Fangs for the Memories, II

The Manitoban conflict was not my own doing. Well, not entirely. I may have sent agents to fan the flames of discord in the area, and it wouldn't be a complete lie to say that I supplied arms to the more hot-headed members of each faction*. But the issues that drove the majority of the populace to begin fighting one another were there from the beginning. Not that they remembered exactly what they were anymore, but that's fine because they're utterly beside the point.

The point is that most of the region, from Thompson south and including parts of North Dakota was a war zone and the factions had, unanimously** chosen me as Mediator and could agree on no one else. Such weight, to fall upon my shoulders. Kashsh, dealing with violent infighting amongst members of its*** cabinet, and Hawthorne, now struggling with uprisings in overseas American territories, were both eager to quell this diversion as quickly as possible.

Or so I hoped, since I was running out of influential contacts.

I stepped in front of the camera. A cavernous room, humming with activity, spread behind me.

"Steven, your t-shirt is interfering with the Green Screen," Ligasha said.

Modern video technology has made intimidating people much cheaper (and safer), but it does have its own difficulties. I swore mildly, ran to my room and swapped t-shirts.

When I strolled back into the room, Kashsh's beady gaze and Hawthorne's wrinkled face were framed in the monitors across my desk.

I nodded to Ligasha to start the camera on my end. "President Hawthorn. Prime Minister Kashsh. How can we bring events to a peaceable end? Have you read the revised demands by each of the-"

"The United States, as I have said before, will not, cannot, concede the territory in North Dakota," Hawthorne interjected.

"Nor will Canada concede any territory," Kashsh answered.

I stood up. "Then there is nothing else to discuss. I'll inform-"

"T' sh!" Swore Kashsh. "Very well. The President and I have agreed that this is all we can concede: a provisional government will be created for the region. Most internal matters will be left to this provisional government, but a combined group from the United States and Canada will remain to oversee certain areas."

"I'll discuss your proposal with the faction leaders. Drop the details into the ftp drop folder I've provided you; there's no need to waste time discussing them now."

Neither one said, "Goodbye," to me as they disconnected, but then I don't suppose that either one was very happy with me at the time.

"I'm confused," Ligasha said, following me from the room. "I had the impression that you were trying to obtain direct control of the territory for yourself."

"Yes, eventually. But this will offer a respite for those fighting the territories, while the provisional government—particularly the American-Canadian oversight—will serve to keep discontentment high—on each side. Although I doubt either Hawthorne or Kashsh intends to let it remain for very long; but they just have to be distracted long enough."

"I see."

It always worried me when Ligasha would end a conversation like that. I never mentioned it, but Ligasha was much smarter than I am, possibly the smartest being on the planet.

"Time for your experiment, I suppose."

* Indirectly. Don't bother trying to trace it; even I get headaches thinking about that convoluted route.

** With a little urging from my informants.

*** Pentapedes—and I hope you find my interjections on them interesting; it's all I can do to keep to the events with only footnotes on Pentapedes—are "asexual", meaning, in this case, that they are neither male nor female****. Instead, each Pentapede lays eggs coated in a special semen that prevents fertilization by the Pentapede's sperm. If another Pentapede lays eggs in the same place, then the sperm of each combines with the ova of the other, resulting in sexual reproduction. But, if left alone long enough—a few days to a week—the semen breaks down and the sperm fertilize, resulting in genetically identical off-spring (leaving aside mutations, of course). Terrifying, isn't it?

**** Biologically. Most Pentapedes prefer to remain gender-neutral (and don't mind being called 'it'), although I have heard that some Pentapede enclaves have developed their own gender roles, completely different from human genders.

Trickery IV

Bulbous, sickly yellow eyes.

They adorn every shadow, peek through every crack.

The voices are louder now. Follow! Come! they say, leading the way into terror, down into dank caves of insanity.

I can barely get out of bed in the morning. I leave all the lights burning all day and all night, trying to banish them, banish the darkness from which they spawn.

All night last night, I would sleep, only to be awakened again, paralyzed, their Presence crushing me until exhaustion drove me unconscious again. The fourth time this week, though I get little sleep even when their attentions are elsewhere.

And now it's night again.

Trickery III

My nightmares are getting bolder.

I was walking home from work today—I quit my office job and took a part-time position at the grocery store a few blocks from my apartment so I could come and go in the daylight—and as I put my key into the handle, one jumped from the shadows at me, tiny, pale, hungry eyes boring into my soul. I flinched and crouched, flailing at it, whimpering incoherently.

I swear I have never seen a child so frightened before in my life.

But I think this incident amused them, my nightmares; now, interspersed with their whispers and chattering, I hear a mocking laughter.

West St James St

It was a rainy day. Crackles of thunder rolled periodically through the streets, as though the sky itself were unhappy with the torrents of rain. Droplets dashing onto grey tile roofs produced a halo of mist around the upper storeys of buildings; though only three storeys high, their roof peaks were lost in grey fog. Runoff cascaded from the eves in sheaves and braids into the growing river of mud that passed for West St James St. I stepped from the questionable shelter of the leaky bamboo-roofed sidewalk fronting the St James Mercantile into the clamor of the great arterial thoroughfare, yesterday's Chronicle held overhead in a feeble attempt to ward off the late April downpour. The street was clogged with steaming horses whose chestnut coats had turned grey for lack of light, and men of all races and descriptions vying for the right of way. The cursing and swearing of the teamsters moving their goods to market mixed with cabbies yelling for the right of way and vendors hawking their wares to produce a great deluge of sound only moderately tempered by the weather. The beating heart of the city itself!

