipple. The second man, speaking with a much more nasal and narrow inflection, was introduced as Marcus Barley. Oliver and Marcus were salesman of general goods; traveling across the country on the bill of their supplier who they ‘could not name’, but who they would say was ‘a reliable and economically efficient friend to the everyday man’.
“You want fifty hammers by next Wednesday,” queried Oliver, “you just give me the word and I’ll have you fifty-one by Tuesday.”
“Thas raight,” squawked Marcus, “we cun git almos’ enythang yuh wunt, legul or’llegul.”
“Quiet, Marcus,” hissed Oliver before continuing his pitch. “Is there anything two upstanding gentlemen such as yourselves are in need of?”
“Well,” began Edward whose voice hinted only slightly of sincerity, “Do you market men deal in the abstract?”
“Of course we do,” spit out Oliver, the clear-cut response of a well-rehearsed professional, “Anything is available for a price. What notions of the abstract are you looking to possess?”
Witticker heard a slight chortle from Edward who obviously saw through the veiled response of a thief not only capable of talking his way into the vault of a bank, but also of convincing the tellers that they were the thieves.
“You may not think it by our appearance,” began Oliver, “but my companion and I are much more than we look to be. At first glance we are but plain salesman, but upon digging deeper you will find the essence of traveling philosophers, vagabonds of knowledge. We have collected the dimpled trinkets of the mind and, in our many hours of solitude and travel; have polished these jagged stones into the clearest of gems. We not only sell the physical manifestations of this world, No! We, sir, deal also in the governing dynamics and hypotheses of this, the human mind!”
“Yeh!” chimed Marcus, unashamed to stand on the shoulder of his personal giant.
Edward tapped Witticker on the shoulder.
“Brother,” said Edward, feigning reverence, “remove your hood and gaze upon these, the peddlers of greater understanding. It may be your only chance, in this lifetime, to be in the presence of true wisdom.”
Witticker slowly pulled the hood from his head, revealing a room lit dimly by the collected light of the setting sun and a lamp dangling loosely to the ceiling. Witticker understood immediately why Edward had felt the need to share the vision of the two salesmen. Both were caricatures; over-exaggerated images the likes of which Witticker could never have conjured from their voices alone.
*~~*
Oliver, sitting on the right, was a stout and jolly looking man with finely sculpted black hair that curved as smooth as an ocean wave. His cheeks were a bright red tinged with the dust of travel and were flanked by majestic mutton chops that extended down the length of a massive jaw. His attire reflected that of a proper gentleman who had been denied a proper butler. A large gray overcoat covered a black vest and a once-white shirt done up in full with a silver bowtie fringing at the ends. His sleeves lay undone, missing their cufflinks, and his pants, black, fit snuggly around his midsection. His socks hung loosely near his ankles, their elasticity waning, and his black shoes showed signs of recent polish and subsequent defeat against the travel through the train yard. Oliver rested his left hand on a black and ivory-topped cane, an accessory more for show than assistance. A gold chain hung from his vest attached to something tucked deeply away in the pocket below, presumably an item of higher quality and lesser utility.
Marcus accentuated, or was rather accentuated by, Oliver’s appearance. It was hard to tell which as the two stood in such great contrast to each another. Marcus was a skinny and stringy counterpart with just the faintest hint of color in his cheeks; a shade just light enough to worry a passerby about the man’s health. Tufts of brown hair sprung from the top of his head and his ears emerged boldly from the sides as two saucers might flank a teapot. A faint mustache rested on his upper lip, looking as if it might blow away at the slightest gust of wind. His skinny constitution supported a brown vest over a simple white shirt with the top button undone, the collar hanging loosely around his neck. A set of suspenders hung rigid over the vest and a black belt had been pulled taught to keep a set of dark brown pants from slipping off the slender frame. A set of overly-abused loafers covered his feet, wanting of socks. A crumpled wad of papers stuck prominently out of his shirt’s breast pocket and a worn pencil rested behind his ear, sharpened to a fine point.
The two men embodied their work and were truly a sight to behold.
*~~*
Witticker turned to Edward who simultaneously leaned forward to continue his prodding into the minds of the lackadaisical scholars.
“What do you know of dreams?” shot Edward, his eyes boring into the two men as if the words were meant to seize them by their roots.
Witticker felt his every muscle tense and his breath draw quick. He felt sure his face alone would give away their secret to the traveling salesmen. Oliver and Marcus, however, were already overly entertained with Edward’s query and couldn’t be seen to notice Witticker’s physical discomfort. Oliver opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly stopped, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He turned toward Marcus and looked contemplatively above his companion’s head as if searching the air for the appropriate response.
“Listen,” said Edward, a victor’s grin upon his face, “and let me tell you what I know of dreams, free of charge.”
*~~*
“So,” began Oliver as he dabbed a cigarette ash into a round and dented metal tray resting on Marcus’s lap, “you’re just lying in bed and you suddenly see events of a supernatural variety.”
At this moment a removed observer studying Witticker would not immediately be led to believe that he was suffering from any form of high-level stress. He sat back in his seat, not quite slouched or entirely upright. His hands lay, one over the other, in his lap and his head sat cocked just slightly to the side. This tranquil image betrayed the fiery cauldron of horrors brewing just behind his eyes.
In the past hour Witticker had listened as Edward described, in detail, the concept of dreaming, as he knew it, to Oliver and Marcus; relaying not only the experience, but also that both he and Witticker were active participants in the mental exercise.
“No,” replied Edward quickly, “you’re not just lying there. You’re asleep. Asleep when you start to engage in the dream.”
“But how’re ya supposed’tuh stay uhsleep if yer seein’ stuff?” advanced Marcus, his mouth hanging open candidly.
“That’s an excellent question,” replied Edward, a cigarette poking neatly out of the side of his mouth. “It seems to me that there might be a level of the subconscious that protects your mind from realizing there is any activity at all. Like a brick wall around a garden party.”
“Sownds lahke magic tuh me,” whispered Marcus, his voice as serious and engaged as a child's.
“Shut up, you simpleton.” grumbled Oliver, grinding his spent cigarette in the tray, “So, Sir, you spin a nice yarn. You even managed to keep Marcus entertained for a few minutes, which is no small feat, but I, on the other hand, turned from fairy tales a long time ago.”
At this point Oliver rose to his feet and turned to Marcus who, in an obviously rehearsed manner, stood up and held his arms out like a table.
“I believe my man and I will retire for the evening,” continued Oliver, shedding clothing and, layer by layer, placing it on Marcus’ outstretched arms. “I appreciate your company and I bid you a good evening.”
“Me too,” said Marcus attempting a slight half-bow underneath the heap of clothing in his arms.
After a time, Oliver, having shed enough to be comfortable and not enough to be rude, stretched his bulk across the full seat and began to settle in. Marcus procured a wad of rags from one of their many bags and, with few other options, laid down on the floor at his master’s feet. He bound the rags together and laid his head against them, a light protection from the wooden floor of the train car.
