"Did you see all those tortoise shells?" said Miss Flava as they drove away. Calamity, sat on the back seat, barked now and then, mud still sticking to her nose.
"Yes," said Playfair. "But Bartle barely noticed them. What did you say he was?"
"A Reverend," said Miss Flava. "You've got the case notes already, you only just read them! You're... in fact, you're sitting on them now!"
"Oh really?" Playfair didn't sound interested, but he did pull the notes out from underneath himself, tearing them only a little in the process. He made a show of going through the pages once again while Miss Flava peered at the road names and traffic signs and tried to work out where she was. For a small village, Little Haversham seemed to have a lot of very short streets.
"Can you believe where that idiot has parked!" she snarled as she braked hard coming round a corner to find a midnight blue, sleek, sporty-looking car several inches out from the kerb and dangerously close to the corner. "See, Playfair, this is what traffic wardens are for! Stopping people doing idiotic things like this!"
"That's not enough to justify their existence," said Playfair flatly. "The Nazis did good deeds now and then as well, you know."
"You're never comparing traffic wardens to the Nazis!" Miss Flava braked again just so she could stare at her boss in wonderment. "What the hell have traffic wardens ever done to you?"
"It says here that Bartle is a Reverend," said Playfair innocently, "but it doesn't tell me what church he's part of. Did no-one think that was important?"
Miss Flava gently eased her foot back on to the accelerator and the car moved forward again. At the cross-junction at the top of the street she finally spotted the road she was looking for: Potsdam Drive, about fifty yards the wrong way down a one-way street. Looking for traffic, and finding that they were the only car on the road, she indicated and drove down the one-way street regardless.
"He's attached to St. Samuels," she said. "That's the church we saw, in whose grounds the body was found. I think it's a C of E church."
"Hmph." Playfair shuffled the papers again. "Just because he's using a C of E church doesn't mean he's Anglican. A lot of those happy-clappy places use churches that have been sold off, and you sometimes have to look pretty closely to find out just what you're walking into. I want him checked out properly, get me some background on him."
"We could just ask him, of course," said Miss Flava. "We're in Little Haversham, I've no idea if they've heard of the internet this far outside of London."
"Fine, write it down as a question for later, then," said Playfair. "By the way, you're going the wrong way on a one-way street."
"Not any more," said Miss Flava, making her turning onto Potsdam Drive. Astonishingly, given how short all the other streets had been, this stretched into the distance. She kept her speed low so that she could see hidden entrances; there were lots of trees and high hedges on the sides of the road.
"Also," said Playfair, and Miss Flava mentally sighed a little. Her boss had clearly found things wrong in the investigation of the case so far, and not only would she hear about it now, she'd have to step in when he started on the luckless souls who'd not met his standards. "Also, it says here that the body was found in the woods next to the church, not on the church grounds."
"The woods actually belong to the church," said Miss Flava. "Though woods is perhaps a bit generous, it's more of a large copse."
"The corpse was found in the copse," said Playfair, gazing off into the distance again. "I wonder if that's just coincidence. You should have turned there, by the way."
Miss Flava restrained a snarl, having just spotted the sign announcing Little Haversham Police Station half-hidden behind a hedge, and too late to turn in. She braked, and started a three-point turn. This was not how she'd hoped to arrive.
Showing posts with label muses. Show all posts
Showing posts with label muses. Show all posts
Sunday, 1 January 2012
Saturday, 31 December 2011
Reverend Bartle II
"Er, isn't that one of those martial arts?" Reverend Bartle looked rather confused by Playfair's sudden change of tack, and Miss Flava sympathised. She looked over at Calamity who'd by now dug up nearly half of the tomato plants. At a guess, she'd say that a good half-a-morning's work had been reduced to so much scattered soil and half-dead plants. The green, meaty smell of tomato plants drifted towards her, and she wrinkled her nose a little. She'd never much liked tomatoes, preferring to hide them under salad leaves or pull them out of her egg-salad sandwiches and drop them in the bin. From which Calamity would invariably retrieve them, if they were in the office, and then eat them.
