Requiem for a Clown

“Finish in 20 minutes or you’re dead”

- the first rule of clowning.


Boris the Clown turned off the engine and sat in the car outside 3301 Forrester Avenue.

(listen to me, it don’t matter if the name stinks - what name comes up first when people type Chicago Children’s Clown into Google? That’s right, Boris the fucking Clown, that’s who.)

A high pitched wail drifted out of the dark brick bungalow. It was quickly joined by another, an octave above. Girl screams. Boris sighed, the order form had said it was Sasha’s 5th birthday. Wasn’t Sasha a boys name? It had been when he was young, oi! imagine if he had told Sasha Ivanovich in 4th grade that he had a girl’s name? Boris smiled, he would have beat me bloody.The smile faded. Well, beat me bloody more often.

Another banshee joined the chorus. Boy parties were more trouble than girl parties, but girls were screamers. And these were drilling right into the fifth of Zubrowka vodka that was sitting inside Boris’ head. As he closed his eyes against the screams, he remembered the reason for his hangover and the smile returned.

(so you want the name, the website boristheclown.com, the outfit, the wig, the client list, the blacklist. All of it... and you’ll pay me how much?)

The signed contract sat on the dashboard. But this gig at Forrester Avenue had been paid in advance. Once he was done here he would put the contract in the mailbox. Boris picked up a small suitcase off the back seat and walked up to the house. He pushed the doorbell and waited. Maybe they didn’t hear it. He raised his hand again.

The door opened on a small dark-haired WASP woman. There it was - the classic three stage reaction. Shock at the appearance of a grease-painted man with an orange wig; then recognition that this was the clown she had ordered on-line two months ago; and finally pity, at seeing a grown man dressed that way. It was the pity that always stung.

She recovered quicker than most. “Ah, Mr Sokolov, please come in.”

Boris smiled at the mangled pronunciation. “Please, call me Boris.”

She smiled back. “Thanks Boris, I’m Sarah, Sasha’s mom. They’re all in the living room.”

The screams redoubled when he entered, all eyes fixed on his outfit and wig. Boris worked his way through the maelstrom of pigtails and tiny fists and set down his suitcase on the table. He looked at the clock - 3:30pm on the dot. There was no point calling for attention, the best thing he had learnt was just to start. He launched into his routine.

The screaming stopped immediately. Boris glanced up from where he was pulling a rope of knotted handkerchiefs out of his fist, worried that the kids had all disappeared into thin air. But he saw something even more incredible, they were watching him. Each face rapt with attention at his every move.

The deafening silence attracted the parents from the kitchen who gathered at the back of the room to watch his schtick. But it was no longer schtick, it was a performance. Everything worked perfectly - the timing, the sleight of hand. He wasn’t just interesting, he was leading them by the nose, telling them what emotions they should be feeling - happy, curious, worried, relieved. They were hooked.

Boris looked back at the clock - 3:50pm. He had to stop. But the upturned faces stared at him in fascination. Even the smirks on the adults had been replaced by broad smiles. He had captured them, like he had captured his first audience all those years ago. That first hot shot of acting that convinced him he had to live his life on the stage. That half-forgotten thrill, like seeing an old lover again for the first time in years, crept up his spine. He had to hold this moment. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a deck of cards.

“Take a card, any card,” he gestured to the nearest girl. “But don’t show me.”

She grinned and drew one out. Boris’ heart pounded. Now for the grand finale.

Like a shark swimming up behind its prey, a small girl had circled around Boris, her dorsal fin sliding below his peripheral vision.

“And now I predict... ” Boris began.

With a swift jab, the shark behind Boris lashed out and jabbed his left knee. The knee that Sasha Ivanovich had broken all those years ago; that was held together by small strands of sinew and cartilage.

Boris collapsed, the house of cards in his hands flying out over the audience - every one of them was a seven of diamonds.

The spell broke. The children leapt up and started throwing the cards at each other. The smirks had returned to the lips of the parents. Jabbing needles shot up through Boris’ body as he knelt on the carpet. The pain matched only by the humiliation of his failed act.

Sarah walked over to him and took him by the arm, helping him stand.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry Boris, I didn’t see little Sasha there behind you. Are you OK?”

Boris gritted his teeth as he stood and looked at the mock sincerity behind the smile. “I’m fine, I’m fine. That was how I meant it to end. Ha, little bubelah - she’ll be a performer herself one day.”

Sarah beamed at the fake praise.

Boris walked out the front door and limped back to the car. Slumping into the front seat he tore off the wig and threw it onto the floor. He picked up the contract sitting in front of him. It was the end of the shame, the ridicule. But still, he’d had them, hadn’t he? Even if it was just for a moment?

The grease paint stained the paper as Boris sat and stared at it for a long time.

The Champion

Selfoss isn’t a town that looks like it’s a thousand years old. There are no gothic cathedrals or narrow medieval streets that follow the path of an ancient cow track. It’s just a few hundred neat, scandinavian buildings straddling the Olfusa river. Which, by the way, looks even newer than the town, like it just carved a course out of the flat, Icelandic plain in the last shower. In fact, the oldest thing here is the person I’ve come to meet. Although being buried in the local cemetery does tend to give you a certain permanent longevity in a place.

The headstone is a neat little thing. Just a name and dates:

Robert James Fisher
March 9, 1943 – January 17, 2008.


I can only be thankful they didn’t try to make it some gauche chess symbol.

I take out a small folding chair and place it in the snow that dusts the graveyard. Now it’s just a matter of waiting, so I sit down and start reading through my iphone’s twitter feed.

***
It’s a week after the July 4 fireworks and the summer of 1972 is shaping up to be the hottest in a century in suburban Ohio. It’s already 100 degrees and not even noon. I’ve retreated to the small back room in our house where a watercooler blows humid air across the couch. On the grainy black and white TV, the Spassky-Fisher world chess championship is starting.

Now, I’m not going to bore with a bunch of chess annotation. K-KKt2, BxE4, who gives a shit, right? The one thing you need to know is that the game starts out even, and if it remains even, then its a draw. That first game, Spassky was as level as a Tupolev Tu-95 strategic nuclear bomber. Pieces were walking off the board in perfect matched pairs and it was a sure thing that both players would simply pick up a ½ point each. Bobby had to tip the scales, make the sides uneven.

***
A new tweet pops up. “So you think game 1 was a blunder?”

I look at the name of the sender, but the letters fade out of focus, like they’re struggling to exist in this medium.

“Was that a rhetorical q?” I reply.

“No. I still don’t know the answer myself.”

***
Even as a ten year old, I knew it was a blunder. Yes it broke the symmetry of the position, but at what cost? Spassky sat and pondered the move for a long time, looking for the trap. But there wasn’t one. No matter how the position was calculated, Bobby was one move short and couldn’t stop losing the piece, and the game.

Spassky was up 1-0.

***
An RT from some anti-zionist nutjob pops up. I ignore it and try to type on the small keyboard but the cold is starting to numb my fingers.

“So what happened with Game 2?”

“:-) that was tipping the scales.”

***
Had this ever happened before in any world championship? Chess or otherwise? (This was well before the internet so the television announcers could confidently claim that it hadn’t.)

The clock on the screen read 6:59pm. The game had to start at 7:00pm. The cameras focussed on Spassky, sitting calmly at the board. Across from him, an empty seat. Bobby hadn’t turned up, had told the organisers he wouldn’t be turning up, was already on a plane back to the States, had been kidnapped by the KGB. Half a world away I sat staring at the old Bakelite television, willing Bobby to walk out onto the stage at the last second and take up the challenge.

He didn’t. The clock flashed 7:00pm and Spassky stood up and walked off stage. He was up 2-0.

***

Snow begins to fall in the long Arctic twilight.

“What did Spassky say?”

“That old Jew Kissinger actually called me. Said I was a soldier in the war against the evil empire. Hah, their thanks didn't last long did t-” the 140 character limit cut off the sentence.

“What did Spassky say?” I repeat.

“He was KGB you know. They all were, Karpov, Kasparov. Thought they were invincible. Thought I was burnt out. Would have agreed to anything.”

Another tweet comes through.

“They thought I was mad…”

***
Game 3 just showed a commentator moving pieces on a board. Bobby had requested the third game take place off camera in a small back room. Spassky agreed. So all we saw were the moves that were replicated by notes being passed out of the game room onto the big board out the front.