Edward looked to Witticker whose face was grim and hallowed. Witticker wanted to shout at his companion for needlessly divulging so personal an experience, but instead continued to stare coldly at nothing in particular. Edward shrugged his shoulders, pulled his hood over his head, and leaned into the corner of the seat, obviously not concerned by his companion’s telling visage.
As the minutes passed into hours Witticker felt his eyelids begin to succumb to the gravity of his tired mind. He nestled into his own corner and looked out the window at the passing landscape. The sun had set since their departure and the terrain whipped by in shadowy clouds. As he sat propped squarely in the corner his mind began to leisurely drift to sleep. Not all at once, but slow and stumbling like a dog spent by the running hours of the day.
The two travelers kept their heads low to the ground as they wandered down the busy corridor. Witticker pressed close to the wall as several children rushed around his feet followed quickly by their herding parents with stern voices and even sterner threats. Witticker looked back to follow the race only to run full-on into Edward’s back who had suddenly stopped in the middle of the corridor. They had arrived at room thirteen.
Edward shot Witticker a ‘look’, presumably to remind him of the seriousness of their unique circumstances. Through a combination of overly expressive mouthing and emphatic gesture he repeated his message from earlier, “Stay quiet and agree with whatever I say.” Witticker nodded and bowed his head back to the floor, his black hood covering the length of his head. Edward opened the door of room thirteen and swiftly slid inside. Witticker, with his sight significantly impeded by the hood, shuffled in behind and closed the door.
As Witticker carefully groped for his seat in the room Edward began to engage their new traveling companions. Due to his newly-hooded solitude, Witticker resigned himself to a very static role in the conversation. Edward introduced both he and Witticker as he had previously with the ticket-taker in the train yard; courteously and ambiguously. The two men accompanying them in their train car also happened to be traveling together, but under much less suspicious or false pretenses.
The first of the two men, who spoke with a warm and bright tone, identified himself as Oliver Tuckchipple. The second man, speaking with a much more nasal and narrow inflection, was introduced as Marcus Barley. Oliver and Marcus were salesman of general goods; traveling across the country on the bill of their supplier who they ‘could not name’, but who they would say was ‘a reliable and economically efficient friend to the everyday man’.
“You want fifty hammers by next Wednesday,” queried Oliver, “you just give me the word and I’ll have you fifty-one by Tuesday.”
“Thas raight,” squawked Marcus, “we cun git almos’ enythang yuh wunt, legul or’llegul.”
“Quiet, Marcus,” hissed Oliver before continuing his pitch. “Is there anything two upstanding gentlemen such as yourselves are in need of?”
“Well,” began Edward whose voice hinted only slightly of sincerity, “Do you market men deal in the abstract?”
“Of course we do,” spit out Oliver, the clear-cut response of a well-rehearsed professional, “Anything is available for a price. What notions of the abstract are you looking to possess?”
Witticker heard a slight chortle from Edward who obviously saw through the veiled response of a thief not only capable of talking his way into the vault of a bank, but also of convincing the tellers that they were the thieves.
“You may not think it by our appearance,” began Oliver, “but my companion and I are much more than we look to be. At first glance we are but plain salesman, but upon digging deeper you will find the essence of traveling philosophers, vagabonds of knowledge. We have collected the dimpled trinkets of the mind and, in our many hours of solitude and travel; have polished these jagged stones into the clearest of gems. We not only sell the physical manifestations of this world, No! We, sir, deal also in the governing dynamics and hypotheses of this, the human mind!”
“Yeh!” chimed Marcus, unashamed to stand on the shoulder of his personal giant.
Edward tapped Witticker on the shoulder.
“Brother,” said Edward, feigning reverence, “remove your hood and gaze upon these, the peddlers of greater understanding. It may be your only chance, in this lifetime, to be in the presence of true wisdom.”
Witticker slowly pulled the hood from his head, revealing a room lit dimly by the collected light of the setting sun and a lamp dangling loosely to the ceiling. Witticker understood immediately why Edward had felt the need to share the vision of the two salesmen. Both were caricatures; over-exaggerated images the likes of which Witticker could never have conjured from their voices alone.
*~~*
Oliver, sitting on the right, was a stout and jolly looking man with finely sculpted black hair that curved as smooth as an ocean wave. His cheeks were a bright red tinged with the dust of travel and were flanked by majestic mutton chops that extended down the length of a massive jaw. His attire reflected that of a proper gentleman who had been denied a proper butler. A large gray overcoat covered a black vest and a once-white shirt done up in full with a silver bowtie fringing at the ends. His sleeves lay undone, missing their cufflinks, and his pants, black, fit snuggly around his midsection. His socks hung loosely near his ankles, their elasticity waning, and his black shoes showed signs of recent polish and subsequent defeat against the travel through the train yard. Oliver rested his left hand on a black and ivory-topped cane, an accessory more for show than assistance. A gold chain hung from his vest attached to something tucked deeply away in the pocket below, presumably an item of higher quality and lesser utility.
Marcus accentuated, or was rather accentuated by, Oliver’s appearance. It was hard to tell which as the two stood in such great contrast to each another. Marcus was a skinny and stringy counterpart with just the faintest hint of color in his cheeks; a shade just light enough to worry a passerby about the man’s health. Tufts of brown hair sprung from the top of his head and his ears emerged boldly from the sides as two saucers might flank a teapot. A faint mustache rested on his upper lip, looking as if it might blow away at the slightest gust of wind. His skinny constitution supported a brown vest over a simple white shirt with the top button undone, the collar hanging loosely around his neck. A set of suspenders hung rigid over the vest and a black belt had been pulled taught to keep a set of dark brown pants from slipping off the slender frame. A set of overly-abused loafers covered his feet, wanting of socks. A crumpled wad of papers stuck prominently out of his shirt’s breast pocket and a worn pencil rested behind his ear, sharpened to a fine point.
The two men embodied their work and were truly a sight to behold.
*~~*
Witticker turned to Edward who simultaneously leaned forward to continue his prodding into the minds of the lackadaisical scholars.
“What do you know of dreams?” shot Edward, his eyes boring into the two men as if the words were meant to seize them by their roots.
Witticker felt his every muscle tense and his breath draw quick. He felt sure his face alone would give away their secret to the traveling salesmen. Oliver and Marcus, however, were already overly entertained with Edward’s query and couldn’t be seen to notice Witticker’s physical discomfort. Oliver opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly stopped, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He turned toward Marcus and looked contemplatively above his companion’s head as if searching the air for the appropriate response.
“Listen,” said Edward, a victor’s grin upon his face, “and let me tell you what I know of dreams, free of charge.”
*~~*
“So,” began Oliver as he dabbed a cigarette ash into a round and dented metal tray resting on Marcus’s lap, “you’re just lying in bed and you suddenly see events of a supernatural variety.”
At this moment a removed observer studying Witticker would not immediately be led to believe that he was suffering from any form of high-level stress. He sat back in his seat, not quite slouched or entirely upright. His hands lay, one over the other, in his lap and his head sat cocked just slightly to the side. This tranquil image betrayed the fiery cauldron of horrors brewing just behind his eyes.
