The Locksmith and the Empath

“Give me the Gods”

Shiv saw the dull glint of gunmetal in the shabby alley mouth and stopped dead. He hadn’t heard the words but he understood immediately what was happening. You only pointed a gun at someone for two reasons and since he couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to spoil his pretty good looks he assumed the second. He knew he was unarmed, and he knew he had a pocket full of life force. Death force. Everything contains the seed of its opposite. Life force, gun, death force. He holds a handful of God coins out.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Nico asks.

“He’s got a gun”

“So?”

“So I'm giving him the goddam Gods”

The coins slip from his slender hand in to the rough grasping palm and the encounter melts away as if it had been nothing more than a five fingered back alley shuffle. Then Shiv feels Nico slap him.

“He had a gun”

“He had a gun”, she mimics.

They trudge on. Him miserable, smarting cheek. Her smarting at his stupidity, wondering if she should slap him again. Short walk. Should have taken a car. Nobody walks.

“Who the fuck walks?” she asks no one in particular.

And no one answered. Simple enough job. Walk down round the block. Turn a few tricks. Hustle a few Gods. Trot home and settle in to it. Lose themselves in the misty light glow from the game screen. Drinking more than they ought. Wanting more than they ought. Gambling. Winning. Gambling. Losing. Together. Heady night. Heady Friday night. Panting. Through it, together. Siblings touching. Nearing. Drawn close. Feeling ready. For the Big Game. The big win. This week. Got to be in it. One god, just one would do them. Why didn’t he keep that back? Goddam it. Goddam it. Goddam.

Weary steel door confronts them.

“Insert credit please”, chirpy steel voice.

Slender hand tickles the slot with short spike. Maybe he falls to pieces when people point guns at him but Shiv was proud of his lock cracking skills. NIco was not impressed, she hardly notices his deft motion. Ordinary. Everyday. The door notices. It knows no credit was supplied but still it springs ajar with a creaking huff. All the way up the stairs it chirps after them

“Insert credit please”

But it had been doing that for months now. Friends and neighbours constantly complaining about the racket it makes. Shiv and Nico as oblivious to it as to the dawn chorus.

“Insert credit please”

Shiv was glad to sit down. He’d been knotted up inside since the hold-up, not even the pleasure of Nico’s slap had unwound him. Normally he’d have revelled in that, but guns made him nervous. Now he slumped in an old upholstered grotesquery of a chair. He knew it was alive with bugs but the feel of a material weft pleased him.  He said he liked the organics of it. Others said the organics of it liked him. He absently picked an armoured scurrying thing from his forearm. He wondered what kind of creature ate this. Everything gets eaten.

Nico preferred the floor.

She shuckled her jacket from her slender frame and allowed it to languidly slip to her feet. Languid shuckling, one of the many benefits of engineered materials. Any girl can strip as though she had the grace and favour of Monroe. Not that Nico needs such gross tactics, she just likes the way the cloth folds itself neatly beneath her as she sits.

And as she sits she sighs. And as she sighs she weeps. Shiv looks up.

“Hey, Nique...” using her junior nick, the name they only use between themselves.  It works. It always does.

“Oh Shiv”, she replies. “what’s to be done with you... giving the whole lot away like that”

“I know but he –“

“– had a gun that probably wasn’t even loaded”, she finishes for him.

“You don’t know that. You can’t know that”.

But Shiv knew that she could, and in all likelihood did. She didn’t waste further words on the matter. Although she did look. In that way people do. When they feel very reasonably let down by you. The game was due and with no Gods they were sure to get creamed.  One way or another.

The game had provenance. In the earliest days of pre-organic computing multi-user gaming had been born. From EssexMUD, through Zork. Nobody had understood how to capitalise on the draw. Gaming had grown more readily down the graphic individual action path, the quintessential PacMan™. Many millionaires had made their quick buck. The mass player game came into its own once mass connectivity had taken a hold, once it was realised you could charge by the experience not the artefact. All the trouble and expense that physical product meant evaporated. The Game simply let you move in a city of 50 million plus, without the attendant physical danger of moving in a city of 50 million plus. In a world where people trusted less, spoke less, knew less, cared less the population had been dying of boredom. Of a loneliness of the spirit. The Game had changed that. The game had made it possible to once again, feel a part. Be a part. Not apart. A whole community working in concert. A whole community of 50 million plus. Less two. This night. Less Shiv and Nico.

They sat in their accustomed places. Godless. Still staring mechanically at The Game screen, as it sprang into life. A fine mesh of interconnected points starting to glow stronger and stronger as the city came on-line. As millions jacked in. Nico shivers. She can feel the minds winking out as the city consciousness shifts from the streets and the buildings into the Game Space. Ordinarily she would be one of the first. If only to avoid this sensation. This awareness. This deep unsettling feeling of grief. Life upon life winking out of real space. The night growing quieter, colder, emptier. Nico Shivers.

Shiv kneels. He has seen her like this before. When they were late. The curse of her gift. On the one hand she knows people. She knows what they feel. She knows what he feels. She can read. She can read him. It hurts her. Death. It touches her, deeply.

Shiv wraps his arms around her. She falls into him. His mind slips back to that time before. He closes his eyes and floats with it for a moment. Letting the memory, the dream, transport him. How easily he slips from the here and the now. How easily the toils are obliterated and replaced by an inner heat. But his guilt, his doubt, his fear lingered. He had to do something in the here and in the now. He couldn't let go. He couldn't let her down. His hands slipped across her back. Leaving smears of blood. Every life lost to the game cuts her. Her pores open and bleed. This is no damn good. He’s losing her and he knows it. He has to get her into the game, and soon.

Tobbacco. Television. Lotto. Buprenorphine. The Game. The long line of socially sanctioned drugs. Always stepping  up. As the lethal nature of each is revealed. As people come to learn social living is social dying. Another silver bullet. Another way out.  The Game. Where falling down is standing up. Where you can live the dream, whatever it may be. Visit Columbine or Dachau. Be a space hero. Face fuck the eye sockets of a puppy. Live the life of Isambard Kingdom Brunel. The Game. All for the price of a single God coin. But God coins don’t come cheap.