"No. That would make it respectable." Inspector Playfair was definite. "It's the art of re-arranging furniture for large sums of money. And I use the word art, rather than science, to indicate in particular that it is funded solely by people who think that the effect something has is more important than the cause responsible for it and who can't see when a painting is, in fact, just the result of the artist having a seizure in front of a canvas while holding paint. Rather than heal the poor bugger who's just chewed through eight tubes of paint they pay ridiculous sums of money for his canvas and hope he doesn't think of getting treatment himself."
"Er. Right," said Bartle. "So Feng Shui is redecorating with furniture is it? Is that something you do at IKEA?"
"I hope not. You're not a follower, or a fan of Feng Shui then?"
"Sorry, Inspector, I'm rather not. I don't do much interior design, my partner looks after all that kind of thing. I'm more of a cook and a gardener."
There was a pause while they both looked at Calamity who had now dug up all of the tomato plants and was frantically digging in the rockery, unearthing rocks, more soil, and the occasional tortoise shell.
"It looks like we might have to buy tomatoes this year," said Bartle with a hint of reproval. Playfair ignored him.
"What's your opinion of the dead then? You're a priest, right, you must have to do the odd funeral. Do you play with the bodies a bit first?"
"What?!" Bartle reddened and his eyes opened wider, he puffed his chest out and looked more than a little ridiculous in his dress. "What are you suggesting, officer?"
"I think he's suggesting that you tampered with the evidence," said Miss Flava, who was turning over the tortoise shells with a foot. They all seemed to be free of dead tortoise, fresh or decomposed, and there was no sign of the shells being broken into.
"What?" Bartle turned to face her now, still red in the face and his voice was increasing in pitch.
"How did you know it was a screwdriver sticking into his neck?" said Playfair, his voice suddenly soft and coercive. "If all you could see want the handle, and the man was hanging, so necessarily higher up than you because he's got to be off the ground, and the ground's all soft with blood, so you wouldn't get too close; if all this is true, how did you know he had a screwdriver in his neck?"
Bartle stared at Miss Flava, then at Playfair, and finally at Calamity, who was now in a hole almost the same size as her and still digging.
"They told me," he said weakly. "The policemen, when they came to ask me about things. They told me there was a screwdriver in the side of his neck. They wanted to see what tools I have, so I showed them. I keep them all in the greenhouse anyway, and screwdrivers aren't really gardening tools, are they? Where is you dog going, Inspector?"
"Down," said Playfair. "Don't worry, she wont' dig so deep that she can't get out again. So, you claim that you know about this screwdriver because someone else told you. Why are you telling me about it like you saw it at the time then?"
"I didn't know this was an interview! You just came over and let your damn dog loose to ruin my garden and started asking weird questions!" Bartle was tripping over his words now and looked extremely agitated; his hands were trembling and he kept smoothing down the front of his dress, unconsciously rubbing mud into it over and over again.
"Calamity! Car!" Playfair's voice was stentorian, and Calamity lifted her head, regarded him for a second, then bounded out of her hole and galloped back to the car. Miss Flava nudged the fifth tortoise shell into line with the others with her foot, and then strolled over to the car as well to open the door and let Calamity back in.
"I'll have more questions for you," said Playfair. "But I'll need to decide what they are first. Enjoy your gardening."
Bartle stared after them in astonishment, watching as Playfair made a stab at getting the driver's seat and was neatly cut-off by a very rapid Miss Flava. He grimaced, but went back round the to the passenger side and got in there while Miss Flava made sure she was in the driver's seat before he'd even opened his door. The dog, the enormous Rottweiler that had completely ruined his gardening, barked a couple of times, and then the engine started up and the car drove away, leaving him with no tomatoes, a huge hole in the rockery, and a ridiculous number of tortoise shells. He was pretty certain that neither he nor the previous priest had ever even owned a tortoise.
"No. That would make it respectable." Inspector Playfair was definite. "It's the art of re-arranging furniture for large sums of money. And I use the word art, rather than science, to indicate in particular that it is funded solely by people who think that the effect something has is more important than the cause responsible for it and who can't see when a painting is, in fact, just the result of the artist having a seizure in front of a canvas while holding paint. Rather than heal the poor bugger who's just chewed through eight tubes of paint they pay ridiculous sums of money for his canvas and hope he doesn't think of getting treatment himself."
"Er. Right," said Bartle. "So Feng Shui is redecorating with furniture is it? Is that something you do at IKEA?"