In the past hour Witticker had listened as Edward described, in detail, the concept of dreaming, as he knew it, to Oliver and Marcus; relaying not only the experience, but also that both he and Witticker were active participants in the mental exercise.
“No,” replied Edward quickly, “you’re not just lying there. You’re asleep. Asleep when you start to engage in the dream.”
“But how’re ya supposed’tuh stay uhsleep if yer seein’ stuff?” advanced Marcus, his mouth hanging open candidly.
“That’s an excellent question,” replied Edward, a cigarette poking neatly out of the side of his mouth. “It seems to me that there might be a level of the subconscious that protects your mind from realizing there is any activity at all. Like a brick wall around a garden party.”
“Sownds lahke magic tuh me,” whispered Marcus, his voice as serious and engaged as a child's.
“Shut up, you simpleton.” grumbled Oliver, grinding his spent cigarette in the tray, “So, Sir, you spin a nice yarn. You even managed to keep Marcus entertained for a few minutes, which is no small feat, but I, on the other hand, turned from fairy tales a long time ago.”
At this point Oliver rose to his feet and turned to Marcus who, in an obviously rehearsed manner, stood up and held his arms out like a table.
“I believe my man and I will retire for the evening,” continued Oliver, shedding clothing and, layer by layer, placing it on Marcus’ outstretched arms. “I appreciate your company and I bid you a good evening.”
“Me too,” said Marcus attempting a slight half-bow underneath the heap of clothing in his arms.
After a time, Oliver, having shed enough to be comfortable and not enough to be rude, stretched his bulk across the full seat and began to settle in. Marcus procured a wad of rags from one of their many bags and, with few other options, laid down on the floor at his master’s feet. He bound the rags together and laid his head against them, a light protection from the wooden floor of the train car.
Edward looked to Witticker whose face was grim and hallowed. Witticker wanted to shout at his companion for needlessly divulging so personal an experience, but instead continued to stare coldly at nothing in particular. Edward shrugged his shoulders, pulled his hood over his head, and leaned into the corner of the seat, obviously not concerned by his companion’s telling visage.
As the minutes passed into hours Witticker felt his eyelids begin to succumb to the gravity of his tired mind. He nestled into his own corner and looked out the window at the passing landscape. The sun had set since their departure and the terrain whipped by in shadowy clouds. As he sat propped squarely in the corner his mind began to leisurely drift to sleep. Not all at once, but slow and stumbling like a dog spent by the running hours of the day.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Chapter 43
It was not long after exiting the woods that they spotted him moving towards them. He was not easy to miss.
*~~*
Night had fallen and the commercial activity of the center had deteriorated with falling of the sun. A single light hung outside of the central cabin under which several shabby-looking guards stood waiting. These night watches waited for no one in particular, but rather for the unexpected. A job requiring very little thought coupled with unquestionable courage. These particular men excelled in both categories making them the dumbest heroes ever chosen to guard a vacant plot of land.
*~~*
The guards aimed their guns at the shadowy behemoth that had risen from the forest.
“Halt!” shouted one of the guards, a resolute firmness in his tone.
The shadow stopped and stood motionless.
“What’s your business?”
A deep voice echoed from the shadow, amplified by the amphitheater of trees in which he stood.
“Just a few questions.”
The men, startled by the register of the voice and the peculiar shape of the shadow, experienced a collective chill down their spines.
“I heard from a very reliable source that there was trouble in this distrip today. Is that true?”
One of the guards somewhat new to the position and fresh to life on the whole responded first.
“If your source is so reliable why do you need to ask us for confirmation?”
With no visible movement from the shadow a knife whistled through the air and into the left thigh of the quick witted guard. The man let out a cry, immediately dropping his gun, and fell to one knee, nursing his newly-impaled limb.
“I don’t respond well to sarcasm.”
Another guard, slightly senior to the others, took charge of the dialogue.
“Put your arms in the air, Stretch. Now.”
“I don’t respond well to orders either.”
Without a movement another knife sailed into the senior guard’s right arm. His gun fell to the side as his body rocked back from the impact.
“I will tell you now, gentlemen, that I have enough knives. Compliance is in your best interest.”
“Yes,” shouted a guard, his voice wavering, “there was a bit of a scrap in the market today. Is that all?”
The air hung in silence for a moment.
“No,” growled Jehovah, “where did the two men who were assaulted escape to?”
The guards looked to one another for an answer, each spitting out his best guess in time with the others.
“…they disappeared right after…”
“…the last time I saw them they were in an alleyway licking their wounds…”
“…I didn’t ever get a good look at either of ‘em...”
“…I’m pretty sure I saw them in the train yard…maybe…”
A shot fired in the air and the guards fell silent again.
“Where was that train headed?” echoed the shadow.
“Everywhere from here to Maine, but the primary stops are in Philadelphia and New York.”
The shadow began to back away from the guards, returning to the woods. The figure had not been moving for even a few seconds before he disappeared into the cover of the forest, as if falling into natural camouflage. The guards huddled close to one another under the dim light; now more afraid of the darkness they had been hired to watch.
*~~*
Night had fallen and the commercial activity of the center had deteriorated with falling of the sun. A single light hung outside of the central cabin under which several shabby-looking guards stood waiting. These night watches waited for no one in particular, but rather for the unexpected. A job requiring very little thought coupled with unquestionable courage. These particular men excelled in both categories making them the dumbest heroes ever chosen to guard a vacant plot of land.
*~~*
The guards aimed their guns at the shadowy behemoth that had risen from the forest.
“Halt!” shouted one of the guards, a resolute firmness in his tone.
The shadow stopped and stood motionless.
“What’s your business?”
A deep voice echoed from the shadow, amplified by the amphitheater of trees in which he stood.
“Just a few questions.”
The men, startled by the register of the voice and the peculiar shape of the shadow, experienced a collective chill down their spines.
“I heard from a very reliable source that there was trouble in this distrip today. Is that true?”
One of the guards somewhat new to the position and fresh to life on the whole responded first.
“If your source is so reliable why do you need to ask us for confirmation?”
With no visible movement from the shadow a knife whistled through the air and into the left thigh of the quick witted guard. The man let out a cry, immediately dropping his gun, and fell to one knee, nursing his newly-impaled limb.
“I don’t respond well to sarcasm.”
Another guard, slightly senior to the others, took charge of the dialogue.
“Put your arms in the air, Stretch. Now.”
“I don’t respond well to orders either.”
Without a movement another knife sailed into the senior guard’s right arm. His gun fell to the side as his body rocked back from the impact.
“I will tell you now, gentlemen, that I have enough knives. Compliance is in your best interest.”
“Yes,” shouted a guard, his voice wavering, “there was a bit of a scrap in the market today. Is that all?”
The air hung in silence for a moment.
“No,” growled Jehovah, “where did the two men who were assaulted escape to?”
The guards looked to one another for an answer, each spitting out his best guess in time with the others.