In my own small back room the temperature had soared. The water cooler had packed it in, so I sat sweatstuck to the couch. My eyes transfixed by the unfolding game. Bobby was playing black and from the first move was playing an unbalanced opening. Spassky tried to impose order on the board but then Bobby wrenched the fulcrum of the game away from his opponent. But unlike the move in game 1, he had calculated this move to perfection.

After the checkmate, the reports said that Bobby got straight up and walked out, but Spassky sat in that small back room for a long, long time. Staring at the board.

The rest of the match was a foregone conclusion and Bobby romped home to an easy win, becoming the first American world chess champion in nearly a hundred years.

And never played in another chess tournament again.

***
I painstakingly type in the question I had been waiting over 50 years to ask. My finger pauses over the send button. But the feed is filling up with rants about conspiracies and hate and anger. Simultaneously they are fading out of view as the connection dies off. He is almost gone, this is my last chance to ask. But my finger moves across to the delete key instead and wipes out the text.

The answer lies where it has always been, in a small back room in suburban Ohio in the summer of 1972, where, for a few short days, I was the champion.

The Four Trillionth Human

The midnight sun was low on the horizon, when, on a crowded hillside on the Antarctic plateau, the four trillionth human was born. A boy.

The event passed with little notice from the thousands of brown, naked people surrounding them. They carried on sitting or standing or staring vacantly at the person next to them or the muddy red sky overhead. Every here and there a couple had remembered their primal urges and were fucking vigorously in the dust, a brief firecracker of energy that dissipated quickly into the apathy of the crowd.

Even the mother paid the boy little attention, glancing briefly at the mewling infant at her feet before wandering off into the throng. There was no need, the boy’s body had already rejected the umbilical cord, sealing off his final connection to his parent as the skin on his stomach healed over itself. Instinctively he rolled out of the shade of the man standing near him and lay still in the cold rays of the sun.

**

His earliest memories were of dust. It coated everything, like a gritty extra skin that couldn’t be shed. He licked it, crawled in it, grabbed up handfuls of it and shouted and threw it at the legs that surrounded him. No response. Alone, a brief, ancient fear would pulse in the back of his mind, only to be smothered by a warm glow as the backup system engineered into his brain released its chemical load, causing him to simply lie there quietly. Neither hungry nor thirsty nor tired nor alarmed.

**

As he grew taller his mind’s curiosity subsided. Synapses stopped firing as his brain rewired itself to enlarge the pleasure centres. By puberty his mind was in an almost constant state of euphoria. The people around him fading into insignificance. The only instinct that would cut through now was when he saw a female. After briefly growling at each other they would fall to the ground and rut for a few minutes before rolling off again, instantly forgetting what had just happened.

**

His tenth winter was when things changed. Deep in the recesses of his cortex a new connection formed – instructed by a random mutation in his junk DNA. Unpredictable but inevitable. He stood in the dark as the darkness lifted from his consciousness and as the sun rose a month later, he looked at it as if for the first time. The light revealed he was standing in the centre of a small, circular depression about a hundred yards across. The edges of the depression sloped up sharply to the ridge line around the circumference. The basin was packed – at least five thousand people stood shoulder to shoulder all around him.

For the first time in several years, the fear returned. Small at first, but, finding its old foe had vanished, it quickly spread its wings into a full blown panic. He had to get out of this crowd; pushing forward through the masses, he knocked over uncomplaining statues as he struggled up the slope to the ridge-line.

As he crested the ridge he paused. On the far side the ground fell away in a sheer cliff. At the bottom, a vast plain spread out past the horizon – covered with people. Millions upon millions of them, jammed together and clothed only in the dust thrown up by their movements.

He landed with a thump at the base of the cliff, but he did not die. Immediately, long dormant cells kicked into gear, miniature organic repair machines began suturing torn organs and knitting broken bones. But the lynchpin to the repair system, the soothing release from pain could not stop the panic that flooded his body, interrupting signals and beginning the final cardiac arrest in the perfectly designed heart. The system began to fail irretrievably.

As he stared at the press of faces above him, his first, and final, independent thought was the realisation they were all identical.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cross-country_skiing_at_the_1928_Winter_Olympics_%E2%80%93_Men%27s_50_km

The Naturalist

Day 344.

Sasak was hit on the head by a Durian today. We were about 3 hours out from the village when I spotted a what looked like a new sub-genus of the Kakatua. Sasak was trying to climb the tree to get a better shot at it when his clumsy shaking of the tree dislodged the fruit. Worse, the noise and movement scared the bird away. Fortunately I was able to observe it for some minutes beforehand. It looked very similar to the Australian sulfer-crested Cockatoo, however I have never seen one this close to Bali and the Wallace line. (cf. notebook XVIII plate 32 for the sketch I made this afternoon).

Sasak gave me the Durian. It is sitting on my table before me now. The spines that hit his scalp are turning brown from the blood. I must make sure to eat it tomorrow as they are at their best when they are ripe.

Day 345.

We returned to the Durian tree where we saw the Kakatua yesterday. Sasak looked quite amusing with his head swathed strips of banana leaves. I observed several Durian on the ground that appeared to have been ripped open by narrow beaks. I wonder if the Kakatua in this region have learned how to eat the fruit? They are certainly formidable plants (cf. notebook II, sketch 5). The fruit is slightly oval shaped, like a small Rugby ball, weighing approx. 4lbs. The hard skin is covered in strong, sharp spines. It is so heavily armoured that it is no small matter to even pick one up off the ground. The inside is made up of five cells containing a mass of firm, cream-coloured, edible pulp.

Certainly the Kakatua I observed were the only birds in this region with the tools necessary to break into such a well fortified fruit. Did they attack them while they were on the tree or did they gnaw at their stems to drop them onto the ground first? If the latter, perhaps the birds are Sasak’s true enemy from yesterday? I ate his Durian this evening - the taste really is indescribable. Hopefully some of the seeds I am bringing back will sprout at Kew.

Day 346.

Total waste of a day today. Sasak could hardly carry the equipment a mile before he collapsed. His head has swollen up under its banana leaf bandages to almost twice its size. The willingness of these natives to push their bodies to their physical limits really is remarkable but he is not going to be much good to me for the next few days.

Day 350.

Sasak was still in the local shaman’s steam hut so I returned to the Durian tree by myself. I arrived early and was greeted with a fantastical sight. Approx. 30 Kakatua’s were perched in the tree, flying around and emitting a tremendously high pitched squawking noise. Just as I had thought, the birds would grab onto the husks of the fruit with their claws and bite at the stem with their sharp beaks. The soft fibre of the tree would be cut away quickly and the fruit would fall to the ground some 30 feet below. Several birds would then descend on the fallen fruit, working on small fractures in the outer casing to get at the pulp beneath.

I observed at least half a dozen fruit dispatched in this manner. It was almost like a game to the birds, swooping in, ripping at the flesh and then scooting away before the next one could get in. But within 40 minutes it was all over. I stayed there for the rest of the day but the birds did not return. Hopefully Sasak is better tomorrow and can carry my equipment so I can make a decent observation.

Day 351.

Another interesting day, if no further observations of the Kakatua. Visiting Sasak in the shaman hut he had not improved. Although with the treatment he is getting I am not surprised. I observed the village shaman (cf. notebook IV, plate 55) make up a poultice to dress Sasak’s wound. It mainly consisted of some small orange frogs that are found in the jungle in these parts, ground up into a paste that he would spit in from time to time. He would then mutter some shamanic mumbo-jumbo over the repulsive unguent before smearing it onto Sasak’s head. All I can say is I hope I don’t require his services.

Day 356.

Tremendous day at the Durian tree. cf. XVIII plates 35, 36, 37, 38 and 39. Specimens 156, 157 and 158. The only sour note was Dyak still hasn’t learnt to secure the cages properly so the live specimens we took such pains to capture escaped. We will try again tomorrow.

Midnight in Tangiers

and the hashish smoke hung like a fog in the old bathhouse. The yells of the men gathered in a circle in the largest chamber echoed off the tessellated walls. Without a word Muhammed had disappeared into the throng, leaving Gregor at the door, still reeling from the hit he had taken. Leaning back against the cool tiles, he slid down to the floor, closing his eyes.

Muhammed reappeared. ‘Sahib, getup getup. Do not sleep here. Bad bad idea.’

Gregor waved him away. But with a wiry strength Muhammed grabbed his arm and dragged him upright. Gregor’s droopy gaze met the fervent eyes of his guide.

‘Come,’ said Muhammed. ‘This is what we came to see.’