"I hope not. You're not a follower, or a fan of Feng Shui then?"
"Sorry, Inspector, I'm rather not. I don't do much interior design, my partner looks after all that kind of thing. I'm more of a cook and a gardener."
There was a pause while they both looked at Calamity who had now dug up all of the tomato plants and was frantically digging in the rockery, unearthing rocks, more soil, and the occasional tortoise shell.
"It looks like we might have to buy tomatoes this year," said Bartle with a hint of reproval. Playfair ignored him.
"What's your opinion of the dead then? You're a priest, right, you must have to do the odd funeral. Do you play with the bodies a bit first?"
"What?!" Bartle reddened and his eyes opened wider, he puffed his chest out and looked more than a little ridiculous in his dress. "What are you suggesting, officer?"
"I think he's suggesting that you tampered with the evidence," said Miss Flava, who was turning over the tortoise shells with a foot. They all seemed to be free of dead tortoise, fresh or decomposed, and there was no sign of the shells being broken into.
"What?" Bartle turned to face her now, still red in the face and his voice was increasing in pitch.
"How did you know it was a screwdriver sticking into his neck?" said Playfair, his voice suddenly soft and coercive. "If all you could see want the handle, and the man was hanging, so necessarily higher up than you because he's got to be off the ground, and the ground's all soft with blood, so you wouldn't get too close; if all this is true, how did you know he had a screwdriver in his neck?"
Bartle stared at Miss Flava, then at Playfair, and finally at Calamity, who was now in a hole almost the same size as her and still digging.
"They told me," he said weakly. "The policemen, when they came to ask me about things. They told me there was a screwdriver in the side of his neck. They wanted to see what tools I have, so I showed them. I keep them all in the greenhouse anyway, and screwdrivers aren't really gardening tools, are they? Where is you dog going, Inspector?"
"Down," said Playfair. "Don't worry, she wont' dig so deep that she can't get out again. So, you claim that you know about this screwdriver because someone else told you. Why are you telling me about it like you saw it at the time then?"
"I didn't know this was an interview! You just came over and let your damn dog loose to ruin my garden and started asking weird questions!" Bartle was tripping over his words now and looked extremely agitated; his hands were trembling and he kept smoothing down the front of his dress, unconsciously rubbing mud into it over and over again.
"Calamity! Car!" Playfair's voice was stentorian, and Calamity lifted her head, regarded him for a second, then bounded out of her hole and galloped back to the car. Miss Flava nudged the fifth tortoise shell into line with the others with her foot, and then strolled over to the car as well to open the door and let Calamity back in.
"I'll have more questions for you," said Playfair. "But I'll need to decide what they are first. Enjoy your gardening."
Bartle stared after them in astonishment, watching as Playfair made a stab at getting the driver's seat and was neatly cut-off by a very rapid Miss Flava. He grimaced, but went back round the to the passenger side and got in there while Miss Flava made sure she was in the driver's seat before he'd even opened his door. The dog, the enormous Rottweiler that had completely ruined his gardening, barked a couple of times, and then the engine started up and the car drove away, leaving him with no tomatoes, a huge hole in the rockery, and a ridiculous number of tortoise shells. He was pretty certain that neither he nor the previous priest had ever even owned a tortoise.
Monday, 21 November 2011
Playfair arriving
Miss Flava parallel parked, tucking the police car in between a white Prius and a blue Golf. There was no actual need to parallel park, there were several open spaces that could be driven straight into in the shopping centre car-park across the road, but she was determined to quietly prove to Detective Inspector Playfair that she was a competent driver.
"You said that there were no traffic wardens here?" was Playfair's dour comment as she turned the engine off. "Because if there are they'll be watching. They're like cuckoos you know."
"Cuckoos? Do you mean hawks, Sir?" Miss Flava looked across at her boss to find him staring out through the windscreen at an elderly lady with a big shopping bag and a poodle. She'd stopped under the weight of Playfair's glare and was looking nervous. Her poodle yipped, straining at its leash.
"Cuckoos," said Playfair, not looking away from the old woman. "The ones that lay their eggs in other birds nests. Vipers, the lot of them. And I think I've found one."