“…they disappeared right after…”
“…the last time I saw them they were in an alleyway licking their wounds…”
“…I didn’t ever get a good look at either of ‘em...”
“…I’m pretty sure I saw them in the train yard…maybe…”
A shot fired in the air and the guards fell silent again.
“Where was that train headed?” echoed the shadow.
“Everywhere from here to Maine, but the primary stops are in Philadelphia and New York.”
The shadow began to back away from the guards, returning to the woods. The figure had not been moving for even a few seconds before he disappeared into the cover of the forest, as if falling into natural camouflage. The guards huddled close to one another under the dim light; now more afraid of the darkness they had been hired to watch.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Chapter 42
Crowds milled around the tracks as the train came to an abrupt halt next to a small wooden platform. Men and women jumped from the passenger cars with their belongings firmly in one hand, their children in the other. A small table was being set up on the wooden stage by several men in similarly-styled blue suits. A middle-aged man in a slightly darker blue uniform sat down at the table, spreading several books and writing utensils across its wooden surface. He was joined by two much larger and younger men who stood on either side projecting an air of malice and distrust. A line formed in front of the table and the man in the darkest blue suit waved the first passengers forward.
Several yards behind the table Edward and Witticker, now dressed in floor length, hooded black robes, had joined the line as inconspicuously as possible. Edward had decided on their apparel for the trip. His reasoning had been that, while it was unlikely they would be recognized; the extra precaution would not hurt.
The line snaked slowly across the train yard as the afternoon sun arced across the sky like a pole-vaulter in suspended animation. Little children ran up and down the line selling refreshments to the travelers. Several motorbikes zoomed past the motionless train, sailing past the crowds and down the tracks. The locals cheered as the bikes sped by and the riders raised their fists in the air to reciprocate the enthusiasm. The drivers were drifters and vagrants, hired by the train conductors to ride ahead, checking for disruptions or breaks in the track. People familiar with the line of work, considered by most to be a particularly dangerous occupation, felt a certain inclination to support the vandal riders who they only knew as selfless surveyors of the countryside.
As the line crawled across the wasteland of train tracks a makeshift marketplace sprang up around the captive consumers. Vendors dropped quilts on the ground and unloaded their goods for the public’s viewing eye. Witticker was amazed at the persistence and resiliency of the merchants, shouting and gesturing at every passerby regardless of their show of interest. At one point he was nearly drawn into one of the stands himself after a pocket watch that lay among a pile of like shiny trinkets, but was quickly torn away by Edward who reminded him of their unique situation. He snapped at Witticker with a quiet hiss, instructing him to keep his face to the ground and under the hood.
After an hour and a half the two men found themselves only a few places from the front of the line. The man in the dark blue suit seemed to be questioning each passenger in a similar manner, asking each their intended destination and reason for travel.
“When we get up there,” whispered Edward, his face to the ground, “don’t say anything. I’ll take care of everything. Just make sure to agree with whatever I say.”
“Alright.”
“Good start.”
The two men stepped forward and waited for the man in the dark blue suit to call them to the table. Out of the corner of his eye Edward could see the crowds of people moving all around the train, swarming in and around its various cable cars. Some were employed to inspect and repair the trains many moving parts and others were helping recent arrivals still exiting the train with their luggage which, in some cases with traveling families, was ample.
As he scanned the mechanical landscape a familiar image suddenly caught Edward’s attention. At the back of the train Edward could see the outline of a lanky man raking a brush through an unkempt beard. The old man threw a satchel onto the train and leapt up onto one of the many cleared platforms.
“Next.”
Edward quickly snapped his head back to the ground and stepped forward. Witticker followed Edward’s lead and stood slightly behind his guide. Up close the man in the blue suit appeared to be a slightly portly gentleman with a large handlebar mustache and considerable oval eyes. Upon his blue lapel stuck a rectangular pin with the words ‘CONDUCTOR’ visible through the smudge lathered onto it.
Sweat dripped from underneath the conductor’s hat and rolled down the length of his face, falling onto the pages of the book laid out before him.
“Destination?”
“New York,” growled Edward in a gruff tone much unlike his normal speaking voice.
“City or upstate?”
“City.”
The man in the blue suit took a small handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the length of his forehead. Replacing the handkerchief, he grabbed a pen and jotted a few notes in the next open margin in the book laid out before him.
“Reason for travel?”
“To further spread the word.”
“And which word would that be?” asked the conductor without a hint of interest.
“The word of the Region,” replied Edward, not missing a beat, “the most forward-thinking ideal, ever-expanding in an effort to show the people of the world the harmony and comfort of living in a united community. Have you heard the word?”
“No, and I don’t intend to,” murmured the conductor, “Your friend is awfully quiet. Doesn’t he feel the need to spread the word?”
“My friend and I are on route to see a very important official in the New York area. He has been commissioned to speak to no one before a meeting of this magnitude so that his thoughts might remain unfettered and on the task at hand. Isn’t that right?”
Witticker nodded under his robe and raised his hand slightly.
“Fine. You do understand the penalty for engaging in criminal behavior en route to your destination, correct?”
Edward nodded.
“Alright, you and your mute friend are in car eight, room thirteen.”
Edward and Witticker both nodded and shuffled towards the train. As they reached the platform on the eighth car Witticker pulled Edward aside.
“What is the penalty for engaging in criminal behavior on this thing?”
“Oh, they toss your ass from the train. Come on, we need to see who we’re riding with.”
Edward jumped up onto the train and slid through the thin door into the passenger car. Witticker turned and scanned the sea of travelers still in line behind the table. They shuffled in their places as he had only moments before, kicking dirt up into the air which seemed to engulf the mass in a hazy fog. The dusty mist clutched the line, snaring it into place. It never seemed to move. It was simply there, stuck in one place. Faceless bodies shuffling endlessly under the noon-day sun.
A whistle blew from the front of the train signaling an imminent departure. Witticker quickly jumped up to the platform and disappeared into car number eight. The line of people dispersed along with the blue-suited conductor and his table. The dust began to settle back to the earth. Everything became silent again.
The train whistle blew again and the hulking engine roared to life. The train crept forward hurling loose earth back into the air. The massive machine picked up speed and flew out of town, leaving clouds of smoke and dirt swirling in its wake.
Several yards behind the table Edward and Witticker, now dressed in floor length, hooded black robes, had joined the line as inconspicuously as possible. Edward had decided on their apparel for the trip. His reasoning had been that, while it was unlikely they would be recognized; the extra precaution would not hurt.
The line snaked slowly across the train yard as the afternoon sun arced across the sky like a pole-vaulter in suspended animation. Little children ran up and down the line selling refreshments to the travelers. Several motorbikes zoomed past the motionless train, sailing past the crowds and down the tracks. The locals cheered as the bikes sped by and the riders raised their fists in the air to reciprocate the enthusiasm. The drivers were drifters and vagrants, hired by the train conductors to ride ahead, checking for disruptions or breaks in the track. People familiar with the line of work, considered by most to be a particularly dangerous occupation, felt a certain inclination to support the vandal riders who they only knew as selfless surveyors of the countryside.