I received a round cussing from a stout porter wearing a bowler and ferrying a handcart of sodden red cabbages. I skirted the fellow only to end in a near collision with a reckless black hansom. Stepping from the ankle-deep mire onto the opposite sidewalk, I heaved a sigh of relief. The city smelled like an open sewer---which it was---though this was not remarkable then because it usually smelled like an open sewer in those days. But highlights of clean spring air were still detectable, and overall, the great city seemed to be alive and thrumming with energy and wakening from the long winter's night.

Inside the Highland Cross Exchange the air thrummed with a more subdued noise, but equally intense activity. Persons of great importance and little importance hurried by on errands. I discarded the Chronicle, which held little water and was therefore a bad choice for a hat. I was joined by an angry dwarf who shouldered his way bodily through the throng. He dripped menacingly on the floor and stood glaring into the crowd.

"Raugh!" He exclaimed aggressively in no particular direction, for no discernible reason.

I did not know what to make of this. Recovering my manners, I ignored him and focussed on drying myself off with the towels placed there for this purpose. He did not seem to notice my indifference. Turning to me, he tried another tactic.

"You're Dr. Watson." He said, with utmost assurance; his accent was thick and western.

A name is a powerful thing to know; a thing which molds perceptions and is therefore a point of contact between a realm of thought and the realm of physical reality. I looked him over more carefully. His large amber eyes shone dimly in the half-light of the first floor of the Exchange. His rain-drunk red locks dripped onto his forest green tabbard and dust-stained traveling cloak. This last article was torn considerably at the hem.

"That's a matter of opinion," I told him carefully, refolding my towel and handing it back to the Exchange attendant behind the towel counter. The slender fellow accepted the dirty towel with a nod and disappeared. "Have a towel," I offered.

The dwarf glanced briefly at the proffered towel before returning his gaze to me. "Adran," said he. Bowing slightly, he inclined his eyes toward the floor.

"Alexis," said I. Though rough around the edges, he was no fool; Adran was certainly not his name, but a way of establishing his role in the conversation. Adran means only "from afar". Likewise, Alexis means only "defender." By so calling myself, I offered my help to one who identifies himself as an outsider.

"I'm looking for Holmes," said he.

I was somewhat taken aback that this outsider should know both our names and at the very least determined to take him to Holmes' office on the third floor of the Exchange to sort things out. Perhaps Holmes would know the dwarf. If nothing else, perhaps Holmes and I could teach him not to mention our names in public hearing. One never knows who might be listening.

A dull roar of thunder accompanied us as we embarked down the hewn stone corridors. The farther from the door we drew, the more quiet and still the Exchange became and the smaller and more obscure the signs on the doors. We mounted a spiral stair and came up to the third storey. It was an ill-used passage, caked with dust even in the rainy season; but well-lit with wide windows looking out through the fog. The street was barely visible in the mist. The dwarf peered around curiously, standing taller to see out the windows. Soon we arrived at a door marked "J. Cluebar and Co; Wizards."

I knocked twice and sent in my card, and moments later we were invited into Holmes' study.

One foot in front of the other

She was dying.

One foot... in front of the other

It was her time, but she wasn't ready to give up.

Next foot. Step forward.

Her weakened legs could barely hold her weight.

Lift it... up... and now down again

Overwhelmed with fatigue, she paused, wavering.

I must get home. But it's so far.

She felt the hard concrete beneath her.

A rest would be so nice. Yes, I think I'll rest a moment.

Slowly, her antennae drooped.

The hive never noticed her absence.

(Alternate title: Requiem for a honey bee.)

The metaphysical detective

I was born an optimist. Rather, I've been called one all my life, but it's not true. I'm a pessimist at heart. The worst will happen and there's no reason to be upset or gloomy about it. For this reason I went into business as a metaphysical detective.

Easter Story

A lot of people don't know the true story of Easter. Now, I'm not talking about the whole bit with the zombie Jesus and everything. Maybe that happened, maybe it didn't. But I'm going to tell you what really happened, and what the Christian Easter story is probably based on.

Freyja was a beautiful goddess, the fairest of all the Norse deities. She brought prosperity and comfort to all her followers, through the fertile crops her perfect seasons brought.

Loki, the Sly One, was jealous of Freyja and the happiness she brought to her people. He wanted to be as happy as they, so he went one day to Fólkvangr to woo her. He brought her gifts: exquisitely wound golden jewelry; sleek and powerful Forest Cats; and fine mead and ale.

But Freyja, remembering especially Loki's theft of her golden Necklace of Flame among his many other misdeeds, spurned his advances and turned him from her home.

Enraged, Loki flew to Midgard to plot his revenge.

One quiet autumn night, while Freyja was traveling in the countryside, she heard a tortured crying coming from the nearby forest. Stopping, she leapt from Hildisvini with her bow and dashed into the woods, where she found a wounded cat, laying in the moonlight. She knelt next to it to see how she could comfort it.

Suddenly, the cat transformed into Loki, who grabbed Freyja and sealed her into an enchanted hen's egg. Laughing at his cleverness, Loki ran from the forest, leaving the egg where it fell.

The winter was cold and harsh that year, and Frejya's people wondered what they had done to incur her wrath. Though they made many sacrifices, the cold and snow did not let up, and all the babies born that winter died.

Then, one day, as the worst of the weather was beginning to let up and it looked as though spring might actually be coming, a farmer's young son was gathering wood for the hearth when he came upon the egg, half buried in snow and fallen leaves. He picked it up, and began to run home to show his family the oddity. But a snarled root stuck up from the ground, and the egg flew from his hands and cracked open on the cold ground.

Immediately, Freyja jumped from the egg, and bent to calm the terrified child. She thanked him for freeing her, and the weather warmed.

And Freyja went to seek revenge on Loki for his trick. But that's a story for another time.