"Vipers? Playfair, I think you're mixing your metaphors rather badly, you don't find vipers in birds nests, and certainly not hatching out of cuckoo's eggs. And stop staring! That's an old woman, there are no traffic wardens in Haversham! There are two vacancies for traffic wardens and that's it!"
The poodle yipped again and pulled harder, trying to get away. In the back seat Calamity stirred, her ears pricking up, wondering what they're just heard.
"She looks like a traffic warden," said Playfair. "She's got that deer-in-the-bull-bars look, see. He pointed, and the old lady quivered, dropping her shopping bag. There was a soft crunch.
"Deer in the headlights, I hope," said Miss Flava marvelling at her boss's ability to desecrate the English language. "Although the way you drive, perhaps you're more accurate."
"What?" Playfair looked away from the old woman to glare now at Miss Flava, who was used to it. Out of his blistering gaze the old lady sagged like a puppet whose strings had just been caught, letting go of her dog's lead. The poodle barked again, and now Calamity sat up, her ears pricked and her eyes raking the view through the windscreen for the source of the noise.
"Down girl!" bellowed Playfair as Calamity prepared to spring. Miss Flava leaned towards the side-window instinctively, but Calamity obediently sat, as did the old lady. Her poodle yipped again and ran off, narrowly missing knocking a cyclist off his bike.
"Here," said Miss Flava, seizing the letter from the back seat just ahead of Calamity sitting back down on it. "Read this, so you at least know why we're here, and I'll keep an eye out for balloons."
"Cuckoos," said Playfair unfolding the paper. "Although in summer, perhaps caddis flies would be better."
"Cuckoos, then," said Miss Flava. "And Feng Shui consultants."
Five minutes later, after some grumbling and the occasional expletive directed at passers-by that Playfair thought were unnecessarily obstructing his sunlight, he laid the paper down on his knee and stared through the windscreen again.
"A murderous muse?" he said. "That's a bit odd, even for a place with no traffic wardens."
"What and what?" Miss Flava had read the paper and spoken with Right Reverend Derek Battle and had no idea what Playfair meant by either part of his statement.
"Well," said Playfair sounding thoughtful. His fingers drummed on his knee. "Traffic wardens are a lot weird in and of themselves, they kind of focus weirdness and unpleasant sensations in one place. A place that has no traffic wardens has to spread all that weirdness around a bit, so everything ends up being a bit odd, doesn't it?"
"Does it?" Miss Flava was still hunting for the source of Playfair antagonism to traffic wardens.
"Yes," said Playfair. "It's like a place with no mathematicians. Everyone else seems to get a bit cleverer to compensate."
"What are you trying to say, Playfair?"
"Shoot all the mathematicians and force people to be traffic wardens for a year. National Service, or something like it. Build some back-braces for people."
"You can't go shooting mathematicians!" Miss Flava was aghast. "But... but you're distracting me, Playfair, damn you. What was that about a murderous muse?"
"Melpomene," said Playfair, waving the paper. "According to this statement a man was murdered by the muse Melpomene. And considering she's the personification of a two-thousand year-old Greek ideal, that's very interesting."
"You said that there were no traffic wardens here?" was Playfair's dour comment as she turned the engine off. "Because if there are they'll be watching. They're like cuckoos you know."
"Cuckoos? Do you mean hawks, Sir?" Miss Flava looked across at her boss to find him staring out through the windscreen at an elderly lady with a big shopping bag and a poodle. She'd stopped under the weight of Playfair's glare and was looking nervous. Her poodle yipped, straining at its leash.
"Cuckoos," said Playfair, not looking away from the old woman. "The ones that lay their eggs in other birds nests. Vipers, the lot of them. And I think I've found one."
"Vipers? Playfair, I think you're mixing your metaphors rather badly, you don't find vipers in birds nests, and certainly not hatching out of cuckoo's eggs. And stop staring! That's an old woman, there are no traffic wardens in Haversham! There are two vacancies for traffic wardens and that's it!"
The poodle yipped again and pulled harder, trying to get away. In the back seat Calamity stirred, her ears pricking up, wondering what they're just heard.
"She looks like a traffic warden," said Playfair. "She's got that deer-in-the-bull-bars look, see. He pointed, and the old lady quivered, dropping her shopping bag. There was a soft crunch.