As the line crawled across the wasteland of train tracks a makeshift marketplace sprang up around the captive consumers. Vendors dropped quilts on the ground and unloaded their goods for the public’s viewing eye. Witticker was amazed at the persistence and resiliency of the merchants, shouting and gesturing at every passerby regardless of their show of interest. At one point he was nearly drawn into one of the stands himself after a pocket watch that lay among a pile of like shiny trinkets, but was quickly torn away by Edward who reminded him of their unique situation. He snapped at Witticker with a quiet hiss, instructing him to keep his face to the ground and under the hood.
After an hour and a half the two men found themselves only a few places from the front of the line. The man in the dark blue suit seemed to be questioning each passenger in a similar manner, asking each their intended destination and reason for travel.
“When we get up there,” whispered Edward, his face to the ground, “don’t say anything. I’ll take care of everything. Just make sure to agree with whatever I say.”
“Alright.”
“Good start.”
The two men stepped forward and waited for the man in the dark blue suit to call them to the table. Out of the corner of his eye Edward could see the crowds of people moving all around the train, swarming in and around its various cable cars. Some were employed to inspect and repair the trains many moving parts and others were helping recent arrivals still exiting the train with their luggage which, in some cases with traveling families, was ample.
As he scanned the mechanical landscape a familiar image suddenly caught Edward’s attention. At the back of the train Edward could see the outline of a lanky man raking a brush through an unkempt beard. The old man threw a satchel onto the train and leapt up onto one of the many cleared platforms.
“Next.”
Edward quickly snapped his head back to the ground and stepped forward. Witticker followed Edward’s lead and stood slightly behind his guide. Up close the man in the blue suit appeared to be a slightly portly gentleman with a large handlebar mustache and considerable oval eyes. Upon his blue lapel stuck a rectangular pin with the words ‘CONDUCTOR’ visible through the smudge lathered onto it.
Sweat dripped from underneath the conductor’s hat and rolled down the length of his face, falling onto the pages of the book laid out before him.
“Destination?”
“New York,” growled Edward in a gruff tone much unlike his normal speaking voice.
“City or upstate?”
“City.”
The man in the blue suit took a small handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the length of his forehead. Replacing the handkerchief, he grabbed a pen and jotted a few notes in the next open margin in the book laid out before him.
“Reason for travel?”
“To further spread the word.”
“And which word would that be?” asked the conductor without a hint of interest.
“The word of the Region,” replied Edward, not missing a beat, “the most forward-thinking ideal, ever-expanding in an effort to show the people of the world the harmony and comfort of living in a united community. Have you heard the word?”
“No, and I don’t intend to,” murmured the conductor, “Your friend is awfully quiet. Doesn’t he feel the need to spread the word?”
“My friend and I are on route to see a very important official in the New York area. He has been commissioned to speak to no one before a meeting of this magnitude so that his thoughts might remain unfettered and on the task at hand. Isn’t that right?”
Witticker nodded under his robe and raised his hand slightly.
“Fine. You do understand the penalty for engaging in criminal behavior en route to your destination, correct?”
Edward nodded.
“Alright, you and your mute friend are in car eight, room thirteen.”
Edward and Witticker both nodded and shuffled towards the train. As they reached the platform on the eighth car Witticker pulled Edward aside.
“What is the penalty for engaging in criminal behavior on this thing?”
“Oh, they toss your ass from the train. Come on, we need to see who we’re riding with.”
Edward jumped up onto the train and slid through the thin door into the passenger car. Witticker turned and scanned the sea of travelers still in line behind the table. They shuffled in their places as he had only moments before, kicking dirt up into the air which seemed to engulf the mass in a hazy fog. The dusty mist clutched the line, snaring it into place. It never seemed to move. It was simply there, stuck in one place. Faceless bodies shuffling endlessly under the noon-day sun.
A whistle blew from the front of the train signaling an imminent departure. Witticker quickly jumped up to the platform and disappeared into car number eight. The line of people dispersed along with the blue-suited conductor and his table. The dust began to settle back to the earth. Everything became silent again.
The train whistle blew again and the hulking engine roared to life. The train crept forward hurling loose earth back into the air. The massive machine picked up speed and flew out of town, leaving clouds of smoke and dirt swirling in its wake.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Chapter 41
Witticker sat in a very tight and shady alleyway between two thatch houses in the outer distrip. He and Edward had run from the heart of the market after their most recent encounter, ducking into the empty space to wait until the air cleared from the altercation. Witticker sat watching Edward who had been trying for the past several minutes to catch water dripping from the gutter of the house in his canteen.
“They’ve followed us pretty far,” grunted Witticker. “How did they know we were here?”
Edward continued his precarious attempts at seizing water, shifting his weight from foot to foot just slightly in order to catch each precious drop.
“They don’t operate on chance,” Edward answered dryly, “the same amount of men were in every distrip in a hundred mile radius from here.”
Edward put the canteen down at his feet and held his head towards the ground down, rubbing his temples with his thumbs.
“Dammit! The sun is just high enough in the sky to be right in my eyes. It’s hard as hell to see those drops until it’s almost too late. Better than buying a bottle from those crooks out there, I suppose.”
Edward looked over at Witticker who seemed to be more interested in the dirt at his feet than their diminishing water supply.
“What’s wrong? Is it about what happened back there? You shouldn’t worry about those guys. Really.”
Witticker kicked his feet, sending small motes of dirt floating through the air around them.
“If it’s any consolation, they weren’t here for you.”
Finally catching his attention, Witticker turned his gaze to Edward.
“Alright, explain it to me.”
Edward picked up the canteen and continued his balancing act.
“Well, it’s complicated.”
*~~*
A Brief Lecture on World History
Delivered orally by Edward St. Cavalier
Recorded in 2208
Archive NYPL
“The War of the Golden Sheet began in the year 2200 with an announcement from the Perceptionist group the Golden Acolytes to the remaining inhabitants of North America. Before relating this announcement or its bearing on continental affairs there must be a discussion on the origins of the Golden Acolytes.”
“The Golden Acolytes were founded by a group of mathematicians who based their personal philosophies and daily rituals on the Golden Ratio. This Golden Ratio, or phi, is an arithmetic proportion that can be traced through history as being, in the perspective of several different cultures, a particularly aesthetic measurement.”
“Let us consider three variables. We will call our first variable, the smaller of the three, A. The next variable, slightly larger, B. The final variable, the sum of A and B, C. The golden ratio is found when the division of C/B equals the division of B/A. For example:
A farmer has a herd of thirty-four sheep. When he stands them in a straight line, as farmers are not generally wont to do, but will for the purposes of this experiment, he observes an amazing phenomenon. The farmer, having stamped F’s on the legs of his female sheep, of which there are thirteen, and M’s on his male sheep, of which there are twenty-one, discovers that the sheep are lined up in two distinct groups with respect to their gender. The result is as follows:
FFFFFFFFFFFFFMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
From this distribution of sheep we can infer the following:
FFFFFFFFFFFFFMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM/
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
or…
34/21 = 1.61904…
will equal
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM/
FFFFFFFFFFFFF
or…
21/13 = 1.61538
In short, what the farmer was surprised to see was a stunningly beautiful arrangement of sheep.”
