She stands up from the Go board, scattering white and black stones carelessly across the carpet. Her head drops to her chest and she clasps her hands in front of her, demure as a china doll. She is wearing a white dress that falls to her ankles and wraps almost chokingly around her throat, with sleeves long enough to almost cover her fingers. In some ways she reminds me of a nun, but then I went to a religious school.
"Harmony," I say, and then I stop. I don't know what to say to her.
"Yes," she replies, not looking up. I open my mouth, hoping that the act will inspire me with words, but then I hear the familiar rattle and slither, and looking down I see the Go stones skittering across the carpet like water boatmen across the surface of a lake.
"Oh Harmony!"
I turn at the high-pitched cry of disappointment behind me, and there stands an elderly woman, tall and proud as the now-fallen Statue of Liberty. She gazes at both of us, her disapproval radiating like heat from a pizza oven.
"Sweet Mother Mary," I say, crossing myself. My knees shake a little, though I quickly control them, and a cold sweat breaks out on my brow. Mother Mary, sweet or otherwise, was my teacher at the Immolian School. She died thirty-one years ago.
"Harmony, control yourself. You were named for a purpose."
Mother Mary fades away.
Harmony still stands there before me, her head down-bowed, but the Go stones have stopped moving.
"Harmony?" I ask, not certain of what has happened.
"I have a purpose," she replies, and pushes past me.
Sunday, 25 October 2009
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
The realignment halls
My footsteps raise small puffs of dust from the floor, and each puff of dust intensifies the smell of mould. It's gloomy in here, so it's hard to be sure, but I think the puffs of dust are actually greenish, and I'm a little worried that what I think is dust is actually just a thick layer of mould. Nonetheless, I've been told that this is the only way in, so this is the way I go. I pull my sleeve across my mouth and try to breathe shallowly, hoping that it will make a difference.
The room is narrow and long, and by the smoothness of whatever it is on the floor, hasn't been visited recently. This also worries me, as I only know of this place from ancient references. It's looking more and more likely that the realignment halls have been shut down or destroyed long ago, and the space is being reclaimed by Nature in her cthonic garb. I plod on anyway, clutching a tiny spark of hope in my heart. Even if the halls aren't in use any more I might be able to find something useful.
I reach the end of the room and stop, stymied by the wall in front of me. There's no obvious handle or way through, so I reach out, a little gingerly, and run my hand over the wall. It's smooth and dry, and nothing flakes away or bursts into sporeclouds. I relax a little, and use both hands to touch and probe all the wall I can reach. It goes up to the ceiling, about thirteen feet above me, so if the way in is up there I've no chance of finding it. The wall remains obdurately solid.
I shuffle over to the corner of the wall, pulling my sleeve back across my mouth again. Dust rises to the level of my knees, but I encounter nothing on the floor that might be a handle or lever. At the corner I check the wall that adjoins the one I want to pass. It's colder than my wall, but otherwise smooth and dry again; no secret panels, no touch-switches. Not even a neatly-printed white placard with instructions for seekers of enlightenment.
I shuffle across to the opposite wall. The flame of hope in my heart is guttering now. I reach it, again not finding anything on the floor, and reach out. Almost immediately I touch something yielding and fibrous. Spiderweb! I think, and I have to cruch my stomach hard and bend forward to stop myself screaming. I back up a little, staggering in my awkward pose, and make myself take a deep breath. Then another, and another, and then I can stand up again. It's the last thing I want to do, but I reach out again, and check out the spiderweb.
It's a bell-pull, a silken rope tied around a peg in the wall. My relief is so strong that I actually break out in a cold sweat on my forehead and my knees tremble, jellylike. I allow myself a tiny little chuckle at how stupid I've been, and then untie the bell-pull. It drops heavily to the level of my waist and hangs there, immobile in the stillness of the room.
I yank on it, tugging firmly, and almost immediately a line of light shines out of the middle of the wall as a door cracks open, and hangs very slightly ajar. The light is the soft yellow of the glowglobes used everywhere in Tal Mallan, and the flame of hope burns more strongly at last. I approach the door and, hopefully, the realignment halls.