They merged into the heaving mass. Muhammed dragging Gregor past heavy set men, bristled beards, flared nostrils. The stink of sweat and hash and sweet tea. They came to the front of the ring and Gregor looked down. Below him lay one of the bathhouses large ornamental pools, designed for the elite of the town to soak in and swim around. Now it had been drained and all that was being soaked into the sawdust that carpeted the bottom of the pool was the blood from the torn throat of a macaque monkey. A second macaque sat a few feet away, nursing its arm.

A great cheer went up as two small handlers lept into the basin and scooped the two animals, one struggling, one passive, into their cages. Two more cages appeared.

‘Sahib, your money,’ said Muhammed.

‘No, Muhammed, this is. What is this?’

Muhammed winked at Gregor, dove his hand into Gregor’s pocket and took out his wallet before disappearing into the crowd. Gregor tried to turn but the wall of turbaned flesh was impassable. He was turned around to stare at the macabre sight below.

Both cages had opened and the two new macaque circled each other warily. Snarling at each other, exposing long canine teeth, they hurtled together into a screaming ball of claws and fur and blood. Then it was over. Another puddle of blood spilled out into the bath.

Muhammed tugged at Gregor’s sleeve and slipped a roll of banknotes into his hand. ‘You are very lucky Sahib. Good odds on that win.’

Muhammed reappeared and disappeared and reappeared again. Or was it Gregor’s brother? The room spun in circles of screams of dying primates. The crowd shifted and Gregor’s face was buried in the armpit of the man next to him. Then on the floor. Then up again. Muhammed’s crescent moon smile flashing across his midnight face. Blood splashed across Gregor’s face, the warm, salty liquid oozing between his lips. Telling Muhammed to bet on red. Now on blue. Gregor’s gaze was like the touch of death, whichever fighter he bet against would surely die. The feeling of power was intoxicating. You die. You die. You die. Gregor won every time.

The stars shone weakly in the lightening sky. Gregor sat in the gutter. The yells of the ring still drumming through his head. A stack of notes landed on the ground before him.

‘Not bad, eh sahib?’ smiled Muhammed.

Gregor vomited over the money.

The Turn of the Wheel

The statue of the Buddha was old. It was already ancient when it had been set into the small mountain temple several hundred years before. Archaic when it had been carried over the Himalayas from India a millennia before that. It dated from a time of proto religions on the subcontinent when there was no clear line between Hindus and Buddhists. The face of the Buddha reflected this melting pot of belief where its sculptor had carved into it not the serene countenance of the enlightened one, but the face of Kali, the goddess of death.

Zhang knelt before the statue and lit a small scented candle. The light did little to push back the night’s shadows that hung heavily from the temple’s wooden beams. In the wan, flickering light, the lacquer peeling off the statue’s face made it look like the Buddha was crying blood from his closed eyes. Only the occasional lightning flash from outside lit up the whole statue. Zhang bowed his head.

Behind him he heard sounds of scuffling as a heavy booted footstep entered the temple. Zhang turned around to see the two men who had just entered. Chen was standing at the rear, patting the rainwater off his Hanyang rifle. The thick furs he was wrapped in hid his bulk, as well as the Revolutionary Army uniform he had on underneath. A second man, dressed in thin, wet saffron robes, knelt where he had been thrown to the floor. He was staring silently at the dark stains that had soaked into the floorboards.

“Well, priest,” said Zhang. “I’ll be direct - where’s the gold? You know, the money stupid peasants throw at you for a chance at a better life in their new reincarnation? As if it made a difference. Just tell me and you can go back to your nice, dry cell. Otherwise Mr Chen there behind you will shoot you in the head. Do you understand?”

The monk’s eyes flicked up to Zhang and Zhang saw he was much younger than he had thought, not even out of his teens.

“Look, son,” said Zhang. “This is simple. Help me out, and we’ll be gone by the morning. You can get out of this place, go back to whatever godforsaken plot of farmland your parents work. Just one small answer and this will all be over.”

The monk didn’t move. His eyes kept staring at Zhang. The drum of the rain on the roof filled the temple.

“OK, don’t want to do this the easy way do you? That’s fine. I know how to do this the hard way.”

“Your offering has been accepted. He is coming for you,” the monk said.

“He talks! You hear this Mr Chen? A miracle. Who’s coming for me priest? Mao? Chiang? I don’t fight for any of them anymore. They will be the ones who will be scared of me.”

“He’s coming for you Zhang Xun. And he’s coming for you tonight.”

Zhang stared at the boy. “How did you... “

The boy leapt up, grabbing a metal candle stick and stabbing it at Zhang’s heart. Before Zhang could react blood exploded out from the boy’s chest, spraying over Zhang’s face. At the door, Chen lowered his rifle.

As Zhang looked down at the corpse at his feet, a crack of lightning boomed down over the temple. Both men cringed from the shock of the sound wave that passed over them.

Chen looked out into the night. “What the fu…” and then he was gone, snatched out into the night like a fish at the end of a reel. Another thunderous crack roared over the temple.

“Chen,” Zhang yelled out. “Fuck. What the fuck are you doing?” He stepped over the monk’s corpse and walked to the door. Out of the rain that now pelted down an object flew into the temple and past Zhang. He turned around to see rolling up against the foot of the Buddha the head of Chen, his eyes, nose and tongue ripped out.

Zhang grabbed the temple door and slammed it shut, sliding the iron locking bolts into place. Scrambling over the floor to where his rifle sat, he scooped it up and sat back against a pillar, chambering a round. He scanned the small barred windows high up under the eaves. Nothing appeared. The rain kept falling, harder than before.

“Zhang,” a voice whispered. “Zhang Xun.”

Zhang whipped around. “Who’s there?” He looked down at the monk’s corpse lying on the floor a few feet away. As he stared, the corpses’ eyes opened and looked back at Zhang.

“Zhang Xun,” the monk burbled, blood from the gunshot wound gushing out of its mouth. “He is coming for you, Zhang Xun.”

A massive blow thudded against the temple door. The ancient wood splintered.

“You have pleased him Zhang Xun,” the corpse coughed. “There is no reincarnation without death, and that is what we offer at this temple. A faster path to Nirvana, not a better path. You have given us the greatest offering we have had in many centuries. For that, you will be rewarded.”

The door shuddered again from another blow. The corpse began to laugh.

“No one comes for me,” said Zhang and fired a bullet into the corpses skull but the laughter continued inside his head. Zhang looked up at the statue. The lacquer had now completely peeled off and blood was pouring off the figure. Its eyes had opened.

“I have come for you Zhang Xun,” the Buddha said.

Dumplings

Mother’s Older Brother went back into the small kitchen after breakfast and started making the filling. Taking the leftover pork from the previous day’s soy noodles, he slowly fed it into the bright red Dice-o-matic™ that Mother’s Older Brother’s Wife bought in Hong Kong. The said purchaser of the device stood next to him, her hard eyes watching him work. Slowly and methodically he dropped the pork, prawns, onions, ginger and bamboo shoots into the noise of the blades to be hacked into neat, uniform chunks like perfect miniature dice.

Adding to the cacophony, Mother’s Younger Sister was pouring flour and water into the Blend-It-Right™, its high pitch whine the soprano accompaniment to the snare drum of the Dice-o-matic™. Out of its gizzards came yards of soft dough which were then passed to Father’s Younger Brother’s Wife to place inside the SpeedKneader™ that rolled out long, pale snakes to its own steady, thumping beat. The SpeedKneader Dough Separation Attachment ™ cut each serpent up into inch long blobs.

With a noise like a woodsaw being scraped over a washboard, the Dice-o-matic™ shuddered and stopped.

“Aiya,” Mother’s Older Brother’s Wife cried. “I told you you were putting too much into that. You stupid idiot, you know how much that thing cost?”

With a long suffering silence, Mother’s Older Brother took down a cleaver hanging on the wall and swung the large blade to knock the Dice-o-matic™ back into alignment. With a satisfied grunt he put the cleaver back, and tapped on the switch. Dutifully the blades got back to work and the Dice-o-matic™ resumed its effortless, high-pitched disgorgement of minced fillings into the waiting bowl.

The production line continued as the dough and filling were carried out of the kitchen by cousin and I to the living room. Mother’s Younger Sister sat next to Mother as they both silently watched the New Year pageant on the new 50-inch ViewDeluxe™ television. Without even looking down, Mother’s Younger Sister would take up each chopped tube of pastry and slide it into the Flattenit™ sitting in front of her. With a sibilant hiss, the Flattenit’s™ piston would drive down on the dough, forming a perfect three inch circle that Mother’s Younger Sister would pass to Mother.