“The equality in the proportion is deemed to be the foundation of the beauty and while it is not always found to be perfect, as in our model of sheep, it is usually pretty darn close. So close, in fact, that it inspired the physical structure of the Parthenon, several paintings by Salvador Dali, and at least one cult.”
“And so, having bridged the historical gap, we return to the announcement made by the Golden Acolytes in 2200. They, not content with imposing the Golden Ratio solely upon the lifestyle of its own members, announced their intent to reduce the number of earth’s inhabitants to an ‘aesthetic’ proportion. They termed their task the ‘Cleansing Subtraction’ and while it is not known what the final count was to be it is well-documented how the members of this cult planned and carried out their ‘Subtraction’ method.”
“In the year 2202 the War of the Golden Sheet, as it had been termed, reached a fever pitch. The Golden Acolytes had amassed a considerable number of followers and were the predominant force in the eastern part of the Americas. The resistance force to the Acolytes had dwindled significantly in the course of the ware and, in a final effort, had resolved to cripple the organization by striking at its core, the leading members of the Golden Acolytes known only as the Perfect Circle. The operation was green-lit by resistance commanders and a small contingent, led by one Cpt. St. Cavalier, was able to break through and speak to the Perfect Circle. It has never been revealed what business was conducted in that time, but after the meeting the armies of the Golden Acolytes were disbanded and the cult quietly retreated out of the public sphere.”
*~~*
“It was just some group of people I pissed off a while back. They have a habit of dressing in black and since those guys were dressed in black it is a fair assumption that it was them. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Witticker slung his head back down, his sight line aimed at the tip of shoes.
“Fine, whatever. What’s our next move?”
“Well,” said Edward, dodging left and right with the canteen, “now that we’ve been spotted again it won’t be long until we’ve got more tag-alongs. There’s no point in avoiding a faster way to travel if we’re hunted either way. We might as well just grab a train and keep a low profile. The only safe place now is where we’re going.”
Witticker stood up as Edward put the cap back on his canteen.
“Just where are we going?”
Edward placed the canteen into his satchel and began walking out of the alleyway.
“New York. Now hurry, we’ve got to catch the next train out of here or we’re going to have more than just four guys to deal with.”
Witticker hurried after Edward into the crowded street of the distrip feeling as if he were jumping into yet another foreign ocean without any semblance of a life preserver.
“They’ve followed us pretty far,” grunted Witticker. “How did they know we were here?”
Edward continued his precarious attempts at seizing water, shifting his weight from foot to foot just slightly in order to catch each precious drop.
“They don’t operate on chance,” Edward answered dryly, “the same amount of men were in every distrip in a hundred mile radius from here.”
Edward put the canteen down at his feet and held his head towards the ground down, rubbing his temples with his thumbs.
“Dammit! The sun is just high enough in the sky to be right in my eyes. It’s hard as hell to see those drops until it’s almost too late. Better than buying a bottle from those crooks out there, I suppose.”
Edward looked over at Witticker who seemed to be more interested in the dirt at his feet than their diminishing water supply.
“What’s wrong? Is it about what happened back there? You shouldn’t worry about those guys. Really.”
Witticker kicked his feet, sending small motes of dirt floating through the air around them.
“If it’s any consolation, they weren’t here for you.”
Finally catching his attention, Witticker turned his gaze to Edward.
“Alright, explain it to me.”
Edward picked up the canteen and continued his balancing act.
“Well, it’s complicated.”
*~~*
A Brief Lecture on World History
Delivered orally by Edward St. Cavalier
Recorded in 2208
Archive NYPL
“The War of the Golden Sheet began in the year 2200 with an announcement from the Perceptionist group the Golden Acolytes to the remaining inhabitants of North America. Before relating this announcement or its bearing on continental affairs there must be a discussion on the origins of the Golden Acolytes.”
“The Golden Acolytes were founded by a group of mathematicians who based their personal philosophies and daily rituals on the Golden Ratio. This Golden Ratio, or phi, is an arithmetic proportion that can be traced through history as being, in the perspective of several different cultures, a particularly aesthetic measurement.”
“Let us consider three variables. We will call our first variable, the smaller of the three, A. The next variable, slightly larger, B. The final variable, the sum of A and B, C. The golden ratio is found when the division of C/B equals the division of B/A. For example:
A farmer has a herd of thirty-four sheep. When he stands them in a straight line, as farmers are not generally wont to do, but will for the purposes of this experiment, he observes an amazing phenomenon. The farmer, having stamped F’s on the legs of his female sheep, of which there are thirteen, and M’s on his male sheep, of which there are twenty-one, discovers that the sheep are lined up in two distinct groups with respect to their gender. The result is as follows:
FFFFFFFFFFFFFMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
From this distribution of sheep we can infer the following:
FFFFFFFFFFFFFMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM/
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
or…
34/21 = 1.61904…
will equal
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM/
FFFFFFFFFFFFF
or…
21/13 = 1.61538
In short, what the farmer was surprised to see was a stunningly beautiful arrangement of sheep.”
“The equality in the proportion is deemed to be the foundation of the beauty and while it is not always found to be perfect, as in our model of sheep, it is usually pretty darn close. So close, in fact, that it inspired the physical structure of the Parthenon, several paintings by Salvador Dali, and at least one cult.”
“And so, having bridged the historical gap, we return to the announcement made by the Golden Acolytes in 2200. They, not content with imposing the Golden Ratio solely upon the lifestyle of its own members, announced their intent to reduce the number of earth’s inhabitants to an ‘aesthetic’ proportion. They termed their task the ‘Cleansing Subtraction’ and while it is not known what the final count was to be it is well-documented how the members of this cult planned and carried out their ‘Subtraction’ method.”
“In the year 2202 the War of the Golden Sheet, as it had been termed, reached a fever pitch. The Golden Acolytes had amassed a considerable number of followers and were the predominant force in the eastern part of the Americas. The resistance force to the Acolytes had dwindled significantly in the course of the ware and, in a final effort, had resolved to cripple the organization by striking at its core, the leading members of the Golden Acolytes known only as the Perfect Circle. The operation was green-lit by resistance commanders and a small contingent, led by one Cpt. St. Cavalier, was able to break through and speak to the Perfect Circle. It has never been revealed what business was conducted in that time, but after the meeting the armies of the Golden Acolytes were disbanded and the cult quietly retreated out of the public sphere.”
*~~*
“It was just some group of people I pissed off a while back. They have a habit of dressing in black and since those guys were dressed in black it is a fair assumption that it was them. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Witticker slung his head back down, his sight line aimed at the tip of shoes.
“Fine, whatever. What’s our next move?”
“Well,” said Edward, dodging left and right with the canteen, “now that we’ve been spotted again it won’t be long until we’ve got more tag-alongs. There’s no point in avoiding a faster way to travel if we’re hunted either way. We might as well just grab a train and keep a low profile. The only safe place now is where we’re going.”