God coins can’t be bought. They have to be won, one way or another. Shiv and Nico hustled them. Her unique talent and his untouchable hands. The empath and the locksmith. He can dip into any space. She can smell the unwary. It had been a fine haul this night. Until the gun. The gun she said had not even been loaded. Shiv curses himself as Nico slips into a trance.

Gently, he lays her back upon the floor. Briefly his lips brush her cheek. He stands and he exits. He has a God to win.

Outside Chance

...he changed his mind. Again. Stopped in his tracks, turned around and headed for the place that he had just left. That special place. That place called home.

- I'm leaving.

He had wanted to say. But it came out as

- I'm going.

Going? Going where?

In a little observed corner of room, near the floor, behind the frontier of the television set, beyond which only the seldom half-asleep-gaze can stretch itself, amongst the dust and a slight mildew,  there is a gentle peeling of the wall paper, and it is fractionally torn. They had papered only the year before. A little less than fourteen months. And it doesn't have to do anything. It just has to sit there, and stick. It isn't in direct sunlight. It hasn't been washed with excessively soapy water. It has been given the best of care. And still it petulantly curls, and breaks the veneer of a 'good' home. A cared for nest. An Englishman's castle.

- I'm going

Going? Going Where?

- Out

Out?

- Yes. Out.

Out where?

- Outside.

Out there?

- Yes. Out.

Going out.

- Yes. Going out.

One of those blank moments. A moment where everybody in the world takes a timeout in order to register and reaffirm the fact that you simply don't exist.

He had decided to leave. So he stood up and said it

- I'm going

Once, in nineteen seventy nine, driving back from somebody's parents, somebody's in-laws in Todmorden, they'd had to pull over because he had accidentally run over somebody else's cat. These things happen. It had been dark and there was a slight drizzle, making him glad that the cause of the delay wasn't a puncture or a blowout   which would have meant kneeling on the damp ground in his best suit. To be honest, he had hardly noticed the incident except for a slight bump - and the delightful way in which she screeched, almost squealed, his name. He'd had to free the body from the axle by the tail, which had almost come loose in the effort. He let the smashed, almost lifeless, form fall into the gutter and backed off for a cigarette. These things happen. She hadn't got out of the car immediately. She had watched him light his cigarette on the third attempt. She had turned the radio off. She had pulled her gloves on first. He watched her walk around the car, pause for a moment at the tail light blinking in a sedate mechanical rhythm oblivious to whatever hazard it may have signalled in the past or present. At first he thought she was stroking it. But after awhile he realised that she was carefully plucking the shards of gravel from the matted fur. He watched for a lifetime. Until the body had stopped moving and they had both started to cry. She for the life that had been extinguished. He for the fear that he might love. Might just, be in love. They didn't talk for a long time. Then, still cold with fear, he quietly asked her to marry him and she had quietly whispered 'yes'.

Twenty seven years later he found himself standing in a shell of a building about whose walls were draped the detritus of fifty four combined years of human effort - over half a century of calendars, clocks, crystal bells, ashtrays, and porcelain horses with plastic drays. He found himself standing and saying

- I'm going

Going?

 Where was there to go?

Going where?

She didn't like him to think that she smoked. Not that she did. Not in the way that smokers smoke. In car parks outside of offices, in a hurry before getting out of bed, after breakfast or before lunch, in forced moments between the minutes that make up a day. No, she would, very occasionally smoke a cigarette because she was alone, and because she could. She would sit on one of the units in the kitchen, next to the sink, by the window that didn't open but with the Xpelair running. Looking out at the garden in what she imagined was a classic Garbo or Monroe pose. At the back of the steel draw beneath the oven, amongst the baking trays, she kept a small ashtray that she had secretly acquired from the Cancer Research shop in town - perpetually clean except for the very occasional moments when she would smoke a cigarette because she could. The butts she would bury in the garden, with a small trowel that could have been made for the job. And always, she would wear rubber gloves. She never considered that anyone may think it ridiculous. These were her moments. One thing she would never share. Her own private affair. It was only recently that she had come to realise that nobody cared if she smoked or not; and that realisation had cheated her of her own individuality. So she had taken to playing Jim Reeves in the afternoons and entering competitions to win a weekend in Paris for two. She planned to give the tickets to her parents, who were not quite dead.

Somebody had once told her that 'It's the people that you know, you know that you know, you know'. It had struck her as instant gibberish. But it was a sentence that she had instantly memorised. Like a bad refrain from a popular song, she would sometimes wake up in the morning with the words going around in her mind, and they would stay there all day; spinning around relentlessly until it was impossible to tell where it may have began or finished. Sometimes she believed it profoundly. Sometimes she wondered if she could ever comprehend it at all. Sometimes she smoked a cigarette in order to attempt to forget it. Sometimes she would live without it for months. Sometimes it would dog her by the minute, by the hour, by the day. Sometimes she wondered if she were going mad. Sometimes she knew that she certainly had. Today she felt she had smelt its essence. It's the people that you know, you know that you know, you know. So she thought she knew what he meant when he said

- I'm going

Or rather, she felt immediately the effect of his simple words - a slight intake of breath; hands that in a gritty northern drama might have flown involuntarily to her breast to wring pensively, but rather in the twilight of an English autumn's evening continued to leaf through the pages of the radio times with no discernible agitation; a fleeting impulse to catch a train to Barcelona. Three short beats. Rat-a-tat-tat. She knew him. She knew that she knew him. She knew it. For sure.

Going? Going where?

Curiously, she didn't know that he knew her. Or at least it had never occurred to her that he might.

- I'm leaving.

He had wanted to say. To be clear. To be firm. To be fair. He had thought. Then she would have asked him why. And then perhaps there could have been an understanding. He had thought. As there had been. As before. As things were as he remembered them. As if things were as he remembered them. As if the woodwork in the hall didn't need painting. As if the boxes in the loft weren't rotting. As if. As if. Even though he said he was going he stood by the brass and glass coffee table, for once not banging his shins, and she asked him

...Where?