Before Mother sat the new, silver X-85 DumplingMaster™. A funnel on top was kept full of filling hauled in from the Dice-o-matic™. Mother took the circle of dough from Mother’s Younger Sister and placed it on the special plate on the side of the machine and pressed the big green button. With a deep rumble, as if the DumplingMaster™ was reaching down through the floor, through Mrs Shen’s apartment and on to the centre of the Earth, the DumplingDeliveryPortal™ opened and out tumbled one dumpling.

We sat at the table, quietly eating the dumplings and watching the commercial for the new X-100 DumplingMaster™. With a soft blink, the power went out. Everyone froze, looking at each other in the muted sunlight filtering in through the window. I took a deep breath.

“Thank you Mother’s Older Brother and Mother’s Older Brother’s Wife for making the filling.”

“Thank you Mother’s Younger Sister for making the dough.”

“Thank you Father’s Younger Brother’s Wife for kneading the dough.”

“Thank you Mother, for making the dumplings.”

Silence. And then we all started talking again.

Gwendolin

Hi, my name’s Gwendolin, and I’m an alcoholic.

I had my first drink when I was 14. It was a big fancy dinner and ball that my father held to celebrate his victory over some other king somewhere. I don’t really remember the details. But I was allowed to sit up on the big table and was served wine along with everyone else. I think I threw up in the moat afterwards.

But this was back before the interregnum so it was galas and balls like there was no tomorrow. Since I was ‘of age’ it was expected that I would attend and I did. It was fun you know, fitting out new dresses, dancing with hot young guys. And there was alcohol. Always alcohol, as much as you wanted. I learnt to take it easy after the first disaster, but by the time I was 16 I guess I was drinking heavily 4 or 5 nights a week. Then it went from drinking at parties to drinking by myself. It was always easy to get a page to run down to the kitchens and bring up a bottle of wine or even some spirits that I could drink in my chambers. It wasn’t long before I was drinking everyday.

I guess I was what you would call a ‘functional alcoholic’. I didn’t really have much to do around the castle except wait to be married off one day to a prince from a neighbouring kingdom. The only time I was in public was at whatever ball was being held, and let me tell you, once you’ve danced the foxtrot with the Ambassador of Whereverthefuckistan while talking about the weather for the thousandth time, it takes very little effort to present a calm and demure front to the world, even if you’re completely blitzed inside. Which I generally was every time.

Of course the time came when I was introduced to my husband to be, Jojo. He was nice enough, but we only met once before we got married. And of course, we had a big fairytale wedding. I was drawn up to the cathedral in a white carriage drawn by a dozen white horses. My dress cost a sizeable portion of the royal treasury and had a train thirty foot long. After saying our vows, a hundred white doves were released from a window. It was, reportedly, the most beautiful and elaborate wedding ever held in the capital.

I don’t remember a single second of it. I had a flagon of vodka snuck into the carriage and I necked most of it while we were waiting to get the horses all hitched up. But, by all accounts I was a resplendent bride so, there’s that I guess.

Then the fights started. It caught me off guard to find out that Jojo actually cared about me. He would beg me to stop drinking. I mean, my parents never took an interest in what I did, and all of my ‘friends’ either didn’t know, or were too scared to say anything about it. But Jojo was someone on my own level who wanted to help me. So of course I rejected his help. I had been living my own life this way on my own terms and I had become so dependent on drinking that I hated being told my life was a mistake. I was a goddamn fucking Princess, alright? The daughter of the fucking King! Living in a fucking CASTLE on top of a fucking MAGIC MOUNTAIN. And you, you jumped up son of sheepherder king who was the self declared lord of three-fifths of fuck all are going to tell ME what to do? I don’t think so, sonny.

So we would fight on and on and on. But on the outside we were the ‘perfect couple’, always happy, always content. I think what helped a lot in those early years were my pregnancies. I cut back when I was pregnant, which led to Jojo being happier with me and I wasn’t as angry with Jojo. For a few years there, we did have a fairly normal life. But after Gertruda, our third child, I had become pregnant with our fourth. I guess something went wrong and I had a miscarriage and was told I would not be able to have any more children.

Well, that tipped something off. I got in a carriage and went to our country estate without telling anyone and proceeded to write myself off for the next two weeks. When they finally dragged me back to the castle, Jojo and I had one hell of a fight. He blamed me for the miscarriage, I blamed him for it. It was bad. We eventually settled down into a cold war. He gave up on me, stopped trying to fight my drinking. And I kept drinking. And drinking.

Most alcoholics have a moment of clarity when they realise they have to stop. Mine was a little more vivid than most. You all know about the Night of the Red Knives and the coup. Well, what you don’t know is that after they had cut off the king’s head, they came for his family. I had been drinking of course. I was so dead drunk that I had passed out in the privy, covered in my own shit and they never found me. It was only the next morning when I woke up, oblivious to what had happened and saw the bodies laid out in the courtyard...

So here I am. Queen Gwendolin de Rhohindera, first of her name, Guardian of the Moonlit Isles and Warden of the Northern Reaches. It has now been 3,542 days since I last had a drink and everyday is a new challenge.

Wadi Halifa

I had two days in Wadi Halifa until the next packet steamer.
The R.R Hotel, the Raffles of the sands,
had rooms and ghosts to spare. Many to be found
recounting past glories under the portrait of George V.

There we were lads, blackamoors to left of me,
hottentots to the right. MacDonald’s light regiment
was still a mile away. Well, we formed up the square
and (the door opens and a gust of sand blows in. Hands
go to cover drinks automatically, like they’re about to
tip them over and perform a magic trick). Varicose
necks chortle at the punch line. The stories all prattle
off the same chorus line of names - Wadi Halifa,
The Wells of Abu Klea, Atbara, Shendi, Omdurman,
Khartoum, Fashoda. Kitchener’s entire army camped
in one room. Everyone of them a Lancer in the 21st.
Everyone of them Churchill’s batman.

The air outside is just as hot, but dry. Drier than the
vermouth inside. One old soul blown in over the dunes
lies supine in a crack of shade. His voice as hollow as

his face.

You may die from the sun, but only after the silence
drives you mad. That’s what I will always remember
from the desert. Jeddson couldn’t deal with it. Nor could
Burnaby. What could we three know, we were railway
surveyors from Cardiff. Drawing a straight line across
a land that was always moving, always changing. Pegs
you lay down the day before across solid rock now led
down to a bed of quicksand. Walking straight for a whole
day to come back across your footprints from the morning.
Silent voices on the wind. Mirages, visions. Day after
day, mile after mile. Three years we spent in that desert.
Burnaby went mad of course. Not all at once mind you.
But slowly, it crept into his eyes. I would catch him tearing
up my pegs. He wouldn’t even admit it was him who did it.
Jeddson went mad of course. All at once it was like some-
thing snapped inside. He jumped up from the camp one
night and ran straight off into the desert with no shoes or
water. Never saw him again. Never saw him again. I
tried to go back, but Burnaby had torn out the
pegs, destroyed the compass, torn out my eyes.
He left me out there, in the silence.

The stink of the bar. Bolshieness. Pure
Bolshieness. If the Sirdah had heard of it,
well... Did I tell you of the time I met His Lordship?
Kitchener I mean. It was back in ninety-eight
when I was still with the 96th light foot.

Aye, and no doubt the last time the words ‘light foot’
were ever used to describe you, Burnaby.

Ignore these drivellers dear boy. Pride of the corps
we were. Off to Omdurman to kill the Mahdi and
full of piss and vinegar. Revenge for Gordon and
all of that. Set out in the vangaurd with Jeddson
and Davids, the three of us into the desert like a
triumvirate of dervishes. Oh, the adventures we had.

The Origin of Boxing

On the first day, The Brick punched the sky, cracking it open to let in the sun and the moon and the stars.

On the second day, The Brick punched the earth and created the valleys and the mountains.

On the third day, The Brick punched Himself, and from the shards that were knocked off His body He formed the plants and the animals and the People of the Land.

On the fourth day, The Brick looked down on what He had created and was happy, so He knocked off early and went to the pub.

For an Age the People of the Land lived in harmony, safe in the knowledge that The Brick was watching over them, or at least would be back by dinner time once the game had finished on Foxtel.

But after another Age had passed, the People of the Land grew anxious at the lack of reply to their prayers to The Brick. Some said this was a test of their Faith, and that The Brick helped those who helped themselves. Some said The Brick had simply passed out in the gutter and would be back in the morning. Then some People said there was no Brick at all, and that He was just a sociological construct designed to placate the masses. Then some other People said you better shut up with your pinko lefty crap or there will be Trouble. Then the other People said yeah, you and whose army bud?