Witticker stood up as Edward put the cap back on his canteen.
“Just where are we going?”
Edward placed the canteen into his satchel and began walking out of the alleyway.
“New York. Now hurry, we’ve got to catch the next train out of here or we’re going to have more than just four guys to deal with.”
Witticker hurried after Edward into the crowded street of the distrip feeling as if he were jumping into yet another foreign ocean without any semblance of a life preserver.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Chapter 40
He could hear the bell. It rang softly from the next room as it had twenty times before. However, this dinner had gone on much longer than he had ever anticipated and Arnold Cavenstein felt little motivation left inside. His limbs began to move out of habit; directing him towards the stove to retrieve the final course for his guests.
Each course had lasted two hours bringing the affair to a staggering forty hour siege. He had managed to sleep one half-hour at a time between courses, but became troubled in his rest by the distinct possibility that the bell would ring and that he would miss his window to introduce the next meal. His guests were not entirely forgiving and Mr. Cavenstein envisioned their castigation for such an oversight would be swift and horrifyingly permanent.
He stood, rather haggard and wobbly, over the stove preparing the petit four that had been keeping warm inside the lightly heated oven. As he moved the small cakes into an aesthetically pleasing pattern his mind wandered to the events of the evening. For the past several hours his guests had become very quiet, keeping their conversational volume to a whisper tone and spending most of their time in silence. The only aspect remotely reassuring to Arnold Cavenstein was that it seemed the events of the evening had been as taxing on his guests as they were on him. They were becoming restless. It was as if they were waiting for something, a phone call or a telegram, but nothing had come. Nothing had come.
Mr. Cavenstein, as he had done so many times in the past two days, checked himself in the mirror before making his entrance. Finally, ready to serve, he opened the door, armed with the vast array of miniature deserts. His guests occupied their very familiar positions in front of empty plates. As he gathered their dirty receptacles they broke their collective silence.
“Well,” began Roland, “it seems that Jehovah is finding his match with our escapee.”
“You should have let me after him in the first place,” whispered Simon with his head bowed towards the table.
Roland turned his head sharply and glared at the giant hunched over the small table.
“With how you handled the last delicate job you were assigned you should be thankful that you’re even sitting at this table.”
Simon kicked the chair out from under him and stood up swiftly, towering only inches from the ceiling. He turned towards Roland, raising his arm to strike.
“Simon, please,” hissed the lone woman at the end of the table, “your theatrics might be entertaining to the company you keep outside these walls, but in here it’s ultimately pointless. You know as well as the rest of us the consequences of engaging a fellow Party member. Your death would benefit no one.”
Simon took a step to the side and regained his composure, sliding his meaty hands through his hair. After a moment he replaced the chair he had kicked out to its original position and resumed his place at the table, falling into the seat with a heavier than normal pressure. As he continued to adjust himself Ms. J produced a small compact from her purse and began to check her complexion in its faint reflection. She lightly powdered her nose and placed the compact neatly back into her petite bag.
“Now, as Roland was proposing, we may need to contact an alternate source in locating our man. Jehovah is reliable, but he may be working on a larger timetable than was recommended. I believe we should consider notifying the authorities in the immediate area, warning them of a significant threat on the loose. With the proper description we could have this issue tackled within a matter of hours.”
“That is hasty decision-making,” wheezed the old man, “The release to the general public will threaten the isolation of information. The dreamer has undoubtedly infected enough citizens already. His capture by civilian authorities could result in much larger implications than you realize.”
“Yes,” answered Ms. J, “but our legs are being cut out from under us. As you say, he is infecting more people with every passing hour and he isn’t even aware of his condition. Imagine if he finds out.”
*~~*
Thirty years earlier…
A man and woman sit in a dim and crowded restaurant. They are surrounded by dining parties of a considerably higher social standing, complete with top hats and evening gowns. The nearby tables are boisterous and carefree, spectacles of excessive wealth and privilege.
The man and woman stand out in the restaurant not by appearance, but by their cold and silent demeanor. They pick at their food sparingly and only rarely glance at one another, quickly turning their attention back to the table top. They are a sore thumb, a burning building in a neighborhood of fine townhouses.
“So, when are you leaving to play house?” asks the woman sharply.
The man looks up from his plate, places his silverware on the plate, and reclines against the back of his chair.
“You know I don’t know,” responds the man begrudgingly. “I don’t understand why you’re acting as if this was never going to happen. I always told you that if I was called I would have to leave. You used to say that it added ‘spice’ to our exotic lifestyle.”
“I used to say a lot of things that weren’t true,” spits the woman as she pulls out her compact, “and you always spoke of this ‘call’ as some kind of long shot. As if it would never happen.”
“It is happening, Victoria. I can’t stop it and I can’t avoid it.”
The two sit silently again. The woman powders her nose and replaces the compact in her purse. The man sips at his wine as he stares curiously at his dining partner. Laughter erupts from the surrounding tables, highlighting the heightened tension.
“You know,” he says, suddenly standing up from the table, “I’ve explained this too many times already. I’m not sure why I expected you to respond any differently tonight. I’m not waiting until tomorrow. I’m leaving now.”
The man takes his suit jacket from the back of the chair and slings it over his arm.
“Don’t worry about my things. I’ve already packed what I need.”
The man takes a silver ring off his fourth finger and places it next to the plate in front of the woman.
“I hope someday you’ll understand.”
As the man turns to leave the woman puts her hand over the ring left on the plate.
“Brisby,” says the woman, her voice shaking, “at least tell me why."
The woman doesn't mover her focus from the plate on the table, her hand covering the catalyst.
“What mission is so pressing, so urgent, that it need break up a marriage?”
The man turns his face just slightly towards the woman, his features masked by the shadows of the room.
“Do you remember the stories I told you about my childhood? How I would shake and shiver in my sleep? The doctors said it was a stress reaction. A symptom of a larger problem. I never told anyone this, but I saw things then. Visions of other worlds, images of fantastic places in that sleep. They put me on medication and the visions went away, the shaking stopped. I’ve never been sure, even to this day, if I really wanted them to stop. Now they’ve found another case of this shaking and they want to take care of him, to teach him. They want a pure case intact, no medication, just in case. In the event that it might be useful. I have so many questions and this may very well be the only chance I ever get to have any answers. They took something from me and I’m going there to get it back.”
The woman turns herself in the chair to face the man covered in shadows.
“Brisby, just…”
“I’m sorry,” interrupts the man as he turns away, “but I have to do this.”
The man leaves the woman alone in the crowded restaurant. She takes the silver ring left by the man and slides it on her fourth finger. A single tear slides down her face as she sits staring at the silver band, now a mixed symbol of unity and heartbreak.
*~~*
“Yes, we must think of the overall containment,” said Roland, taking a small sip of the wine in front of him. “Notifying all the authorities is a bit risky, but as long as they think he is a common criminal there is less of a threat in there being a leak.”
