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.

Fangs for the Memories

"Ehen!"

I moaned groggily.

"Ehen! Wake uh!"

I opened one eye.

There, crouching upon my chest, was something that looked quite a lot like a tarantula. Its exoskeleton was covered in urticating hairs and it had two long fangs pointed directly at my chest. Its beady eyes were staring right into mine.

It raised its two front legs (it had five total) and tapped them on my chest.

"Ehen!"

"What?" I growled.

"Ih ime oo geh uh!" it hissed to me. It's time to get up!

I glared at it for a moment before sighing, "All right, Ligasha. I'm getting up."

Ligasha jumped off my chest and onto the nearby dresser.

There are certain advantages to being a mad scientist. You get to choose your own hours (subject to lightning storms, of course*); you can limit your contact with idiots to only those you've specifically chosen; and you can occasionally cackle maniacally without getting weird looks (except at restaurants).

But, you also have to live with the consequences of your actions. Well, normal people do, too, but it's not quite the same as "I seem to have put on a bit of weight over the holidays" and "Oh dear, I've accidentally invaded a sovereign nation and grossly underestimated the time and resources it would take". No, mad scientist consequences are more along the lines of "Holy crap, this gray goop just ate an entire continent" and "Great, now I have to attempt to integrate this new life form not only into the ecosystem but also into the social and geopolitical environment of human society."

That second one is mine, unfortunately. Don't get me wrong: Ligasha is a wonderful companion and has been an incredible boon to my research. But the other Pentapedes... well, let's just say that they're as varied in attitude and belief as humanity. Only without most of the inhibition.

Ligasha followed me from my bedroom and into the bathroom.

"What's up for today?" I asked.

You're supposed to be on a conference call with President Hawthorne and Prime Minister Kashsh** right after breakfast to discuss a peaceful resolution to the Manitoban Conflict, and after that, Steven, you had agreed to assist me with my latest experiment.***

"Of course, Ligasha. Hopefully Hawthorne and Kashsh will be more amenable to my requests this time."

Ligasha clung silently above me, thinking its own thoughts.

* Just kidding. Turns out you don't really require a lot of power to create life. And, besides, nuclear, solar and wind power (combined with appropriate capacitors) are a more reliable combination.

** The Pentapedes conquered most of Canada about five years ago, and have managed to run it quite well in the meantime, considering.

*** Pentapedes understand English, or any human language, perfectly well, being, on average, only slightly less intelligent than humans****. However, because their mouths are so different from human mouths, they have difficulty speaking it. From here onward, I will write what they mean, rather than their actual vocalizations.

**** But with a much larger standard deviation. Ligasha is a fairly exceptional example.

Trickery II

The monsters of my subconscious have been ebbing and flowing these past months.

Sometimes they remain invisible to me, gripping me, as before, in that half-conscious state between sleeping and waking, terrifying but passing quickly. Other times, I see them lurking in the shadows as I go about my day. They appear as little imps, or goblins, or demons of some sort, their pale eyes boring into me from inside my desk at work or the angular outline of their twisted bodies skulking in the darkened rooms of my apartment. Sometimes they beckon me to follow them into their dark hideaways, but I ignore them.

It sounds so silly—a grown man, afraid of the dark!—but I know there is something real to it.

And I know that they're growing stronger.

One day I will succumb.

Rattespierre

I have no fondness for January and March, the bluest months of the year, because it was the first big rain in January that brought me my present misfortune.

I came to in the cold and dark with a sniffle and a start. The rain was falling in cold sheets, pooled like cat's breath or curtains and piling up with debris behind the bridge columns where I lay. My sniffles echoed off the bridge above. It smelled damp and fresh, a bright smell in a dark place. The rain clamored down, hungry for the earth, in such a din it was hard to hear anything else. In the torrent of sound, a scant noise attracted my attention. Rats. My head spun and I blacked out again. The last sound I remembered was a hoarse whisper; I remember it sounding so dry and sandy it felt warm in the rain: Rattespierre.

I had no way of knowing he had saved my life that night. I was an outcast. Burped up from the river onto foreign land, my mere existence as a giant among these folk was illegal. Not that Rattespierre thought my skin was worth saving, only politically expedient to do so. He bore the brunt of many a joke for refusing to hand down a death sentence. He found it morally repugnant to kill . I felt miserable, knowing myself to be more selfish and less true to my ideals. Put into his position, I'd have hung the bastard and wept at my deserted morals. But not Rattespierre. His moral conviction may have swung like a noose in a windstorm, but he always walked North by what he thought was truth.

I hadn't even seen him, but nonetheless I felt he looked out for me. His impersonal refusal to have me killed was the only kindness shown to me in a land of man-sized rodents. I lacked the furtive glance, the deferential aversion to face-to-face contact. The few people (if I may call them that, as I have come to think of them) I had dealings with complained I made them uncomfortable with my earnest, transparent expression. I was hard to con, being such a pitiful and cold and hairless and obviously deformed Rat, and that was my only protection.

How many times I threw myself into the water, willing the river to take me back, I'm ashamed to say. What little I earned I got by telling stories of a land of hairless talking apes. Thousands of them, I would say; millions, teaming cities. With ratty guffaws, they would dismiss the ludicrous notion.

Maximilian Rattespierre. La Revolucion. La guillotine. The Committee of Public Safety.

I found myself running with him, hot on the vigilante winds of July. Rattespierre was an outlaw from a justice he had created. I was only running from la guillotine. They finally ran us to ground in Thermidor and caught up Rattespierre in a noose and I in a blanket. They marched us into the square in shackles, appropriating a boulongerie for a court. I abandoned him, slipping out while the attention of the tribunal was on him. I watched him face la guillotine. His jaw set, his nose pale, he shrugged off his captors' hands and went willingly.

I saw him as he lie there, red blood like July pooling about his paws, seeping into the crimson earth of Thermidor. His eyes were turned toward heaven, imploring the Divine Hand to the last. His body seemed so small as power slid from his shaggy hide. His limp form regressed from Rattespierre to just Max. He resembled nothing more than a giant dead rat.

July and September are the reddest months of the year.