So the Age of Harmony turned into the Age of Argument which turned into the Age of Pushing And Shoving which turned into the Age of Fighting.

The fighting started off mostly harmless. But one day someone discovered the forbidden art of Hitting People with Sticks. Soon after, Throwing Stones was discovered, which escalated quickly into Samurai Swords and AC10 Warthogs.

The fighting grew so loud that it woke up The Brick where He had been having forty winks a couple of dimensions over. The Brick returned to the Land and when He saw what had happened, He was Not Happy. With a mighty blow He smashed the armies of the People and yelled "Knock It Off, I've Got A Massive Headache And I Am Trying To Get Some Sleep, Alright? If You're Going To Fight, Do It Quietly, Just Use Your Fists Or Something. Jeez."

And that is why it is forbidden in the Land to start any construction work Early In The Morning.

And any fights are to be settled by boxing.

Or MMA.

The Woman Who Spoke to God.

The outer glove of the spacesuit clicked into place with a sharp snap. Teresia flexed and rotated her hand to test the connection.

‘Locked in, good to go,’ she said.

Marius floated around Teresia’s white bulk, double checking then triple checking the fragile envelope that protected her from the vacuum of space.

‘All systems green,’ Marius said. He floated back around to the front of the suit.

‘How is He going?’ Teresia said.

‘Readings a bit higher this morning at 1.45 GEV’s. He’s feeling frisky.'

Marius floated up to the viewing cupola and watched as the white suit fell away into the endless void. Three minutes and forty seconds later the small white dot stopped against the large, grey-metal wall of the Temple. Teresia’s voice radioed across.

‘Log begins. Oh four hundred hours. Session number 278. I am entering the airlock.’

Marius pushed back to the console, grabbing a coffee tube and listening to the background chatter over the comms as Teresia logged her mission.

‘Readings were higher prior to mission, but I’m not seeing any. Wait, what’s th-‘

Static hissed over the comms. Marius’ head whipped around and he hit down microphone switch.

‘Teresia, repeat. Teresia, what’s going on?’

He released the button and static filled the cabin. Another buzzer came on adding to the cacophony. Marius glanced at the flashing red light, the GEV metre had spiked to over 200.

Another voice cut through the white noise ‘Outpost239, what’s going on?’

Marius swum back up to the viewing window, staring at the grey box hovering three kilometres away. He opened the comm.

‘Teresia cut sir’ he said. ‘I’m going to check it out’.

‘Permission denied captain. Only authorised personnel may enter Temples.’

‘Something’s happened to Teresia sir. I’m going.’

‘You are not –‘ Marius cut the mike. He struggled into the spare suit like a butterfly retreating back into its chrysalis. These things were not designed to be put on solo.

He stepped into the airlock. No one to check his seals. Well, he would find out soon enough if they worked. He hit the airlock release. The suit held. Grabbing the rappel cord, he pushed forward, eyes focused on the wall of the Temple, willing it move forward towards him.

At last he reached the entrance, releasing the cable and stepping inside. The outer doors shut as atmosphere filled the small room. The inner doors opened and Marius removed his helmet, stepping through.

The inside of the Temple was simply a large square box, about 100 yards wide and the same high, the same dimensions as the outside. The only furniture inside was a normal sized bed, in the exact middle of the floor, with a chair next to it.

Marius looked around. The Temple was empty.

Wrasslin’ a Grizzly.

It was the winter of ‘88 and as cold as people tell you that winter was, let me tell you, it was colder. Just walking outside made me feel like I had plunged into an ice bath. The Mississippi froze right down to the gulf of Mexico. Freak ice storms would sweep across the country and one chicken farmer I knew had emerged after a blizzard to find his cocks had frozen solid.

Well, me and Irondacks, we had teamed up to go west. For some reason or ‘nother we couldn’t get off until late in the year to start crossing the Rockies. Now, Irondacks had assured me that he knew a shortcut across those mountains that would get us through to San Fran’ before the worst of the weather hit. Any other year, he probably would have been right. But that year the snow blew in weeks before the start of the season and caught the two of us with our pants down just as we had reached the pass.

We stood there, watching the stormclouds roll up the foothills.

‘Figure’n we’ll be in for some snow,’ I said. ‘Them clouds are going to dump a load on us.’

‘Figure’n we will’ said Irondacks. He didn’t sound too worried, although this was the man that went 115 rounds against Teddy Roosevelt out in the Dakota badlands simply ‘cause he wanted to fight ‘the government’. No snowstorm was going to bother him over much! But being of a somewhat more submissive constitution, the idea of being frozen stiff wasn’t an appealing prospect for me.

‘I know a place we can hole up’ said Irondacks, and he trotted off into the trees with me scrambling to keep on his tail. Ten minutes later we were standing at the mouth of a cave as the first snow had started falling. I lit up a kerosene lantern and started walking into the darkness.

The bear had come in on our asses, driven to find shelter from the storm. He was long and heavy, having gorged himself for the winter and was about to start hibernation. He had obviously chosen this spot, and was not going to brook any company.

His roar filled the cave. I grabbed my pack and the lantern and ran further on into the cave, Irondacks just behind me. Then, around a corner, a deadend.

‘Quick, up there’ said Irondacks, pointing to a ledge about eight foot off the ground. I threw my pack up and over and Irondacks picked me up and gave me the same treatment as though I weighed nothing at all. Flying over the top, I saw that it wasn’t a ledge, but a hole in the wall where the cave continued. Thankfully the floor on the far side was only five foot down from the gap, but it still rattled my bones when I landed.

Like a shot, Irondacks had grabbed the edge of the gap and hauled himself across beside me. Seconds later the grizzly roared around the corner as well, howling in frustration at its lost prey.

Holding up the lantern I looked around our retreat. This was a true dead end, the cave only extended another 10 feet before it ended in sheer rock. There was only one way out, guarded by a demon. It looked like our options had narrowed to freezing to death, starving to death or trying beat off our captor.

With a roar the bear reared up to the gap, thrusting into the hole with a massive arm it reached for the two of us.

Well, without missing a beat Irondacks stepped up to meet it. With the difference in floor levels, they were both face to face. The bear’s paw was easily six inches across, but Irondacks took it easily. Grabbing the matted fur in his equally massive hand, Irondacks set his feet against the floor, elbow on the ledge, and began to twist the bear’s arm down onto the granite.

Instinctively the grizzly tried to oppose the force that was twisting down its arm, raising it back up until the two giants were locked together, arms straining against each other. In the flickering light of the lantern, it was hard to tell where the man ended and the bear began. How long they were together, I don’t know. It seemed like eternity, or it could have been seconds. But with a roar of his own, Irondacks’ hand slowly, but surely, moved over the top of the bears as it forced that giant paw down onto the stone. With an almighty crack, the bear’s arm broke, its sinews twisted into pulp as Irondacks drove his hand down in victory.

The bear collapsed without a sound. Picking up his knife, Irondacks jumped over the ledge to finish it off.

Well, we rode out that storm with a small fire and a dirty but life preserving bearskin rug. Three days later when the blizzard had passed, we emerged back into the wan sunlight.

I’ll never forget Irondack’s words as we left that cave, as he massaged his arm, still sore from the fight.

‘If I ever wrestle a bear again, I’ll make sure to beat it with my right arm!’

The Song

The name whispered through the narrow alleyways of the favela. Like an invisible butterfly it flittered from lip to lip, never said out loud, never forgotten. Whenever protection money was handed over to the gangs - or to the policia - the name was muttered underbreath like a curse. When children were whisked off the street by their parents to avoid the bullets that filled the air, the name was offered up in prayer. When a junky broke through a bathroom window to steal for the next hit, the name rained down in anger.

The poor, the hungry, the weak, the exploited; they lit their candles for one name. For one man.

Barros, son of Garros.

The saviour of the favela crouched beneath the overhanging roof to stay out of the rain. Fishing amongst his rags he took out a crumpled cigarette and a lighter. After a few strikes the flint caught, its spark flaring brightly against the darkening evening. He drew deep on the fire he had created. Exhaling, he looked through the cool blue smoke at Magdalena, sitting on her front step.

‘So, grandmother,’ said Barros. ‘I have come to say farewell.’

‘Fare me no wells, Barros son of Garros,’ said Magdalena. ‘I know where you are going. To see Vorpales.’

Barros spat on the ground at the mention of the name. ‘Aye, grandmother. I am. You know it is time.’