Not how or when or why but where. She asked him if he thought she believed him or even if he thought she cared, she asked him where. Where could he go? Where do you think you can go. Away from within. Out. Not burning. Not conscious. Not right. But out. Going out.

They live in a place called Phantasmagoria, a small town in the East of England with a booming population of some twenty million plus. He wants out. She wants out. The roof of the house needs turning.

- Out

Out?

- Yes. Out.

There had been no bitter struggle. No years of hardship. No domestic abuse. No emotional stress. No throwing of the eggshell lamps that gather in the corners of the cupboards they put under stairs. No histrionics - on her part or his. No definitive incompatibilities. No precise moment in time. No then. No now. No future.

Out where?

- Outside.

Out there?

- Yes. Out.

Outside. Outside chance. Nothing happened on the day it all happened.

Going out.

- Yes. Going out.

She turns to the crossword. He closes the door. She crosses her legs. He crosses the street.  She chews the end of her pen. He takes a few steps. She fills in the answers in numerical order...

Bellow

She had never thought that she would have tried to change her man. His habits, his appearance, his essential nature. She had considered herself to be in love. And she had believed that had meant, for better or for worse. But nevertheless, here she was, sneaking around like a thief while he slept.

There were things she would need. A towel certainly, and that was easy – she would use the little pink fluffy one that he complained looked ‘gay’. She liked it. It was nice. It was one of the few feminine touches in their home. She liked to luxuriate in its soft pile after a shower. It caressed her in exactly the same way his light-fingered touch would when first they had met, surprising the crevices she forgot that she had. On the other hand he would often stomp out of the bathroom, holding it aloft like a dead thing, and Bellow

“What in the hell am I supposed to do with this? Dry myself or dance like a midget gay matador?”

She would giggle at that. It isn’t that she minded that he complained. And she found him funny and ultimately sexual. Thinking of him prancing like that now still made her smile. She loved him in so many ways.

But, for the way that he bellows.

Then she would need something with which to cut, and something with which to scoop. The ice-cream scoop had a loose handle and she was forever having to ply her fingers deep into the gooey semi-frozen mess to retrieve it, licking them clean and inevitably ending up with a little blob of raspberry ripple transferred from her thumb to the tip of her nose, which she would leave - as she knew he would kiss it from her. That would not do. Not in this case. She wouldn’t be struggling with frozen desserts here, and the thought of poshing about with her fingers almost made her stomach churn. She would have to use the long handled salad spoon.

The cutting would be the worst bit and she had decided at the outset that she would not take a ham-fisted DIY approach to that. When she had ordered the scalpels she had surprised herself. This was to be no heat of the moment affair. It isn’t that she wanted to punish him in any way; the thought of hurting him was far, far from her mind. She believed that. But to have to plan so assiduously was terribly, terribly difficult. She never knew she had it in her. The scalpels had been hidden beneath the moulded tray that held the knives and forks and all of the strange twisted and inevitably interlocked kitchen thingamajigs. Corkscrews and skewers, spatulas and whisks.  She pulled them out gingerly, her heart pounding at what seemed like a terrible clatter afraid he would awaken and bellow out something like

“For god’s sake woman what are you doing, attacking the walls of Jericho like a bastard thalidomide?” He’d never understood ‘political correctness’. She didn't mind that. She knew he didn't have a bad bone in his body. His words would shock for sure, but he had a colour to his language like no other. You were never left uncertain of what he meant, and he often gave cause for an involuntary gasp or giggle of shock. She would never censure him. If only he could have learned to whisper.

But he did not wake up. The web site she had found had proven most useful. Most complete in its instruction. It had come from ‘The Society for Cutting Up Men’. Mostly, quite horrific and of course majoring on neutering and home castration. When ‘SCUM’ had shown up on the bank statement, she had told him that they were suppliers of kitchen cleaning products. She did not like to lie, but she didn’t want to be causing him any concern. She loved him very much.

She had thought she could not delve all of the way through its vast archive; the pictures alone had lead to several weeks of disturbed nights. But buried very deeply was just one article that held the answer to all of her prayers. The years of running out of shops in embarrassment, of leaving parties early and often alone, of smiling demurely at people wearing looks that said “and you married that?” after he had bellowed some new obscenity… And after all it was not actually such a very big thing. Just the one article, “On how to remove a man’s natural bellow”. Apparently there’s a condition. Medically proven but little known. Some men, it seems, are cursed with a “natural bellow”. She would be fixing him. It isn’t like ‘changing’ him at all. She just had to cure his bellow. For the both of them. She was sure he would be much, much happier. The article had said so.

She gathered all of her things together and crept into the bedroom. He was snoring like a baby, a baby troll that is. One of the symptoms of his condition she now understood. The dread and the fear, the panic and the doubt melted from her as she watched his troubled and fitful sleep – the poor thing. She lays out the towel next to just the right spot and takes a careful hold of the treacherous blade hoping she had used just enough of the narcotic she prepares to make the change.

The scooping was definitely the worst. There seemed to be just so much of it. That had surprised her, perhaps given the extreme nature of his condition it should not have. She just wished that she had not managed to get a globule of it on the end of her nose. That moment had caused her to vomit. But she had it, the once believed mythical Mugio furari – the Bellow Sac. And then they both slept soundly.

And the morning brought a great transformation. He did not leap from bed bellowing “Hands off cocks on socks” rather a simple, if somewhat meek, “Morning dear” at which she smiled to herself. All was good. All was as it should be. As he limps slightly from the room to put on a pot of hot coffee she reclined in a relief that was only momentarily interrupted by a single thought. ‘Surely, a penis isn't meant to be quite as big as all of that?’

Tenacity

Suddenly, if not unexpectedly, the clock chimed and he lit his cigarette. Electric bells. Whereas the original may have been a feat of precision Swiss engineering, this particular model was a circa 1970 cheap mock-up; made from a cheap tin alloy, with a cheap plastic moulded face and a cheap battery powered mechanism. It was a small heap of sordid pretension, sat under a grimy plastic dome that had an irritatingly unnecessary loud false tick. Batteries don't tick. Some chip. Some tick-chip. Tick-Tock chip. Electronic flip-flop. A weekend invention of some Cambridge physicist, perhaps. Keeping suprisingly accurate time. One.