The room is narrow and long, and by the smoothness of whatever it is on the floor, hasn't been visited recently. This also worries me, as I only know of this place from ancient references. It's looking more and more likely that the realignment halls have been shut down or destroyed long ago, and the space is being reclaimed by Nature in her cthonic garb. I plod on anyway, clutching a tiny spark of hope in my heart. Even if the halls aren't in use any more I might be able to find something useful.
I reach the end of the room and stop, stymied by the wall in front of me. There's no obvious handle or way through, so I reach out, a little gingerly, and run my hand over the wall. It's smooth and dry, and nothing flakes away or bursts into sporeclouds. I relax a little, and use both hands to touch and probe all the wall I can reach. It goes up to the ceiling, about thirteen feet above me, so if the way in is up there I've no chance of finding it. The wall remains obdurately solid.
I shuffle over to the corner of the wall, pulling my sleeve back across my mouth again. Dust rises to the level of my knees, but I encounter nothing on the floor that might be a handle or lever. At the corner I check the wall that adjoins the one I want to pass. It's colder than my wall, but otherwise smooth and dry again; no secret panels, no touch-switches. Not even a neatly-printed white placard with instructions for seekers of enlightenment.
I shuffle across to the opposite wall. The flame of hope in my heart is guttering now. I reach it, again not finding anything on the floor, and reach out. Almost immediately I touch something yielding and fibrous. Spiderweb! I think, and I have to cruch my stomach hard and bend forward to stop myself screaming. I back up a little, staggering in my awkward pose, and make myself take a deep breath. Then another, and another, and then I can stand up again. It's the last thing I want to do, but I reach out again, and check out the spiderweb.
It's a bell-pull, a silken rope tied around a peg in the wall. My relief is so strong that I actually break out in a cold sweat on my forehead and my knees tremble, jellylike. I allow myself a tiny little chuckle at how stupid I've been, and then untie the bell-pull. It drops heavily to the level of my waist and hangs there, immobile in the stillness of the room.
I yank on it, tugging firmly, and almost immediately a line of light shines out of the middle of the wall as a door cracks open, and hangs very slightly ajar. The light is the soft yellow of the glowglobes used everywhere in Tal Mallan, and the flame of hope burns more strongly at last. I approach the door and, hopefully, the realignment halls.
Monday, 14 September 2009
Bath-house
The chick-shaw dropped me off outside the bath-house and skittered off again, claws rattling against the cobbled street. A few seconds later the driver's howl of fear reached me; the street was so steep that I thought I'd been horizontal coming up it at one point so going down again must be far worse. I always walked down the steeper hills in Tal Mallan, and occasionally I wondered why they'd been so perverse as to build on them.
I entered, and in the vestibule was a cedar desk as fragrant now as it had been when it was first cut. It stretched a good twenty feet and was pristinely empty, not even dust dared rest upon it. A young lady sat behind it reading a book, and I noted that there were fourteen columns of characters across the double page. Almost certainly that meant it was written in Haruspic, the language of the Haruspice-eaters. She closed the book before she looked up, and she smiled at me dreamily.
"I'd like a bath, please," I said, and she nodded. Standing up, she moved further along the desk and produced a register which she proffered. A pen was attached to it with a blue silk ribbon, and I signed where she pointed. Two towels then appeared from some hidden container, along with a discreet bill slipped on top of them. I read it; it was written in Elatinate, the common language, and swallowed as discreetly as she'd passed me the bill. I paid anyway, as I had reasons to be here other than the bath. She pointed to a door in the wood-panelled wall, and I departed the desk.
The changing rooms, or deshabillation as the Mallan called them, were simple: some large wardrobes with plenty of hangers, some stacked footlockers with heavy iron keys, and a low bench running the length of the room. I disrobed and hung my clothes up, putting my wallet and the sealed package under my spare towel in a locker. Then I passed through.
The bath room was a large, cedar panelled room with high, broad windows that started thirteen feet above the floor and went up to the ceiling. There were twenty four baths laid out in a rectangular pattern, each sunk mostly into the floor. A lip, raised about six inches all round, stopped the unwary from walking into the baths, but not from tripping over and falling in face first. I imagined, knowing the Mallan temperament, that that would be a cause of much hilarity. Fragrant steam billowed and gusted in the air whenever the door opened or closed, and I could smell meadowsweet, wild violet, gentian and Attic rose wreathing around me. Almost immediately I felt myself relaxing.