Magdalena reached her hand into a small brown bag she held in her lap and pulled out a plantain.

‘You see this plantain Barros? They always remind me of your father. He had stuffed plantain between his ears and would not listen to wise words when he heard them. This plantain, I think it is reminding me of you now. Who knows where Vorpales’ secret cash room is? Is it wise old Magdalena, or is it stupid plantain head Barros? Well?’

‘It is wise Magdalena,’ said Barros, smiling.

‘And who knows when Vorpales will be in his secret cash room, without any guards? Is it wise old Magdalena, or Mr Stupid Plantain Head?’

‘You know all, grandmother. But I cannot ask you.’

‘Nobody asked anything, who has a stupid head full of plantain and will do what I say?’

‘Grandmother.’

‘Plantain?’

Barros sighed. ‘When will I live to best you in an argument?’

‘Your father asked me the same question. For a stupid plantain, he should have known better. Now come on.’

The two figures moved out into the rain that was still falling, the water draining away into shallow ditches that just overflowed again, pouring water back onto the streets. As they made their way uphill, the detritus of poverty; broken chairs, empty bottles and fallen souls, swept past them and behind them and into history. The water began to rise, covering their feet, then their ankles, then up to their shins. Magdalena grabbed Barros’ arm and stopped, leaning into the shadow of a building and out of the current.

‘Hold Barros. Hold. I need to rest.’

‘Wait here grandmother. Just tell me the way and you can stay here.’

‘No Barros. I said no. I just need. I just need some strength.’

The song began a hundred years before in the slave fields, its tune shaped by hatred and misery, its rhythm formed by beatings and punishment. But it was a song that drew strength from oppression, and gave strength to the oppressed. A song that was passed down from generation to generation, kept secret but kept alive as new oppressions, and new masters came to power. It was the song of hope that Barros began to sing to Magdalena, sodden and wet, in the back corner of the favela.

Although Barros would never know it, these were his last moments that would immortalise him forever, as together they stumbled forward in the rain, singing softly at first, and then louder and louder until the song of hope echoed through the narrow alleyways of the favela. Like an invisible trumpet, it was shouted from mouth to mouth, never to be forgotten. Whenever protection money was refused to be paid to the gangs - or to the policia - the song was sung like a talisman. When children played on the streets that had been taken back by the people, they sung the song with joy and laughter. Whenever a family came together again at the end of a long day, the song was sung with quiet thanks.

The song of hope. The song of Barros, son of Garros.

Sacrifice

It wanted to sacrifice one of the new iPads. You know, the whole deal – candles, pentagrams, incantations – with a shiny slab of glass and metal ‘designed in California’ sitting right there in the middle of it all. Not working of course. (The whole ‘eons of darkness’ thing was bit of an own goal in retrospect). But that didn’t stop the ceremony going ahead. The end result was a small, charred pile of glass and metal. Pretty much the exact same result as the attempts with the iPad 2, the iPad and the various iPhones we had tried.

At least the Apple gizmos were physical objects. I mean, geez, there was a hell of an argument when It wanted to sacrifice a sub-prime mortgage. How do you explain collateralised security to something which only has a loose concept of time? Let alone the idea of ‘commerce’. Didn’t matter. The name had been descryed so we had to sacrifice it. I think It was a bit disappointed when It saw just a small piece of paper on the altar. You can never tell what It’s feeling I know, but all those blood gutters had been hewed into the obsidian for a reason.

There was an easier run after that. The portrait of Mao from the Tienanmen Gate, the left hand of Christ the Redeemer, the Magna Carta. Don’t get me wrong, it was still pretty busy, but it wasn’t complicated like.

Global warming was tricky. How do you ritually disembowel four hundred and fifty parts per million of carbon in the atmosphere? An SUV? Too gauche. Carbon Trading Permits? That would just be the sub-prime disaster all over again. In the end we stuck a polar bear up there. It’s kind of symbolic I guess, and I thought some good old fashioned blood-letting might cheer It up a bit.

I still don’t know why terrorism came up. Good grief, It is literally the ‘Lord Of’. The whole place runs on terror; it’s our religion, our currency, our daily bread. And now it wanted to sacrifice it? I just didn’t know what to do.

‘I will be the sacrifice’ It said.

‘How can you sacrifice yourself? Kind of defeats the purpose doesn’t it?’

‘Do you remember why we came here? What we did all this for?’

‘Doesn't matter.'

'Do you still love me?'

Gordon Bennett. Is that what this was all about? 'You're not my wife anymore. You're the Dark Lord.'

She smiled that smile that creased the corners of her soft blue eyes. She always knew my weaknesses. I picked up the knife.

The Library of Unwritten Books

"So, uh, Uncle Tory, what exactly is it you do here?" said Tim.

"Well, I'm a librarian aren't I," replied Tory.

Tim looked around the bare apartment. "I don't see many books."

Tory smiled. "Ah lad, right you are. That's because it's a library of unwritten books, see?"

"Uh," Tim hesitated. "How can you be a librarian of unwritten books?"

"It's like, well. It's like I'm a harbourmaster see, standing out on the pier at night. All I have is one small lantern of me own imagination to try and see out over the water. I know ships are out there, in the darkness, sailing to and fro. But I can't see what they look like or where they're going. Occasionally one may venture closer to shore where my small lantern can shed some light on it. But many of these books, like the ships, stay out in the darkness. But they still need a light to refer to. That's my job."

"Well wouldn't that make you a lighthouse, not a harbourmaster?"

"Look kid, it's my metaphor, I'll call it what I want."

"But if no one has written a book, there's nothing to catalogue," said Tim.

"You'd think that, but it's not quite true. Everyone wants to have written a book, but very few people ever want to actually write one. It's the writing part that's hard, see. Much easier just to dream up your perfect book in your head without all that messy writing business. All I do is catalogue what people are thinking. And there you have it, a perfect library filled with perfect books that are never written."

"I'm not sure I understand Uncle Tory."

"Tell you what kid, as a favour to you for helpin' me, I'll catalogue your unwritten book in the library."

"I don't have one."

"Don't piss about with me, you must have a book that you think about, in the quiet hours, that you want to have written."

"Well, yes. Sort of."

"OK then out with it, and I will catalogue it. Only a twenty dollar stocking fee."

Tim frowned. "What? Twenty dollars for me to tell you a story? Shouldn't you pay me?" he said.

"No it wouldn't work that way see. I'm cataloging you right? Your work will be in the library, numbered and all. The money is just a way of confirming like, in your own mind, that makes it a real transaction."

"I don't know Uncle Tory. Twenty dollars?"

"Flat rate. Applies to all writers I'm afraid."

"OK then, if you say so," Tim fished out his wallet. "But this is my entire week's pocket money. I don't have any more."

"That's fine Timmy boy. Fine and dandy." Tory's eyes focused on the note. "Now just hand it over, there's a good boy. No need to tell your ma 'bout this by the by. You'll go right in the library you will."

Tim slowly held out the note and Tory leaped forward and snatched it away, stuffing it down into his pocket, smiling. He could taste the whiskey already.

"So," said Tim. "Do you want to hear the story?"

"What? Oh right then. Let's have it," said Tory. "What's it called?"

"It's a murder mystery called 'The Mystery of Murder Mansion.'"

Tory frowned. "That's it?"

"Yeah, what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, nothing. Just kind of, well, boring innit?"

"I think it sounds mysterious," said Tim.

"Well if by 'sounds mysterious' you mean it sounds like the word mysterious, being that the word is right there in the title, then yeah. I guess. But it's a bit vague. What's it about?"

"Well, it's about this boy who solves..."

Tory slapped his face. "Oh gawd, stop stop stop," he said. "Look kid. People don't want to read about that guff nowadays."

"Well what do they want to read?"

"You know, stupid shit. Like robot vampires that have sex with zombies while fighting off an alien invasion."

"I don't read that sort of stuff."

"Well you're not most people. Tell you what, instead of 'mystery house of mysteries', or whatever you called it, lets call it, uh, 'The Unctillious Adventures of Candyshreikers Anonymous'. A classic whodunit where a three hundred year old Jack Russell terrier must solve an ancient pharaoh's curse with the help of a talking prosthetic."

"Prosthetic what?"

"Never you mind. Kids these days, I don't know."

"That's it?"

"Of course, that's a grand book," said Tory.

"And that's my entry into the library of unwritten books?"

"Too right it is. Now shove off, it's almost closing time down at the local and your Uncle Tory has to go and check out some works by Glen Livet."