The clock chimed and he took a long toke on the cigarette in the corner of his mouth whilst scartching another tally line with the stub of an HB pencil on the back of an old envelope that once held a letter from somebody he could no longer remember. Two.

The clock chimed and he exhaled the smoke that would linger in the room longer than he cared it to. He hadn't removed it from his mouth in the process. He didn't care to. He would only have to put it back. It hung loosely between his cracked lips, and it would stay there either until it went out or became too hot to handle. In either case, he would spit it into the pail eventually. Which also stank. Three.

Another chime, and another mark; another stroke, another moment. Four so far. And counting. He didn't keep count of the cigarettes that he smoked. He didn't care to. He smoked them until they were dead, and he would do so until he was dead. And he would stop only then because of  the impracticalities of the situation. In the bed next to his in the hospital there had been a man of ninety who would smoke two cigarettes at the same time; because he could, because he was recovering from  a tracheotomy, because he had had some kind of cancer of the throat. You can get cancers anywhere it seemed, even in the butt.

He was ready for the next chime, it was one of his favourites. He crossed the previous four marks with a long bold diagonal cross bar, and then shuffled slightly in his chair; gently rearranging all of his relationships so that he felt presented with a fresh clean area of the envelope on which to continue. He felt momentarily refreshed and put memories of his stay in the hospital behind him once more. 

But he was a little too eager, and consequently the next stroke - by virtue of having started too soon - was slightly longer and more pronounced than those in the previous group. He allowed a slight frown because it hadn't meant to be so. But, not all the moments were the same, when he took them one at a time.

At the seventh stroke he had regained the rhythm and executed his task perfectly. An all too uncommon event of late. But he wouldn't allow his mind to wander. Sometimes it seemed as if the last few would come faster. Sometimes it seemed as if time had sped up a little bit, but that he had remained stationary. Unable to even consider trying to catch up. He could see the days run off ahead, and leaving him sitting at his desk with ash falling into his lap from the  loosely hanging cigarette in the corner of his mouth. His father had been able to blow smoke out of his ears.

Eight. Sometimes he would count along. Sometimes he would count up at the end. Sometimes he just scratched the marks, one after the other in a long line so that the day hardly seemed to have been measured out at all. But those would be the blacker days and today the sun had shone continually. People had died in the heat in Athens on a day like this his he had heard.

Chime. Stroke. Nine. A stitch in time saves. What did people mean by that? Jesus saves, they say. A stitch in time. It was possible. It was possible somebody was patching it all up. That would explain all the peculiarities. The opportunities you never even knew had been missed. The being caught in unusual traffic the very moment that a loved one dies in a stuffy room just around the corner. With nobody to close the curtains and all the double-decker buses filling past the window taking shoppers into the town, or out to the mall.

His next bar went from top left to bottom right, in opposition to the fifth. Creating a vague chevron pointing to the top of the envelope or beyond to where his morning cup of tea had scorched a white ring into the varnish of the desk top. It would be almost impossible to remove. Whichever of his children decided to inherit that particular stick of furniture would certainly be cursing him for his slovenly habits. But he didn't feel quite as tired as that just yet.

Five and ten. Good times. There were bad times as well. Seven and one. But now, he was inbetween times and he somewhat haphazardly made the eleventh stroke too far to the right. Perhaps he would put the next on the far left. Or perhaps he wouldn't. Perhaps he would let it stand. Stand out. 

But he did. Twelve, on the left. A balanced day all in all.

He put the date at the top of the envelope and let it rest on the desk. If he had been a richer man he could have employed somebody else to do this. But there had been many 'ifs' along the way. He settled back and awaited the death of his cigarette. Afterwards he might take a short nap. He would still have a little time left, he reasoned.

Resilience

I could paint you a picture of a room damp and cold, that stank in the corners of dog piss and stale food. Where the curtains had the same nicotine stained hue as the walls as the ceiling as the carpets as the furniture. Where there was never more than two bare electric bulbs in good working order at any one time - and frequently less than that. And where the pram in the corner was perilously close to both the electric fire and the draft from the crack in the window, at one and the same time.

But this was a room with a view.

And not just any view, but a view of Sam's star. Sometimes it was difficult to see, overshadowed, outclassed, by the braggarts of the sky, Sirius, Polaris, or... She didn't know much about astronomy. She had bought the only star she could afford at the time. It had come with a chart that detailed the dates and times that it would be visible in the night sky, and a small certificate proclaming it to be Sam's star which she didn't have any more. Depite the fact that Sam's star was most certainly a genuine heavenly body, it seemed to exhibit a terribly dissapointing streak of shyness. Of the usual 365 days in the year the chart indicated that the star may be visible from Sam's cracked window on only eleven of them. Not in precisely those terms of course, but one of Sam's friends - a student in fact - had owned a scientific calculator. Between it, the chart, and three bottles of wine one winter's night in the not too distant past, they had calculated the days when it may be possible to see the star through the window from the exact spot where they had may love on the carpet, perilously close to the electric fire. On some of those nights it was cloudy, even raining - seven nights so far this year. On others she was unavoidably pre-occupied elsewhere. Once Kieran had been ill and she had to stay overnight in the hospital where, typically, the children's ward faced entirely the opposite direction.

Kieran had been so young at the time that she still had his birth certificate carefully folded into the back pocket of her jeans. It hadn't been until some weeks later that she had lost that too. It had been through her mother's washing machine along with a crisp ten pound note, and  they had both come out as soggy balls of worthless pulp with what seemed like a million disintegrating satellite pellets of mush caught up in the folds of her sweaters, shirts, bras and pants. Sam had been distraught and she blamed her mother, who was understandably equally distraut to find what she thought had been a kindness turned against her at the slightest provocation. They had fought terribly. Whenever they fought it was terrible. Sam knew that she had never been her mother's favourite; and her mother knew that Sam had always wanted, or would have preffered, to live with her father. Sam's mouth had run away with her again, and that had proven to be the last time she'd spoken to her mother. Her step-father had brought the clothes over the next day, but she pretended to be out. So the stupid man left them on the landing, still damp. When she collected them later they stank, and for two weeks after she couldn't wear anything without first spraying it with body-mist deoderant.