I slipped my towel off and stepped into the second bath in the third row. The bath-house had only two other occupants, so getting the bath I'd been told to take was thankfully easy. I'd had no idea what excuses I could have made for waiting for a particular bath to come free. The water was hot enough to make me catch my breath, but I acclimatised quickly, and soon the only evidence was the beading of sweat on my brow. I laid back, relaxed, and waited for my contact.
I entered, and in the vestibule was a cedar desk as fragrant now as it had been when it was first cut. It stretched a good twenty feet and was pristinely empty, not even dust dared rest upon it. A young lady sat behind it reading a book, and I noted that there were fourteen columns of characters across the double page. Almost certainly that meant it was written in Haruspic, the language of the Haruspice-eaters. She closed the book before she looked up, and she smiled at me dreamily.
"I'd like a bath, please," I said, and she nodded. Standing up, she moved further along the desk and produced a register which she proffered. A pen was attached to it with a blue silk ribbon, and I signed where she pointed. Two towels then appeared from some hidden container, along with a discreet bill slipped on top of them. I read it; it was written in Elatinate, the common language, and swallowed as discreetly as she'd passed me the bill. I paid anyway, as I had reasons to be here other than the bath. She pointed to a door in the wood-panelled wall, and I departed the desk.
The changing rooms, or deshabillation as the Mallan called them, were simple: some large wardrobes with plenty of hangers, some stacked footlockers with heavy iron keys, and a low bench running the length of the room. I disrobed and hung my clothes up, putting my wallet and the sealed package under my spare towel in a locker. Then I passed through.
The bath room was a large, cedar panelled room with high, broad windows that started thirteen feet above the floor and went up to the ceiling. There were twenty four baths laid out in a rectangular pattern, each sunk mostly into the floor. A lip, raised about six inches all round, stopped the unwary from walking into the baths, but not from tripping over and falling in face first. I imagined, knowing the Mallan temperament, that that would be a cause of much hilarity. Fragrant steam billowed and gusted in the air whenever the door opened or closed, and I could smell meadowsweet, wild violet, gentian and Attic rose wreathing around me. Almost immediately I felt myself relaxing.
I slipped my towel off and stepped into the second bath in the third row. The bath-house had only two other occupants, so getting the bath I'd been told to take was thankfully easy. I'd had no idea what excuses I could have made for waiting for a particular bath to come free. The water was hot enough to make me catch my breath, but I acclimatised quickly, and soon the only evidence was the beading of sweat on my brow. I laid back, relaxed, and waited for my contact.
Sunday, 9 August 2009
Blaize
She had a stripe of white hair that ran from her crown to her fringe, standing starkly in comparison to her otherwise raven-black hair. Her hair was long and she put it up into a loose bun under her tricorn hat, but when she let it loose, as she had done now, it fell down the back of her neck like a mountain cataract and swirled around her shoulders like the whirlpools of legendary Charybdis.
She was stood on the bonnet of the car, dressed from head to toe in tight-fitting black leather and had a black opera cape with red lining pinned tightly at her throat. She looked for all the world like the lead in a modern werewolf movie. She was casually pointed a loaded gun at the windscreen, and conversing with the driver.
"Your money or your wife," she said, and laughed pleasantly. The driver looked a little stunned.
"She's not my wife," he said. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel.
"Oh dear," said the highwaywoman. "Then it looks like it has to be your money, doesn't it?"
"You can have her!" The driver was shaking, and the much younger blonde in the passenger seat looked unimpressed.
"Oi!" she squawked. "You can't give me away like tha--"
She was silenced by the highwaywoman stamping on the windscreen over her face and shattering it.
"Your money," she said, firmly, gesturing with the gun. The driver slowly, hesitantly, reached for his pockets, where presumably his wallet was. He pulled it out, and his hands were shaking.
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather have...?" he said, making one last attempt at keeping hold of his cash.
"Get out," said the highwaywoman, sighing. He and the woman in the passenger seat unbuckled their seatbelts, opened their doors, and climbed out. The highwaywoman shot the pair of them cleanly in the head, and jumped down off the car.