"Is he a Scottish author?"

"Yeah, well, Scottish at least. Now I tol' you. Bugger off."

Tracker

A square tower of granite thrust out of the surrounding trees. Its weathered black face cried rivulets of rain that coursed down its side to the undergrowth. A bottom corner of the tower had broken off a some hundred thousand years earlier and now lay a dozen yards away down the hill. In the detached void a small overhang had formed, where generations of animals had churned up the dry sandy ground beneath.

The tall, black figure of Parala stood under the looming rock to avoid the drizzle that had been soaking all of them for three days. The rainforest surrounding him was hushed under the deluge, the trees blending into the mist that clung to their twisted forms. He watched as the dark figure of Timbul, dressed in an identical loincloth, climbed the hill to the overhang. He stood with Parala, breathing from the exertion.

For sooth old man, dost such a slight climb take away thy breath? said Parala.

When thirty and five summers thou reach, young whelk, see’st how well thou breathe replied Timbul. He looked at the floor of the cave. Dost thou believe he slumbered here through the tempest?

Yea, verily my brother. Once, by virtue of happenstance we sheltered here before. Mayest thou see the depression in the sand towards the rear of the cave? ‘Tis fresh and ne’er made by any beast.

‘Tis as you say. Dost thou eyes seek out his manner of departure from this haven?

‘Aye, they do. Yet it aids me not for I know already the heart of his voyage. 

At that moment the noise of pots clanging and branches snapping rang out from down the hill. Emerging from the mist, two white squatters trudged up leading an overladen donkey. The leading man had a grizzled beard under his slouch hat. He took each step up the hill in a steady, measured pace that looked as though could be kept up for thousand miles. Following was a younger man, his gait uneven as he continually tugged at the pack that was slipping off his shoulder.

They drew up level to the cave where Parala and Timbul stood. The older man stopped and looked at them both.

'So Parala, have you found his trail?' he said.

'Ya boss. Big Jim he slip hia last nait. Nowen he long hop da big draiva.'

'The river? Which river?'

Parala pointed down through the trees. ‘Dat big draiva overrum dare.'

The older man looked.

'I can't see a bloody thing through these trees, and I’m not bloody well going to go try ford some foul infested waterway in the dark. We’ll camp here. Billy,' he said to the younger man. 'Get unpacked. I'm going for a shufti.'

Billy unslung his pack and threw it at Timbul.

'You 'eard Mr Fitzgibbon blackie. Start unpacking.'

'William' said Fitzgibbon. 'I said you unpack it. Not get the blacks to do it.'

Billy glared at Timbul and snatched the bag back from him.

Fitzgibbon turned to Parala. 'Come on, the rain's thinning. Let’s see if we can climb this crows nest.'

***

Parala and Fitzgibbon walked around the base of the tower. On the rear side where the granite met the hill, an eroded crack in the rock led up the side., After five minutes of grunting exertion, Parala reached the top. He leant over and grabbed Fitzgibbon’s hand, helping him up the last few feet to the summit.

Fitzgibbon looked around. Here above the canopy spread out to the Owen Stanley ranges that ran down the centre of New Guinea. Muffled curses from Billy echoed up from below the treetops.

'Show me where this river is,' said Fitzgibbon.

Parala pointed out over to where a long, dark green line snaked through the surrounding forest.

‘Overrum dare.’

'Are you sure that’s where he went?'

Parala nodded. ‘Big Jim, he throwum way leg one plas. Da Mangguy tree. Datta way.'

'What’s a Mangguy Tree?' said Fitzgibbon.

Parala’s face contorted. How to put into his basic pidgin what he could barely explain in his own language? It was like Fitzgibbon was asking him to stuff a full grown wallaby into it's own pouch.

Fitzgibbon cut off Parala’s stutters. ‘It’s alright. Some sacred site no doubt. You devils are a superstitious lot no mistake. Always going on with your corroborees and mumbo jumbo. Alice seems to take an interest in it but all seems damned silly to me.'

Parala looked at Fitzgibbon with a vacant stare.

'Course you don't undertand a word I'm sayin do you? Ah well, perhaps you're better for it. But you try Parala, I know you try. And your son, what's his name again?'

Parala shook his head.

'Come on man, you know. What's the phrase? 'Pikinini man'. Your son.'

Parala smiled. 'Jaaymes' he struggled with the unfamiliar word.

'Yes that's it. James. Alice took a real shine to him you know. Wants to put him class. Well I don't know. Miscengenation and all that. But if makes her happy, why not? What do you think? James go long skul?'

Parala stared at Fitzgibbon. Art thou saying mine own son will'st attend school?

Fitzgibbon frowned. 'What did you say?'

Parala looked down and then back up again. 'James go long skul?'

'Yes man, that's the ticket. James go long skul.'

Parala smiled again. 'Tenkyu boss. Tenkyu.'

Return to the BlackCat

A cry went up from the bow of the launch. Dinni snatched back his hand from where it had been trailing in the water. ‘Ma hand. Ma hand,’ he cried. He held it up. Fingers pruned from sitting in the water, skin turning black from sunburn.

‘Your hand’s fine idiot,’ muttered Graw.

‘I thought. I dreamed a shark bitten it off.’

Graw cuffed him over the ear. ‘Keep your damned fool hand out of the water then.’

The excitement over, the rest of the men lay down into whatever slivers of shade they had been using to cower from the sun. Silence washed back over the small boat, broken only by the ocean’s low swells that breached against the hull. The constant slap of water only drove the agony of scorched throats. Salt rimmed eyes stared at the flat horizon.

Linnaeus crouched at the gunwales, staring at the half-ration of water in his cup. He took a small sip, but the moisture was soaked up immediately into his cracked tongue like water into a dry river bed. His thirst burned unabated.

A fist slammed into his shoulder, jolting the cup out of his hand and spilling the water into the mix of saltwater, piss and shit sloshing around the bottom of the hull.

‘Outtameway,’ snarled Graw as he clambered past.

Linnaeus stared at the dropped cup. Twelve hours until the next ration. Twelve hours in the ovens of Hell. He curled up against the side of the launch and began to tap his head against the planks.

Looking down at the keel, Linnaeus saw the hatch. Of course, he thought, why didn’t I think of that before. He glanced around, the rest of the men were lying like the dead. No one even looking in his direction. Slowly Linnaeus uncurled and crept over to the hatch. He unclasped the latch, lifted it open and slid inside.

His slipped down the ladder into the darkness below. His foot came down onto the soft mud of the floor of the BlackCat. The bar room was empty now, with its tables and chairs all awry as though a crowd of people had just seen a commotion on the street and rushed out to see it. The only person left was Riley, still standing behind the bar polishing a glass. Linnaeus stumbled over to him and took a seat.

‘Gods Riley, am I glad to see you.’

‘Good to see you too, sir. What can I get you?’

‘Beer Riley. For the love of God, a beer.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Riley pushed a tall frosted glass of ale across the bar. Linnaeus snatched it up and drained it off. He slammed it back down on the counter.

‘Another, Riley.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Linnaeus lay his head down on the cool copper plating of the bartop. Outside, a fish swam by the window.

Linnaeus' reverie was interrupted by a dull thud from above, followed by gradual steps of a person climbing down a ladder. His ladder. Linnaeus sat up and turned around. In the dim light of the bar he saw Graw standing in the BlackCat.

‘Well, well now,’ smiled Graw. ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding you little snotnose.’

‘How did you get in here?’ asked Linnaeus. ‘No one else can come here.’

‘I’ve been watching you I have,’ said Graw. ‘Here barman, gimme a drink. Dry as a bull’s bum going up a hill backwards I am.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Riley.

Graw eyed Linnaeus over the top of the glass as he drank his beer. He finished it and set the glass down on the countertop.

‘OK you little shit, let’s get some rules straight. From now on, you never come here without me.’

‘But.’

‘Shut it. And you’re to bring Thommo and Ballast down here as well.’

Linnaeus looked at Riley whose brows furrowed slightly. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ said Linnaeus.

‘You don’t have any more ideas, alright? You do what I tells you to do.’

‘But, Graw.’

‘Mister Graw.’

‘Mister Graw,’ Linnaeus swallowed. ‘More people can be dangerous. This place is unstable.’

‘I said shut it. Now, I’m going to have a nap. Don’t leave until I say so.’ Graw plodded over to a couch on the side of the room and lay down. Linnaeus sat at the bar.

‘I’m not sure your friends will be up to the standards of Management, Mr Linnaeus,’ said Riley. ‘We have a policy about membership you know.’