The next occassion that Sam's star would have been visible was November fifth, which had been impossible since she spent most of the night looking after Spoot. Spoot was the dopey, ageing, and largely incontinent labradour-poodle mut she had inherited from Kieran's father before he found out that he was to be a father but after he'd decided he wasn't going to be a husband. Not Sam's husband anyway. He had gone back to college in his trench-coat and scarf, with his scientific calculator in his pocket and his head full of promises to write. Which he did, once; to tell her that he had caught scabbies of the scrotum and that he held her personally responsible, and to ask if she could forward his diary which he had accidently left behind. The diary that they had marked the eleven nights in. The first of which they had spent together, perilously close to the electric fire. Smoking Marlboro cigarettes and drinking red wine, though they both admitted to prefering lager. Despite the typical dissapointment she felt in him, she would still remember him with some fondness; not that she had liked him very much.

Her last two chances to see the star in the year following Kieran's conception came very close together. One was only a few nights ago. And so now she sat on the rug with a full pot of tea, a packet of chocolate digestives, and her last chance to see. It wasn't raining, it wasn't cloudy, the street-lamp outside still wasn't working, she hadn't been detained, and there was only a few moments of daylight left. She needed to go to the toilet.

....

Sam had a name for her star. She called it Resilience.

My Day Out

It's getting harder and harder to find a parking spot, even on the outskirts of the city. This morning I saw a space that was barely large enough to squeeze a Metro into, I had to leave my car jutting out from the kerb at an obscene angle. I shall have to find a station further out to travel from. Anyway this is how I find myself running down the escalator at Moor Park, safe in the knowledge that I shall miss the train, but trying all the same, out of loyalty to the company. I find it hard to believe now that I actually arranged a meeting for nine o'clock. If I have to catch the next tube I wont arrive until at least five past. At this moment I hear the immortal words 'MIND THE GAP' as my transport arrives, perhaps if a pram gets stuck in the doors I might still make it. I put on an extra burst of speed, only to be brought to a complete standstill as I collide with another person. I hadn't seen him, perhaps I had been distracted by the sound of the train. However, without a shadow of a doubt he was in the wrong, he should have been standing to one side. Probably a shopper, or a tourist that doesn't understand the importance of convention. They're rare at this time of day, but that's the most likely explanation, a fellow traveller would surely have been running for the train himself. As all this plays through my mind I hear the train speed off, damn. If I hadn't ran into that person I would surely have caught it. I look around for the culprit, hoping to be able to vent some of my frustration, but he already seems to have moved on. There's no way he could have caught the train, so I should be able to catch up with him on the platform.

I appear to take my time getting to the platform now that the train has left, but inside I am frustrated and angry. Stuck here miles from the office, not yet late but condemned not to arrive on time. It is beyond all human power now to get into work before nine o'clock. All because of one, thoughtless, dago tourist. Arriving at the platform I am somewhat surprised to see the instrument of my down fall has already gone. Surprised because the escalator out was within my full view all of the way down, and he could not have caught the train. I struggle with this dilemma for a while but feel that it's bringing on a headache. I shake my head, it's not important. The ache refuses to be shook out, it has a small but firm hold now. It shall sit there all day, growing malignantly. I look forward to this evening's gin and tonic, a hard day lies ahead.

The escalators continue to grind in their anti phase, the one plodding continually upwards, the other slithering always down, I wonder if a man from the council has to rewind them at nights when the station is closed. There are people beginning to assemble on the platform. I shuffle nervously away from the edge, well you just don't know. These are the people that come after the early morning commuters. This network was intended for me, and people like me. So that we can move efficiently and quickly in and out of the city, England's nerve centre. These people are shoppers and tourists, unemployed yobs, leeches that suck onto the underground, leaving a slimy trail of litter behind them. Then when they go home at night they laugh with each other about men in white collars running everywhere in such a hurry and getting heart attacks. These are the people that have no concept of the conventions, and so cause me to hurry as a direct result of their slovenly and lax behaviour. My frustration is building, they can probably see that I'm blushing. Looking around, it's obvious that some of them have been staring, it's time for one of those icy cool gazes that only a professional man, such as myself, can employ effectively. I catch the eye of a rather large man in jeans and black boots with the words 'DEF BY DEPRAVITY' tattooed on his head. I smile thinly, I hate myself for it, but what else can I do ?

The train arrives, over thirty seconds late. I step aboard. Unfortunately so does my friend with the tattoos. Ten stops, perhaps I can avoid looking at him in that time. The air on the train must be quite dry because my ears have started to itch. They always used to do that in summer at the old school, earned me the rather dull nick name of 'itchy'. Anne, my wife, still calls me that sometimes. The itch has become quite intolerable, it's odd that it should start again after all this time, and with such ferocity. Nervously I take an experimental scratch. Nobody seems to notice. I become a little bit more vigorous in the ecstasy of relief that the scratching brings. Did that woman notice then ? No, surely not. My ear feels odd, it seems to have lost the tightness around the top to which I have become accustomed. It feels almost, flaky. I look at my fingers, sticking to the ends of them are fine particles of dry white skin, my shoulders are covered with the stuff. For a moment I think it must be dandruff, but I'm forced to draw the connection between it and the feel of my ears. Some form of rash that's new to me. Another of the hazards of travelling by public transport. I look with suspicion at the large fat lady sat on the adjoining seat, but her ears appear normal. I shall have to stop off at the chemist on the way home to get something for it.

The yob and the fat woman both get off at Finchley Road. Before arriving at my own stop, Baker Street, I have time to wonder if they have some secret liaison arranged. A morning of sordid entertainment whilst I work to keep the country running. My office is just around the corner from the station, I arrive at exactly six minutes past nine, late. The meeting has started without me, I hang my jacket up and join it, making my apologies on the way.