I left her rifling through their pockets, and headed off across country. I needed to get word out that Rebecca Turpin was on the loose once more.
She was stood on the bonnet of the car, dressed from head to toe in tight-fitting black leather and had a black opera cape with red lining pinned tightly at her throat. She looked for all the world like the lead in a modern werewolf movie. She was casually pointed a loaded gun at the windscreen, and conversing with the driver.
"Your money or your wife," she said, and laughed pleasantly. The driver looked a little stunned.
"She's not my wife," he said. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel.
"Oh dear," said the highwaywoman. "Then it looks like it has to be your money, doesn't it?"
"You can have her!" The driver was shaking, and the much younger blonde in the passenger seat looked unimpressed.
"Oi!" she squawked. "You can't give me away like tha--"
She was silenced by the highwaywoman stamping on the windscreen over her face and shattering it.
"Your money," she said, firmly, gesturing with the gun. The driver slowly, hesitantly, reached for his pockets, where presumably his wallet was. He pulled it out, and his hands were shaking.
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather have...?" he said, making one last attempt at keeping hold of his cash.
"Get out," said the highwaywoman, sighing. He and the woman in the passenger seat unbuckled their seatbelts, opened their doors, and climbed out. The highwaywoman shot the pair of them cleanly in the head, and jumped down off the car.
I left her rifling through their pockets, and headed off across country. I needed to get word out that Rebecca Turpin was on the loose once more.
Monday, 3 August 2009
Electrowife
Somewhere in the east the moon is rising. Strains of Saint-Saëns drift on the breeze, torn away from the ballroom and pulled outside. The clouds overhead swirl restlessly and the tops of the trees bend and rustle, sussurating like they have secrets to keep from me. I lean on the wrought-iron balcony, painted white by some lunatic designer employed by the equally insane Marchioness, and stare down into the rose garden below.
Of course, the Marchioness's favourite poet is Schiller, which I wholehearted agree with, so the rose garden is also a lion-court. Little steel trellises gate off entrances for robo-lions, and a larger exit is where the Marchioness's playthings hammer on the gate and claw in futile anxiety at the handle. Only two have survived so far, and one of them was thrown back to the robo-lions a week later. He wasn't so lucky the second time around.
The rose garden is blessedly empty at this time of the evening, and I can enjoy the proud flowers defying the increasing wind and the heady perfumes they release. I wondered once about husbanding them, breeding them to produce a perfume of almost narcotic intensity, but my plans were cut short by the Marchioness deciding that my money would be better spent on cybernetic enhancements for herself. Over the course of three years she went from being the woman I loved to a robo-frau; my electrowife.
I heard the mechanical click of the relays and know that someone, or something, robotic is approaching. I have laid them secretly all around the Hall so that she cannot sneak up on me, no matter how assiduously she oils her joints, nor how much money she spends on superconducting cable and noise-nullifiers.
She glides up beside me, silent as a corpse, and glitters brilliantly in the light from the windows above us.
"BzzztYou have left me with no-one to dance with" she says, her voice blurring at the start as it always does. I'm sure it's an error of some kind, but she insists that it is cosmetic, done for effect. I smile at her, and wave a hand at the garden below.
"I was enjoying the roses," I begin, but she cuts me off with a high-pitched feedback squeal, her way of indicating displeasure.
"BzzztThere are no lions tonight!"
"Robo-lions." I always correct her. It is important to remember that there is a distinction between robots and real people.
She squeals again, and tilts forward, leaning as far over the balcony as her metallic waist will allow.
"BzzztReturn with me."
I take her arm and she pulls me away, moving too fast for a walk and not fast enough for a run. I am being punished. I still smile though. I may not have been able to breed a narcotic perfume into my beloved roses, but I was still able to get them to produce a beautifully scented gas that rusts even the most advanced of robots. The robo-lions lying in decayed reddish pools of ferro-oxide proved my little experiment true.
I smile harder and sound cheerful. Freedom beckons once more.
Of course, the Marchioness's favourite poet is Schiller, which I wholehearted agree with, so the rose garden is also a lion-court. Little steel trellises gate off entrances for robo-lions, and a larger exit is where the Marchioness's playthings hammer on the gate and claw in futile anxiety at the handle. Only two have survived so far, and one of them was thrown back to the robo-lions a week later. He wasn't so lucky the second time around.