Arnold Cavenstein had finished putting the deserts in front of his guests and, after topping off each of their glasses with his finest wine, turned back towards the kitchen. Upon reaching the door he half-expected to be stopped by his guests for another request, but, being fully enamored with their fresh assortment of cakes, they were silent again. He pushed through the door into the tiny kitchen and promptly started a fifteen minute timer. He would surely be out to see them again, but not before a moments rest.
Each course had lasted two hours bringing the affair to a staggering forty hour siege. He had managed to sleep one half-hour at a time between courses, but became troubled in his rest by the distinct possibility that the bell would ring and that he would miss his window to introduce the next meal. His guests were not entirely forgiving and Mr. Cavenstein envisioned their castigation for such an oversight would be swift and horrifyingly permanent.
He stood, rather haggard and wobbly, over the stove preparing the petit four that had been keeping warm inside the lightly heated oven. As he moved the small cakes into an aesthetically pleasing pattern his mind wandered to the events of the evening. For the past several hours his guests had become very quiet, keeping their conversational volume to a whisper tone and spending most of their time in silence. The only aspect remotely reassuring to Arnold Cavenstein was that it seemed the events of the evening had been as taxing on his guests as they were on him. They were becoming restless. It was as if they were waiting for something, a phone call or a telegram, but nothing had come. Nothing had come.
Mr. Cavenstein, as he had done so many times in the past two days, checked himself in the mirror before making his entrance. Finally, ready to serve, he opened the door, armed with the vast array of miniature deserts. His guests occupied their very familiar positions in front of empty plates. As he gathered their dirty receptacles they broke their collective silence.
“Well,” began Roland, “it seems that Jehovah is finding his match with our escapee.”
“You should have let me after him in the first place,” whispered Simon with his head bowed towards the table.
Roland turned his head sharply and glared at the giant hunched over the small table.
“With how you handled the last delicate job you were assigned you should be thankful that you’re even sitting at this table.”
Simon kicked the chair out from under him and stood up swiftly, towering only inches from the ceiling. He turned towards Roland, raising his arm to strike.
“Simon, please,” hissed the lone woman at the end of the table, “your theatrics might be entertaining to the company you keep outside these walls, but in here it’s ultimately pointless. You know as well as the rest of us the consequences of engaging a fellow Party member. Your death would benefit no one.”
Simon took a step to the side and regained his composure, sliding his meaty hands through his hair. After a moment he replaced the chair he had kicked out to its original position and resumed his place at the table, falling into the seat with a heavier than normal pressure. As he continued to adjust himself Ms. J produced a small compact from her purse and began to check her complexion in its faint reflection. She lightly powdered her nose and placed the compact neatly back into her petite bag.
“Now, as Roland was proposing, we may need to contact an alternate source in locating our man. Jehovah is reliable, but he may be working on a larger timetable than was recommended. I believe we should consider notifying the authorities in the immediate area, warning them of a significant threat on the loose. With the proper description we could have this issue tackled within a matter of hours.”
“That is hasty decision-making,” wheezed the old man, “The release to the general public will threaten the isolation of information. The dreamer has undoubtedly infected enough citizens already. His capture by civilian authorities could result in much larger implications than you realize.”
“Yes,” answered Ms. J, “but our legs are being cut out from under us. As you say, he is infecting more people with every passing hour and he isn’t even aware of his condition. Imagine if he finds out.”
*~~*
Thirty years earlier…
A man and woman sit in a dim and crowded restaurant. They are surrounded by dining parties of a considerably higher social standing, complete with top hats and evening gowns. The nearby tables are boisterous and carefree, spectacles of excessive wealth and privilege.
The man and woman stand out in the restaurant not by appearance, but by their cold and silent demeanor. They pick at their food sparingly and only rarely glance at one another, quickly turning their attention back to the table top. They are a sore thumb, a burning building in a neighborhood of fine townhouses.
“So, when are you leaving to play house?” asks the woman sharply.
The man looks up from his plate, places his silverware on the plate, and reclines against the back of his chair.
“You know I don’t know,” responds the man begrudgingly. “I don’t understand why you’re acting as if this was never going to happen. I always told you that if I was called I would have to leave. You used to say that it added ‘spice’ to our exotic lifestyle.”
“I used to say a lot of things that weren’t true,” spits the woman as she pulls out her compact, “and you always spoke of this ‘call’ as some kind of long shot. As if it would never happen.”
“It is happening, Victoria. I can’t stop it and I can’t avoid it.”
The two sit silently again. The woman powders her nose and replaces the compact in her purse. The man sips at his wine as he stares curiously at his dining partner. Laughter erupts from the surrounding tables, highlighting the heightened tension.
“You know,” he says, suddenly standing up from the table, “I’ve explained this too many times already. I’m not sure why I expected you to respond any differently tonight. I’m not waiting until tomorrow. I’m leaving now.”
The man takes his suit jacket from the back of the chair and slings it over his arm.
“Don’t worry about my things. I’ve already packed what I need.”
The man takes a silver ring off his fourth finger and places it next to the plate in front of the woman.
“I hope someday you’ll understand.”
As the man turns to leave the woman puts her hand over the ring left on the plate.
“Brisby,” says the woman, her voice shaking, “at least tell me why."
The woman doesn't mover her focus from the plate on the table, her hand covering the catalyst.
“What mission is so pressing, so urgent, that it need break up a marriage?”
The man turns his face just slightly towards the woman, his features masked by the shadows of the room.
“Do you remember the stories I told you about my childhood? How I would shake and shiver in my sleep? The doctors said it was a stress reaction. A symptom of a larger problem. I never told anyone this, but I saw things then. Visions of other worlds, images of fantastic places in that sleep. They put me on medication and the visions went away, the shaking stopped. I’ve never been sure, even to this day, if I really wanted them to stop. Now they’ve found another case of this shaking and they want to take care of him, to teach him. They want a pure case intact, no medication, just in case. In the event that it might be useful. I have so many questions and this may very well be the only chance I ever get to have any answers. They took something from me and I’m going there to get it back.”
The woman turns herself in the chair to face the man covered in shadows.
“Brisby, just…”
“I’m sorry,” interrupts the man as he turns away, “but I have to do this.”
The man leaves the woman alone in the crowded restaurant. She takes the silver ring left by the man and slides it on her fourth finger. A single tear slides down her face as she sits staring at the silver band, now a mixed symbol of unity and heartbreak.
*~~*
“Yes, we must think of the overall containment,” said Roland, taking a small sip of the wine in front of him. “Notifying all the authorities is a bit risky, but as long as they think he is a common criminal there is less of a threat in there being a leak.”
Arnold Cavenstein had finished putting the deserts in front of his guests and, after topping off each of their glasses with his finest wine, turned back towards the kitchen. Upon reaching the door he half-expected to be stopped by his guests for another request, but, being fully enamored with their fresh assortment of cakes, they were silent again. He pushed through the door into the tiny kitchen and promptly started a fifteen minute timer. He would surely be out to see them again, but not before a moments rest.
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