‘I know, Riley. I know.’

Linnaeus sat watching Graw as he slept. It was with a mixture of relief and dread when he finally woke up.

‘Gods noodlelegs. My head’s spinning.’

‘I told you, this place isn’t quite right. We can’t stay here too long.’

‘Alright then, back up the hatch.’ Graw stumbled over to the ladder.

‘You first Mr Graw,’ said Linnaeus.

‘No, sir,’ sneered Graw. ‘After you. I insist.’

Linnaeus took hold of the ladder and began to climb back up. Back up to the light, the heat, the sun, the agony.

A cry went up from the bow of the launch. Dinni was yelling, holding up a bloody stump. A shark had bitten off his hand.

The Sons of Saranya

‘Have you been practising, Viswanathan?’

Even now, all these years later, the clipped English tone of that phrase from his old guru made Vishy’s fingers twitch involuntarily. The memory of the long, thin cane that he could see still hanging on the wall would never leave him.

‘I have, guru,’ he replied.

‘Hmmph,’ snorted the old man. ‘Chasing girls and watching films I bet. Why have you stopped your lessons? You need them you know, you don't have the skills of your brother. He was always better than you.’

Vishy took a deep breath. ‘I know, but I have one more piece to play for you,’ he said.

He adjusted the sitar on his lap and closed his eyes. His fingers glided over the strings as the slow notes of the Alap began to form in the air. The long chords thrummed in the humid, Chennai air. The music was unfocused and meandering like a young boy’s mind; ready to take an imprint of its surrounds. Slowly, haphazardly, the notes that would form a life exposed themselves. A soft, harmonic strum followed by a strong, atonal clash.

A birthday party in the slums. One boy runs along the twisting alleys with a large wrapped present held aloft in his arms, followed by a horde of other small children, yelling and shouting. They are watched by another boy, sitting quietly on the steps. The boy with the present comes to a stop before the boy on the steps. ‘Here Shivnath, open this with me.’ The quiet boy, Shivnath, looks into his own face, mirrored before him. ‘It is our present Anand’ he says. They tear away the paper, worth a week’s wages, to see the object within.

It is a sitar.

Imperceptibly the rhythm of the Alap began a metamorphosis into the Jhala, as the rhythm of the music, the rhythm of life formed the piece. Vishy began strumming on the chikari strings, squeezing beat patterns between notes. The notes now began to form into their asthais, the melodic lines of the piece. From the low, harmonic notes of the Alap, the primary asthai pattern was found. Its notes flowed from the sitar in languid, thoughtful phrases like footsteps in controlled, measured paces. In counterpoint came the opposing antara melody, its strident atonal clash disrupting the flow of the asthai. The two lines becoming lost then found then lost again and found again.

A concert hall in Chennai. On stage, two young men take turns performing on their sitars with the backing of an old guru tabla player. Both born under the same star, their fundamental opposition would mock any astrologer. Anand in bright red, he strikes up playing strong, complex ragas. The music radiating out and repeating in on itself in fugues and innovations. Shivnath dressed in black, methodically and implacably works through the melakartaragas. Delving deeply into the traditional forms and melodies.

The Gat’s main melodic lines, conceived in the Alap and grown in the Jhala, were now clear. The merging of the two opposing strains, working together to produce something new, something unheard. The rote compositions from early years of unending practice had become embellished with improvised flourishes and divergences. It was a line of clear melody running through New York, Vienna, Shanghai as it twined around itself.

‘We’re the kings of the world Shivnath, don’t you see? Don’t you see how far we have come?‘

‘The great Viswanathans? Really Anand?’ mocked Shivnath. ‘This is not why we play. This is not what the music is about. I told you I have finished playing. I will not go to Dehli.’

‘One last show Shiva. I promise. I have been working on a great piece. This is the one I have sacrificed everything for.’

‘Sacrifice? You were never serious about this Anny. This was all a game to you.’

‘A game? Do you think I married that bitch for a laugh? I needed to get in the family so her grandfather would teach me his secret compositions.’

‘Whatever Anny, I am done.’

‘Please Shiva, one last show, and then I can.’

‘I can what?’

‘Please Shiva, come to Dehli. I will never ask anything of you again.’

Vishy had now reached the Drut, and the tempo had increased. His fingers hummed over the strings. The order imposed on chaos by the music began to fall apart, the melodies burst free of the constraints of their rhythms as the rhythms themselves blurred into each other. The order of the universe is only that which swirls briefly out of the chaos, before chaos returns again.

The wind blew in through the broken window pane. He looked down onto his brother’s face, pale now from the lack of blood. On the bed lay their old sitar, warped by time and the humidity that their small shack could never protect it from. It was a wonder they had ever been able to learn to play it at all. Picking it up, he plucked an out of tune note. ‘You were always ahead of me,’ he said. ‘You saw what I saw. But you had to go first, as always, to show me what do to.’ He put down the sitar and gently closed his brother’s unseeing eyes.

The last note faded into the air. Vishy looked up and saw the sun hanging low on the horizon. How long had he been playing? How many years had this piece taken to play? How many lifetimes? He sat the sitar on the floor and looked at his guru, the one audience member for the greatest performance of his life.

‘You have been practising Viswanathan,’ the guru smiled. ‘I have nothing left to teach you.’

Vishy stood up, pressed his hands together and bowed. ‘Thank you guru. I have nothing left to play.’ Leaving the sitar behind on the floor, Anand turned and walked out of the house.

Last Day

James punched away at the calculator. ‘Thirteen times twenty-seven’ he murmured to himself.

Across the room, Kate didn’t even look up from the box she was packing. ‘Three hundred and fifty one.’

‘Uhh, yeah that’s right. How’d you do that?’

‘Cans of food at my uncle’s shop came in boxes of thirteen. For stocktake we added up all the batches so anything times thirteen is like, ingrained or something.’

‘Okay then what is, hang on a sec,’ James punched some more digits into the calculator. ‘Thirteen times forty-three?’

‘Five hundred and fifty nine.’

‘Shit the bed. Wow, to think all this time I’ve been married to Rainwoman.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Have you ever thought about using your multiplication powers for good instead of evil?’

‘I shouldn’t have told you about that, now you’re being a jerk.’ Kate picked up an empty shoebox and threw it at James.

James caught it and threw it back. ‘How about multiplying the number of customers we don’t get?’

‘Huh, yeah right, multiplying anything by zero is still zero genius.’

James looked around the small storage room where the last of the inventory was being packed ready for shipping. 'I would have done for some simple addition to be honest' he said.

Kate's cheeks puffed up with the air of a hundred past arguments that she blew impotently out through her mouth. She turned back to the box in front of her and continued stacking small newspaper wrapped objects inside it.

***

They worked together in silence through the rest of the afternoon. James wrapping items with newspaper and handing them to Kate to nestle inside the next cardboard box marked 'Continental Tracking'. Once it was full he would pick it up and take it to the loading dock door, ready for collection. Shadows from the one small, barred window crept across the cement floor until they merged with the gloom gathering in the corners.

Kate ripped out an arms length of tape, holding it up to her teeth to bite it off. She sealed it over the top of the box.

'Well, that's the last one' she said.

'See, I told you we would be able to finish it all today.'

'You said that yesterday. And the day before that.'

'Well I was right today.'

Kate shook her head. 'Alright then Nostradamus, is that everything?'

'Storefront is clean. Office is clean. That's everything.'

'Good, I guess. What about out the front?'

'I'd forgotten about that. Alright, well, come on. I've got the ladder here.'

They walked out of the storeroom through the empty office and into the front of the shop. Long bare counters ran along the sides of the walls where an empty cash register sat like a bad pun at the end of a long, unfunny joke.

James unlocked and opened the front door, setting off the tinkle of the bell above the frame. The evening street was empty, not even haunted by the ghost of a shopper.

They looked up at the sign:

code:

North by

 Kate West

James climbed up the ladder and unhooked the sign. He handed it down to Kate and climbed back down.

Holding it up close you could see the thick layers of paint where Kate had to apply several coats to cover up the lopsided love heart James had painted on the sign.

'I guess we can keep this can't we?' Kate said.

'I guess so. I don't know where we're going to put it.'

'That depends on where we put ourselves, that's the hard part.'

'Well, not as hard as some problems we have.' said James.

'Like what?'

'I don't know, like what's thirteen times twelve?'

'A hundred... Oh you bastard.' Kate hit James with the sign. 'I'm going to kill you'

James laughed, running back into the store. Kate chased after him, smiling, as the front door shut behind her.