The rose garden is blessedly empty at this time of the evening, and I can enjoy the proud flowers defying the increasing wind and the heady perfumes they release. I wondered once about husbanding them, breeding them to produce a perfume of almost narcotic intensity, but my plans were cut short by the Marchioness deciding that my money would be better spent on cybernetic enhancements for herself. Over the course of three years she went from being the woman I loved to a robo-frau; my electrowife.
I heard the mechanical click of the relays and know that someone, or something, robotic is approaching. I have laid them secretly all around the Hall so that she cannot sneak up on me, no matter how assiduously she oils her joints, nor how much money she spends on superconducting cable and noise-nullifiers.
She glides up beside me, silent as a corpse, and glitters brilliantly in the light from the windows above us.
"BzzztYou have left me with no-one to dance with" she says, her voice blurring at the start as it always does. I'm sure it's an error of some kind, but she insists that it is cosmetic, done for effect. I smile at her, and wave a hand at the garden below.
"I was enjoying the roses," I begin, but she cuts me off with a high-pitched feedback squeal, her way of indicating displeasure.
"BzzztThere are no lions tonight!"
"Robo-lions." I always correct her. It is important to remember that there is a distinction between robots and real people.
She squeals again, and tilts forward, leaning as far over the balcony as her metallic waist will allow.
"BzzztReturn with me."
I take her arm and she pulls me away, moving too fast for a walk and not fast enough for a run. I am being punished. I still smile though. I may not have been able to breed a narcotic perfume into my beloved roses, but I was still able to get them to produce a beautifully scented gas that rusts even the most advanced of robots. The robo-lions lying in decayed reddish pools of ferro-oxide proved my little experiment true.
I smile harder and sound cheerful. Freedom beckons once more.
Monday, 27 July 2009
Come dine with me: Monday
So, I've made it onto this reality television show. The premise is simple, there are five of us, and each day one of us hosts the rest for dinner. The rest judge them, awarding them points out of ten, and at the end of the week the person with the most points in the winner. There's some kind of prize involved, but frankly I don't much care about that. All I care about is winning.
My competition is: Alan Spackle, a mechanic who's got a workshop a couple of streets over from me; Carmina Alliatori who apparantly specialises in erotic merchandising; Melissa Holywell, a single mother of six; and Vince Treblizie, a musician I've seen perform a few times at the local Conservative Club. On the surface, there doesn't look like there'll be a lot of competition, but I'm not willing to take any chances. I shall be making sure that they don't beat me.
Carmina is going first, and she's invited us all over for six. According to the menu she'll be offering a starter of field mushroom salad with poached quail eggs, a main course of pheasant a la King, and for dessert there'll be erotic Sundaes. On the whole, this sounds quite impressive. The theme of the evening is to be discretely exotic.
I pop over to her house around twelve on a reconnaissance mission. She turns out to live in quite a nice little semi-detached that backs onto the golf-course making it easy enough to mug a golfer in the car-park, nick his clubs, and sneak into her back garden. I catch her leading the camera crew into the living room while her preparations in the kitchen are left for the moment.
She's left the back-door unlocked, so it's the work of just a few moments to slip in and tip half her jar of curry powder into the chocolate sauce that looks destined for the Sundaes. She sounds like she's trying to avoid questions about erotic merchandising so I take a chance and check the fridge. Bingo! there's the cream for the a la king sauce. I add a healthy squirt of tobasco, slip the lid back on and give it a quick shake.
I'm just about to leave when I spot what must be her outfit for this evening hanging on the back of the door. It's all silk and spangles, glittery, low cut at the neck and high cut at the leg. Very lady-of-the-night. I slip back to the spice rack, dip my fingers in the chili powder and rub it on the inside of the dress where I think it might chafe.
On the whole, I'd say this evening's just got a whole lot hotter.
My competition is: Alan Spackle, a mechanic who's got a workshop a couple of streets over from me; Carmina Alliatori who apparantly specialises in erotic merchandising; Melissa Holywell, a single mother of six; and Vince Treblizie, a musician I've seen perform a few times at the local Conservative Club. On the surface, there doesn't look like there'll be a lot of competition, but I'm not willing to take any chances. I shall be making sure that they don't beat me.