Ordinarily arriving late would make the morning travel must faster. Today however this meeting runs slowly, at half past eleven the clock starts to run backwards, and all the time I am conscious of the state of my ears. They don't itch so much any more, in fact I have very little feeling in them now. I make a small presentation just before twelve. Nobody seems too interested in what I have to say, this makes it easy for me to slip out for lunch. Company policy dictates that I should have stayed to have lunch with the other people in the meeting, customers, but I really must find a chemist and do something about this rash.

Outside, in the anonymity of the city streets, I dare to reinvestigate my ears. They have been quiet most of the morning but it would be worth reawakening that terrible itch just to know that they are still there. I place my hands to the sides of my head and hold them there for a moment. When I bring them back away and stare into the palms I see something most odd, and a little bit disturbing. Lying in each is a rather large piece of dead meat, in the shape of a pair of human ears. I laugh convulsively, they could be a matching set of ash trays. I shudder so hard that this pile of flesh slip from my grasp and slap on the floor. The sound of them has such reality that I actually find myself checking to make sure they aren't my own ears. I find they are, on the sides of my head there are no ears, not even any holes, just a smooth continuation of my skin. I find I am not able to laugh any more.

I am stood in the shadow of an alley way. A full hour has passed since leaving the office. In that time I have been wondering down back streets and snickets, trying to avoid the constant traffic of people in the lunch time crowds of London. Fear of my new deformity being discovered driving me underground. My options seem limited, greater than previously maybe, but limited all the same. I can go back to the office and pretend nothing has happened. After all I don't seem to be experiencing any hearing difficulties, and at least I don't wear glasses. It doesn't seem likely though that I can get through the afternoon without being noticed, and to have my condition brought to the attention of my colleagues would be, in the least, intolerable. No I must take my other option, which as I see it, is my only other option. I shall have to travel down into the underground and find my way home, where hopefully Anne will be of some help.

The alley I am in, opens onto a very bright and very wide street. There is the entrance to an underground station calling like the gaping mouth of a fledgling, desperate for it's mother's morsels, and I am desperate for the comfort that its cold emptiness will bring. The way to the underworld is blocked by an impenetrable writhing mass of people, tying themselves in knots like earthworms, baking in the sun and cracking up. I am shaking and praying for courage to cross over. I'm waiting for a break in the crowds and about to make my move when I sense the cause of the lull. Coming down the street is a legless man, he is sitting in a wheel chair, being drawn by six golden labradors, he occasionally beats them with a long white stick. The knots untangle and the people move aside for him, but they do it as automatons, just as they would to avoid a ladder or a hole in the road. No conscious thought or free will is involved. As he passes by he stares at me, and I have to admit his reality. I am ashamed. This man travels at speed down the street whilst I cower in darkness. My shame seduces me into crossing the street.

The crossing is smooth, and I quickly find myself standing at the top of the escalators to the underworld. They continue in their up and down grind, I am momentarily confused as to which I should board. I take my chances and take my pick, fortunately it's the right decision and I am carried away into the darkness. As the comforting embrace of the dulled light takes a hold I start to float, feeling as though I am walking backwards up the escalator and consequently not moving. The day is but half over and I wonder where else it may lead me. The train I intend to catch could take a wrong turn into the city's sewers, from where there is no limit as to how low a person can go. My thoughts are interrupted by a sharp pain in the small of my back, throwing me a few steps forward. I look around into the bewildered face of a city commuter sat, with his umbrella sticking up, obviously the instrument of my pain. With a resigned indignation I realise that this chap has collided with me. I was standing on the right side, so I take it into my mind to remind him of the conventions, when he stands up and walks straight past. Something is happening to this city, something that makes ordinary decent folk forget our tradition of good manners. However I am learning to accept the indifference of people. The pain of the collision was considerable, and I feel tears welling up into my eyes.

The tears are dry. I feel the ducts in my eyes open wide and water is gushing forth; yet, there is no moisture on my cheeks, no salty deposits on my lips. In a bid to find where the tears are going I lift my left hand to my eye. As it reaches I do not blink and I do not flinch, for there is nothing to cause me to flinch. My eyelids are already closed, sealed fast. There are no lashes and no brows, just two folds of skin, filling with water and bulging out. I try to scream, or shout for help, but my mouth will not open more than a fraction. As I consider the tiny hole in my lips, barely large enough for a straw, my cheeks convulse and draw it tightly shut. Lip sticks to lip, tooth melts to tooth.

I wonder now about my ability to communicate. Am I blinded or is my vision simply blocked by the tears in my eyes ? Am I deafened or do I spend too long listening to myself ? Am I muted or do I have nothing to say ? I concentrate hard upon the world around me and find that it is rich in sound and colour. Colours, the fiery red glow of the escalator, the earthy umber hues of the floor tiles and the electric spark of fluorescent lights. Sounds, The constant grating of the hidden machines driving the escalator, the eternal cracking of ceramic tiles and the dangerous snicker from the lights. I am left feeling small and isolated. The things around me have been fashioned into every day objects that I had chosen, before, never to look at. Now that I stop to consider them I see that they are more than a surface service. The escalator is driven by hidden machinery. The lights are connected by miles of cable to every home in the country. The tiles, brightly painted and fashioned into squares, are crumbling of their own volition into a brown dust. These mundane elements of daily life have taken on a fresh effect, a darker depth. I am slipping into a new latitude, Have I gone through a painful rebirth ? Is life beginning at forty ? Am I on the brink of a new adventure ? I stand up to drop a metaphorical anchor. I am ready to land on this 'brave new world', to reach out to it, and feel it reach out to me. With surprising ease my lungs fill with air and I shout a long and loud hello.