"Deer in the headlights, I hope," said Miss Flava marvelling at her boss's ability to desecrate the English language. "Although the way you drive, perhaps you're more accurate."
"What?" Playfair looked away from the old woman to glare now at Miss Flava, who was used to it. Out of his blistering gaze the old lady sagged like a puppet whose strings had just been caught, letting go of her dog's lead. The poodle barked again, and now Calamity sat up, her ears pricked and her eyes raking the view through the windscreen for the source of the noise.
"Down girl!" bellowed Playfair as Calamity prepared to spring. Miss Flava leaned towards the side-window instinctively, but Calamity obediently sat, as did the old lady. Her poodle yipped again and ran off, narrowly missing knocking a cyclist off his bike.
"Here," said Miss Flava, seizing the letter from the back seat just ahead of Calamity sitting back down on it. "Read this, so you at least know why we're here, and I'll keep an eye out for balloons."
"Cuckoos," said Playfair unfolding the paper. "Although in summer, perhaps caddis flies would be better."
"Cuckoos, then," said Miss Flava. "And Feng Shui consultants."
Five minutes later, after some grumbling and the occasional expletive directed at passers-by that Playfair thought were unnecessarily obstructing his sunlight, he laid the paper down on his knee and stared through the windscreen again.
"A murderous muse?" he said. "That's a bit odd, even for a place with no traffic wardens."
"What and what?" Miss Flava had read the paper and spoken with Right Reverend Derek Battle and had no idea what Playfair meant by either part of his statement.
"Well," said Playfair sounding thoughtful. His fingers drummed on his knee. "Traffic wardens are a lot weird in and of themselves, they kind of focus weirdness and unpleasant sensations in one place. A place that has no traffic wardens has to spread all that weirdness around a bit, so everything ends up being a bit odd, doesn't it?"
"Does it?" Miss Flava was still hunting for the source of Playfair antagonism to traffic wardens.
"Yes," said Playfair. "It's like a place with no mathematicians. Everyone else seems to get a bit cleverer to compensate."
"What are you trying to say, Playfair?"
"Shoot all the mathematicians and force people to be traffic wardens for a year. National Service, or something like it. Build some back-braces for people."
"You can't go shooting mathematicians!" Miss Flava was aghast. "But... but you're distracting me, Playfair, damn you. What was that about a murderous muse?"
"Melpomene," said Playfair, waving the paper. "According to this statement a man was murdered by the muse Melpomene. And considering she's the personification of a two-thousand year-old Greek ideal, that's very interesting."
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
Musings II
"That's a majority vote," said Cio. "Five of nine agree."
"Who did the turning into a magpie thing last time then?" Terpsichore was pirouetting, one after another now, and her voice sounded strangely distorted and disembodied. Five heads all looked at one another, shaking slightly as they did so.
"Oh bugger," said Calliope. "Well, whichever one of us did it had better remember how then."
"It's not really a dance thing," said Terpsichore. "I can do the Red Shoes though."
"That's not Greek legend!" Clio sounded snappish.
"Maybe," said Terpsichore, "but it is dancing, so I can do it. Find me Carnalità and I'll have her dancing in red hot shoes for the next eternity-and-a-half."
"Well, if it comes to that, becoming a magpie's not a tragedy but becoming disfigured or disabled is, especially in modern society," said Melpomene. "If anyone's got a knife, I can definitely sort that out."
There was a shocked silence while the other four Muses stared at her, and she stared defiantly back. "It's not like they come with manuals," she said, "It's pretty much just poke and twist, poke and twist."
"Ah, it sounds like we're talking about Carnalità," said a new voice. Erato rose gracefully from the ground, an exedra appearing underneath her and supporting her upward movement. Her exedra was covered with finely chiselled love poetry.
"Actually, Melpomene was just letting us in on how violent she's getting," said Clio. "She's offering to disable and/or disfigure Carnalità."
"That sounds like a plan," said Erato. "I could make sure she enjoys it while it's happening. The S&M scene seems to be producing so much material these days that I've had to have a new toga made, out of leather."
The other muses now regarded Erato who toga was indeed black, leather, and appeared to be able to divide into numerous straps and bindings with a shake of a wrist.