Carmina is going first, and she's invited us all over for six. According to the menu she'll be offering a starter of field mushroom salad with poached quail eggs, a main course of pheasant a la King, and for dessert there'll be erotic Sundaes. On the whole, this sounds quite impressive. The theme of the evening is to be discretely exotic.
I pop over to her house around twelve on a reconnaissance mission. She turns out to live in quite a nice little semi-detached that backs onto the golf-course making it easy enough to mug a golfer in the car-park, nick his clubs, and sneak into her back garden. I catch her leading the camera crew into the living room while her preparations in the kitchen are left for the moment.
She's left the back-door unlocked, so it's the work of just a few moments to slip in and tip half her jar of curry powder into the chocolate sauce that looks destined for the Sundaes. She sounds like she's trying to avoid questions about erotic merchandising so I take a chance and check the fridge. Bingo! there's the cream for the a la king sauce. I add a healthy squirt of tobasco, slip the lid back on and give it a quick shake.
I'm just about to leave when I spot what must be her outfit for this evening hanging on the back of the door. It's all silk and spangles, glittery, low cut at the neck and high cut at the leg. Very lady-of-the-night. I slip back to the spice rack, dip my fingers in the chili powder and rub it on the inside of the dress where I think it might chafe.
On the whole, I'd say this evening's just got a whole lot hotter.
Sunday, 26 July 2009
Import, Export V
As far as I can tell, God has not yet discovered the whereabouts of my reclaimed secretary, and appears to be losing conviction that she's near me. In the last few weeks we've have no rains of poodles, no saintly manifestations and no plagues of cockroaches. That said, Scotland has had a couple of rains of poodles, St. Boniface has put in an appearance in an abattoir in Leamington Spa and brought the slaughtered cattle back to life, and Hastings has had repeated cockroach plagues. St. Boniface got reported on the BBC -- a solemn report with an artist's impression of St. Boniface -- and the cable news channels -- a live feed from the abattoir with flayed carcasses lurching about and trying to moo. The BBC are looking smug.
I've not found a sales angle on my engineer who can turn things to mould when he touches them, but I have made use of his anyway by sending him round to competitors. He can get into just about anywhere by turning locks to mould, or, with enough time, entire walls. I can foresee possibilities with this now, but first I have to break him of having a conscience.
We've had a shipment of chocolate teapots, which we've wrapped in tinfoil and sold on as antiques. The foil can be easily distressed, and when the teapot melts after the hot water's been poured in, we claim that it's age and stress related. We had a moment of worry when we saw that one of then had made it onto Antiques Roadshow, but luckily it melted under the studio lights before it could be examined.
In fact, they've been such successful sellers that I've decided to take the plunge and sell the silverware I've had in storage for the last couple of years. It's all made of arsenic with a very thin tin coating, but now that I've know I've got a target market that believes that antique silver can melt when it has tea poured into it, I know they'll buy the cheap silverware too. And if they die of arsenic poisoning, as my secretary pointed out, they can't sue for mis-selling.
It's a slow month, but business continues!
I've not found a sales angle on my engineer who can turn things to mould when he touches them, but I have made use of his anyway by sending him round to competitors. He can get into just about anywhere by turning locks to mould, or, with enough time, entire walls. I can foresee possibilities with this now, but first I have to break him of having a conscience.
We've had a shipment of chocolate teapots, which we've wrapped in tinfoil and sold on as antiques. The foil can be easily distressed, and when the teapot melts after the hot water's been poured in, we claim that it's age and stress related. We had a moment of worry when we saw that one of then had made it onto Antiques Roadshow, but luckily it melted under the studio lights before it could be examined.
In fact, they've been such successful sellers that I've decided to take the plunge and sell the silverware I've had in storage for the last couple of years. It's all made of arsenic with a very thin tin coating, but now that I've know I've got a target market that believes that antique silver can melt when it has tea poured into it, I know they'll buy the cheap silverware too. And if they die of arsenic poisoning, as my secretary pointed out, they can't sue for mis-selling.
It's a slow month, but business continues!
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