'Hello'

I am winded, an orb of force smashes into my midriff and again, I find myself crumpled on the floor. The word crashes down next to me and sits there smiling. I know that it is not one of my own. It is too sharp and incisive for that. The edges glitter with a razor keenness, foreign to my own language. It rests on the floor saying HELLO, BON JOUR, GUTEN TAG, HIYA all at once. I reach out, unsure if I should smash it to pieces or smother it, only aware that it is far too persistent for what should be such an empty word. As my fingers dance onto its surface I get the tingle of flesh meeting flesh. Again I stroke the word and this time I can feel fine hairs upon its surface. I try to consider the syllables and letters that make up such a strange word but instead find myself staring at a most perfect carving of a foot. The attached leg disappears out of my angle of view, but I know that this will be a most beautiful statue. The words 'That's' and 'funny' bounce lightly off the back of my neck and come to rest some distance away. I look up to where they came from and I am confronted, not by a statue, but by a person. A person with no eyes, no ears, no discernible sex and no identity. I stand and we embrace. My hands explore the other's body, hoping that my fingers may find a contour to rest upon, a spark of individualism, a vestige of humanity, a clue to identity. There is none. As my hands slip down the other's spine I am aware that tiny steel bearings are skittering to the floor and rolling away. I have found someone here, it could easily be myself, but I found someone and I have found how to cry.

Smile after smile peels away from the other, they shoot out, some sticking to the walls and the ceiling, others just hanging mid air. The whole place is getting rather cluttered and so, without saying another word we head off together to the platform.

One escalator flight lays between myself, the other and the platform below. Above there remains a triangle of light, the frayed edges of the upper world lapping into what I have come to consider as my domain. Although we are still locked into our embrace the other is a few steps ahead, which is appropriate, for I believe that she has also taken a few steps further into this disclosed labyrinth. I believe it to be right that the other was a she for her raw sensuality is so sharp that it hurts to be closer than a few feet. I believe it to be right that the other was a she, but deliberately and disturbingly I know this to be only a belief. A thought hangs between us, 'How can I hold onto a man's love when I've failed to hold onto a man's identity.' This thought swivels on a pivot, gliding up and down my body and coming rest at my empty crotch. If the other was never a woman then was I ever a man ?

This journey is starting to confuse me when the other pulls out of nowhere a rather large sharp diamond. It crashes from the ceiling to the floor, twisting in its coloured skin. With a cry I throw myself into the arms of my companion as it shatters upon the floor. The fragments are instantly black and roughly hewn. Before they start to melt I recognize the fragments as lumps of coal. They become amorphous, splintering into layers that grate over each other, taking the form more of shale. The movement becomes so intense that it is hard to watch, to distinguish detail. Slowly the frenzy of activity becomes uniform, localized. There is a colour shift from black to brown to pink. Out of the shale forms a twisting mass of tiny sea creatures, their legs entangling in back breaking knots. Their frenzy is enforced by the time slip they have just been dragged through. In my mind the hint of an idea grows. The immortality of the mortal. These tortured creatures may die, but out of them will grow shale, coal and then diamond, and in each phase they maintain a place in the earth. These creatures feed on the earth, but also allow the earth to feed on them. There is no taking, no destruction, and no raping involved. A natural order is maintained in life and death. Through change, through mortality, we are immortal.

The other puts on a long cloak. It is a patchwork quilt of a cloak. The furthest hem is edged with coal. Following that there is an area of interwoven fire and wheat. Running down the central seam is a fresh water spring, there is probably salmon in it. On the one side of the stream stands a building site. As it sprawls up and over the shoulder blade it becomes more complete, until upon the shoulder itself there lies a forest of skyscrapers. On the other side of the stream is a group of crocodiles snapping at the feet of children, dancing at the feet of a Jazz band. The man in the cloak smiles thinly at me and says

"I have shown you an image that has travelled from the ancient to the primeval. I am wearing a cloak of my history. A man with a history is a world with a future. When you find your history spread it out before you, and see where it leads."

With these words the cloak slips and the other, man or woman, dissipates, dissolves but does not disappear. The other will never disappear, he has unlocked his future with the key of our pasts. I have a history to find, a past to cast forward. I think on this and move on to the platform. As I do so, the triangle of light above snaps off.

A couple of years ago Anne bought me a briefcase for christmas. It was a very fine briefcase, possibly too fine for a man in my position, never the less I was very pleased with it. Every morning I placed into it my morning paper and my lunch time sandwiches. Every evening I took the paper out and placed it on top of the pile in the cellar. You can see then that this case became a fixed, and important, part of my daily routine. It was of some concern to me then when I discovered that the case had become lost. So naturally I went to the lost property office at the station where I'd last seen it, and it was there ! I was so happy that I hardly noticed paying fifty pence to retrieve it. Now it seems that I am looking for something of a much greater significance than that briefcase, I am looking for a history, and unlike the briefcase, I do not know where to find it.

I am brought to a sudden standstill. Around me all I can sense is a pulsing grey flesh, nourished by rivulets of blood snaking everywhere.The flesh smells a little rotten, as if it were going off, and I am standing right in the centre of it. I feel like a micro camera injected in to the spinal column of a corpse. Convulsively I take a step forward and I am immediately relieved of the image. Looking back I am able to notice that in the exact spot where I have just been standing is an old, old woman, waiting for a tube train. It is evident to me that I have walked right through her. She has not even noticed. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. I hold up my hands, apparently I am wearing mittens. It is not possible to tell where one finger starts and another stops, or even to spread them wide, as though ready to play piano. The nature of my disease strikes me. I am loosing form and substance, just as an old photograph fades when there's nobody left to look at it. I remember some thing that was said to me earlier, 'A man with a history is a world with a future'. Does it follow then that a man with no history has no future ? Would such a man be trapped in the present ? But surely the present is only an instantaneous border between past and future. As future moments slipped over the border and into the past, as future milestones crumple under the advance of history, would such a man get left behind ? Would such a man slip out of body and out of time ? Am I such a man ?