"That's very..." said Calliope, and the other Muses nodded agreement.
"Not exactly my choice," said Erato, "but we have to move with the times, don't we?"
"No," said Clio. "We learn from history, don't forget."
"So, historically then," said Melpomene with an edge in her voice, "which of us did the magpie trick last time?"
Clio looked momentarily furious, and then a stack of parchment crashed down on the paved floor beside her.
"Give me a minute, and I'll find out," she said.
"How are you going to disable her?" said Terpsichore, sitting down at last and massaging her feet. "I want to make her dance, don't forget."
"Oh, now we're just being cruel!" Urania looked upset. "You can't put her in a wheelchair then in red hot shoes that force her to dance!"
"Fine, fine," said Melpomene. "I'll just disfigure her then. Cut off her ears, nose, some fingers, carve someone's name on her back, that kind of thing."
"Just who are you hanging around with these days?" said Calliope. "You used to be one of the nicest people I'd ever met."
"Magpies!" called out Clio, attracting their attention. "Bad news girls, apparently Apollo did it for us."
"That's not bad news," said Urania. "We can ask him to do it again."
"Carnalità's supposed to be sleeping with him though," said Clio. "I thought everyone had heard that rumour?"
"He'll do it if we're unanimous," said Melpomene. "He can't live without us, you know."
"That's true," said Polyhymnia, stepping into the circle. "Did you girls not walk here then?"
"Magpies?" asked Clio, and seven hands now rose. "Great, that's good enough. Let's get Apollo on the case."
Melpomene put the knife that she'd fashioned from her exedra down, and followed the rest of the Muses on a trip to see Apollo. Behind them, the grass still grew and the wind blew silently around their meeting place.
"Who did the turning into a magpie thing last time then?" Terpsichore was pirouetting, one after another now, and her voice sounded strangely distorted and disembodied. Five heads all looked at one another, shaking slightly as they did so.
"Oh bugger," said Calliope. "Well, whichever one of us did it had better remember how then."
"It's not really a dance thing," said Terpsichore. "I can do the Red Shoes though."
"That's not Greek legend!" Clio sounded snappish.
"Maybe," said Terpsichore, "but it is dancing, so I can do it. Find me Carnalità and I'll have her dancing in red hot shoes for the next eternity-and-a-half."
"Well, if it comes to that, becoming a magpie's not a tragedy but becoming disfigured or disabled is, especially in modern society," said Melpomene. "If anyone's got a knife, I can definitely sort that out."
There was a shocked silence while the other four Muses stared at her, and she stared defiantly back. "It's not like they come with manuals," she said, "It's pretty much just poke and twist, poke and twist."
"Ah, it sounds like we're talking about Carnalità," said a new voice. Erato rose gracefully from the ground, an exedra appearing underneath her and supporting her upward movement. Her exedra was covered with finely chiselled love poetry.
"Actually, Melpomene was just letting us in on how violent she's getting," said Clio. "She's offering to disable and/or disfigure Carnalità."
"That sounds like a plan," said Erato. "I could make sure she enjoys it while it's happening. The S&M scene seems to be producing so much material these days that I've had to have a new toga made, out of leather."
The other muses now regarded Erato who toga was indeed black, leather, and appeared to be able to divide into numerous straps and bindings with a shake of a wrist.
"That's very..." said Calliope, and the other Muses nodded agreement.
"Not exactly my choice," said Erato, "but we have to move with the times, don't we?"
"No," said Clio. "We learn from history, don't forget."
"So, historically then," said Melpomene with an edge in her voice, "which of us did the magpie trick last time?"
Clio looked momentarily furious, and then a stack of parchment crashed down on the paved floor beside her.
"Give me a minute, and I'll find out," she said.
"How are you going to disable her?" said Terpsichore, sitting down at last and massaging her feet. "I want to make her dance, don't forget."
"Oh, now we're just being cruel!" Urania looked upset. "You can't put her in a wheelchair then in red hot shoes that force her to dance!"
"Fine, fine," said Melpomene. "I'll just disfigure her then. Cut off her ears, nose, some fingers, carve someone's name on her back, that kind of thing."
"Just who are you hanging around with these days?" said Calliope. "You used to be one of the nicest people I'd ever met."
"Magpies!" called out Clio, attracting their attention. "Bad news girls, apparently Apollo did it for us."
"That's not bad news," said Urania. "We can ask him to do it again."
"Carnalità's supposed to be sleeping with him though," said Clio. "I thought everyone had heard that rumour?"
"He'll do it if we're unanimous," said Melpomene. "He can't live without us, you know."
"That's true," said Polyhymnia, stepping into the circle. "Did you girls not walk here then?"
"Magpies?" asked Clio, and seven hands now rose. "Great, that's good enough. Let's get Apollo on the case."
Melpomene put the knife that she'd fashioned from her exedra down, and followed the rest of the Muses on a trip to see Apollo. Behind them, the grass still grew and the wind blew silently around their meeting place.
Tuesday, 15 November 2011
Musings
A little way into the hills the grass gave way to a small, paved circle slightly aside from the path. The stone used to pave the circle was grey and its surface was glassy, allowing people standing on it to keep seeing glimpses of their reflections looking back up at them. For many centuries it had been known by the locals as the Circle of Ancestors, and before that it was called Orbituum Irascae, the Sphere of Angry Ghosts. Now its name was mostly forgotten, the path was becoming overgrown with grass and weeds, and only children fleeing parents and school ever came here any more.
A voice sobbed somewhere, no body visible, and the air shimmered as though a heat haze had arisen. From the ripples in the air a tall, graceful woman stepped, wearing a sheet like a toga and holding a sad-faced mask in front of her own face. An exedra, a stone bench, extruded itself from the paved circle and attempted to look comfortable. She looked around her, the mask always in front of her face, and then sat down, arranging her toga to show off her legs without being unduly lascivious.
A handful of notes, plucked from a stringed instrument sounded next, and another woman, taller and thinner than the first but also wearing a toga, appeared in the centre of the circle. The exedra lengthened itself slightly, but the newcomer ignored it, flexing her knees and then pirouetting.
"Stop showing off, Terps," said the first woman. Terpsichore, the Muse of dance, poked her tongue out.
"Be nice, Mel," she said. "I see you've been branching out again."
"What do you mean?" Melpomene's voice was a little muffled behind her mask, but still sounded affronted.
"That's got to be the third boy-band this week that's had a member commit suicide in extremely tragic circumstances. We can see your hand behind it you know. Even if the humans don't believe any more, even if too few of them remember or appreciate, the rest of us know what you're up to."
"You're hardly a snowdrop yourself," said Melpomene laying the mask down on the exedra. "What was that Italian politician called that decided to abandon their first sensible economic policy in forty years and become a flamenco dancer? Flamenco's not even an Italian dance!"
"She's doing very well for herself," said Terpsichore. "Much better than she would have done as a politician."
"And all of those little boys martyred themselves for me," said Melpomene. "They all knew what they were doing and why they were doing it."
"Fifteen minutes of fame," said a new voice. "Warhol was never a muse you know, for all he acted like it occasionally."
The two muses looked to one side, where Calliope had manifested. Somewhere in the air behind her was the scritching of a pen writing quickly across thick, expensive paper. Like the first two, she was wearing a toga, and in one hand she was carrying a Kindle.
"What's that?" said Terpsichore immediately.
"An electronic reading device," said Calliope with a hint of a sigh. She walked across the circle and sat down on the exedra, next to Melpomene. "Apparently these contain many, many books inside a single object, smaller and thinner than any interesting tome."
"Sounds novel," said Mel politely.
"I quite like it, actually," said Calliope. "It's about time there was a better way to transport the written word. And I think these can be made fire-proof!"
"But not water-proof?" Terpsichore stuck her tongue out again, and Calliope waved, as though swatting her away.
"Why are we gathering this time?" she asked. "Surely there's been no major upheaval in the arts, or new wars with consequences for creativity?"
"Ah," said Melpomene. "It's about the new Muse."
"New Muse? What new Muse?"
"Carnalità," said Urania, somehow stepping out of the sky as though she'd always been there. She dropped the globe she was carrying, which rolled off towards Terpsichore. "Bugger. I much preferred the world when it was flat, you know? Much easier to carry around. Can I have that back, sister?"
"Who is Carnalità?" said Calliope, persistently. She ducked, dodging the compass that Urania was holding as Urania swung around to look at her again.
"She wants to be a Muse," said Melpomene. She gestured, conjuring another exedra from the ground behind Urania, who sat down looking grateful. Terpsichore tossed the globe to her. "She wants to be the Muse of Desire."
"Oh?" Calliope sounded bored already. "What did we do with the last bunch of girls who wanted to be Muses?"
"The Pierides? I think they were turned into magpies, weren't they? Very fitting, the wretched children would never stop chattering." Clio had appeared now, lounging on the exedra next to Urania, who started and dropped her globe again.
"All in favour of another magpie?"
Five hands rose.
A voice sobbed somewhere, no body visible, and the air shimmered as though a heat haze had arisen. From the ripples in the air a tall, graceful woman stepped, wearing a sheet like a toga and holding a sad-faced mask in front of her own face. An exedra, a stone bench, extruded itself from the paved circle and attempted to look comfortable. She looked around her, the mask always in front of her face, and then sat down, arranging her toga to show off her legs without being unduly lascivious.
A handful of notes, plucked from a stringed instrument sounded next, and another woman, taller and thinner than the first but also wearing a toga, appeared in the centre of the circle. The exedra lengthened itself slightly, but the newcomer ignored it, flexing her knees and then pirouetting.
"Stop showing off, Terps," said the first woman. Terpsichore, the Muse of dance, poked her tongue out.
"Be nice, Mel," she said. "I see you've been branching out again."
"What do you mean?" Melpomene's voice was a little muffled behind her mask, but still sounded affronted.
"That's got to be the third boy-band this week that's had a member commit suicide in extremely tragic circumstances. We can see your hand behind it you know. Even if the humans don't believe any more, even if too few of them remember or appreciate, the rest of us know what you're up to."
"You're hardly a snowdrop yourself," said Melpomene laying the mask down on the exedra. "What was that Italian politician called that decided to abandon their first sensible economic policy in forty years and become a flamenco dancer? Flamenco's not even an Italian dance!"
"She's doing very well for herself," said Terpsichore. "Much better than she would have done as a politician."
"And all of those little boys martyred themselves for me," said Melpomene. "They all knew what they were doing and why they were doing it."
"Fifteen minutes of fame," said a new voice. "Warhol was never a muse you know, for all he acted like it occasionally."
The two muses looked to one side, where Calliope had manifested. Somewhere in the air behind her was the scritching of a pen writing quickly across thick, expensive paper. Like the first two, she was wearing a toga, and in one hand she was carrying a Kindle.
"What's that?" said Terpsichore immediately.
"An electronic reading device," said Calliope with a hint of a sigh. She walked across the circle and sat down on the exedra, next to Melpomene. "Apparently these contain many, many books inside a single object, smaller and thinner than any interesting tome."
"Sounds novel," said Mel politely.
"I quite like it, actually," said Calliope. "It's about time there was a better way to transport the written word. And I think these can be made fire-proof!"
"But not water-proof?" Terpsichore stuck her tongue out again, and Calliope waved, as though swatting her away.
"Why are we gathering this time?" she asked. "Surely there's been no major upheaval in the arts, or new wars with consequences for creativity?"
"Ah," said Melpomene. "It's about the new Muse."
"New Muse? What new Muse?"
"Carnalità," said Urania, somehow stepping out of the sky as though she'd always been there. She dropped the globe she was carrying, which rolled off towards Terpsichore. "Bugger. I much preferred the world when it was flat, you know? Much easier to carry around. Can I have that back, sister?"
"Who is Carnalità?" said Calliope, persistently. She ducked, dodging the compass that Urania was holding as Urania swung around to look at her again.
"She wants to be a Muse," said Melpomene. She gestured, conjuring another exedra from the ground behind Urania, who sat down looking grateful. Terpsichore tossed the globe to her. "She wants to be the Muse of Desire."
"Oh?" Calliope sounded bored already. "What did we do with the last bunch of girls who wanted to be Muses?"
"The Pierides? I think they were turned into magpies, weren't they? Very fitting, the wretched children would never stop chattering." Clio had appeared now, lounging on the exedra next to Urania, who started and dropped her globe again.
"All in favour of another magpie?"
Five hands rose.
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