The search for my past becomes suddenly quite urgent. Slightly ahead of me are a pair of red and green elevator doors, juxtaposing themselves amid the crowd. Above them are two lighted words that exclaim 'GOING DOWN'. I step over expecting that they will whoosh open automatically. They don't. 'Open sesame', nothing. 'Abracadabra', nothing. I am perplexed, how do such doors open ? They stand alone with not even a call button. Then it occurs to me, of course, I do not need them to open. Preparing my body for the invasion of cold steel, I step forward. The inside of the elevator is a stark zero room. The only discernible feature a small red LED readout marked 'Level meter' displaying today's date and the time two o'clock. 2:00:00, 1:59:59, 1:59:58,... as the read out starts tick I feel a gentle tremor under my feet. Something has evidently operated the elevator. I hear the crackle of a speaker and expect the traditional elevator musak to start, instead what I hear is the following,

Bathing under sun We are All one.

With that the motion within the elevator grew more noticeable, and before long I believe we, that is my self and the elevator, had reached terminal velocity. I wonder if the cage I am riding in is being driven by the machine's of man, or pulled by nature's hand. Before passing out I notice the level meter reading zero.

I am aware that the doors are open. There is no breeze, there is no air. By now I feel that it is not necessary to be breathing. First, I investigate my body, to make my self aware of any new developments. I try to lift my left leg and then I try to lift my right. I accomplish neither. Instead a small standing wave ripples around my body and I roll a few feet across the floor, towards the doors. I am a tight balloon of flesh stretched around a pocket of air. Just for the moment I try not to do any more rolling, for fear of catching myself on something and bursting. I examine my surroundings. I am about two feet from the open doors of the elevator, to their left the level read out is cracked and blank. Beyond the doors is a dark and rocky wasteland. The speaker crackles into life again and tells me that time and space have neither beginning nor end, but flow in cycles, as a menopause. In which case I believe that I have reached the moment of ovulation. Have a nice day. I roll myself out of the doors.

The ground is soft and muddy. I feel that I am sinking in, my movement is caught and I am at the mercy of fate. I wonder if it is possible to reach back into the elevator, but I know already that it has gone. My surroundings are a self contained cave. Mud flows around the floor and drips from the ceiling, occasionally splattering on my oval body. Some distance away I am aware that there is a tiny point of light. It is like looking out from a tube train tunnel. The point is a long way off, but if their is anything left to enter into my life I know that it will come from there. I settle myself in my mud bath, and prepare to wait.

I do not know how long I wait. I fill the time whistling snatches from Bolero and wobbling from side to side. I do not know why but my anticipation heightens. My fleshy skin becomes tighter. The cavern in which I reside is getting warmer, the atmosphere is sticky. The walls gently fibrillate and waves wash over me. I realize that what I am expecting is the return, the second coming, of the other, who had so rudely abandoned me in the tube station.

The point of light on the horizon is suddenly cut off. I prepare myself for the main event. The very walls around me are expanding as though to accommodate an intruder of unknown size, even so I am worried that I may be squashed. However there is no way to move. Nowhere to run nowhere to hide. Truly now, what will be will be, I settle back and decide to enjoy the ride. The expansion gives way to contraction as the pressure subsides, but I barely have time to catch an hallucinatory breath before the whole thing starts again. I am on some kind of merry go round, I am a white stallion leaping up and down while it goes around and around, faster and faster. Until the music looses the beat and becomes a constant whine.

A flood of dreams wash over me. The splattered remains of the mud on my surface is washed away, the cobwebs of my mind, the tired old cliches of my life are BLOWN away. I am left with a clean slate, not empty and untouched, but full of possibilities. I can twist and shift into any shape, as a chameleon. I can fit into life, no more waiting for life to fit me. Contented I sit and wait to be flushed out of this waiting room.

Although there are no visible signs I can feel my body reforming itself. Slowly arms and legs will appear, head, face, eyes and mind will take on a new form. I had lost all vestiges of humanity, and looking back it does not seem obvious when. The loss, inside of me, started a long time ago. I hope now that as my body grows again, I can take the spongy warmth of this place and fill myself up with it. I have gone back to the egg, and I hope now that I can grow back to reality. My horizons open up and beckon me, what lies beyond is dangerous and scary, but I am filled with anticipation. Life is so exciting, here I go again...

Jaya!

Exile - as an expression of time
Vision - as a waking dream
Expiration - as a sleeping life
Normalisation - as the repetition of past events
Time - as the illusion of life
Satisfaction - at reaching an end

Events are the chains of life.

Jaya! sat drinking tea, as was his custom at times like these; when, despite the best of his efforts, things persisted in happening to him. At one time he would shake his fist menacingly in the empty air and shout 'Leave me alone, father'. But now he generally sat with a hot cup of tea until whatever was happening to him stopped happening to him and went off to happen to somebody else.

Jaya! had been both married and widowed. He had been both the hero and the villain, sometimes on seperate occasions, and sometimes both at once. He had been at one time tremendously rich, the son of a prince; and at another terribly poor, a pauper on the street. The people had hailed him as the saviour and reviled him as the serpent. He had swam in the holy waters of the Ganges, and would doubtless soon be burning in the fires of somebody else's hell. In short, everything that could happen to a man was determined to happen to Jaya!

But Jaya! wanted to be left alone to live in his tent by the sea.

He knew it was coming. Whenever anything was about to happen he would awake to find two mosquitoes dead in his bed roll, as though poisoned by his blood (although Jaya! didn't know it, he did in fact have poisonous blood). And so it was with a heavy heart that he had set about boiling the water to make his tea. He only hoped that the days until he could return to his tent by the sea would pass quickly. He drank his tea slowly. Only when he spat the last of the leaves from between his teeth did he rise and dress, and lift the illusion of sleep from all that lay around him. He stepped out into the glorious light of a new day that marked the beginning of the rest of his life, as it so tediously had the day before, and the day before that. Jaya! looked up to the sun in disdain at the obvious optimism with which it was burning itself to death. At least, he thought, one day you'll be burned completely up and a man may get a decent nights sleep. Then he tripped over the feet of the prophet at his door and bashed his head on the rock he used to open coconuts.

'As it was written, so has it come to pass' the prophet cried out in alarming ecstasy.

Jaya! had heard it before. It seems as though, before he was born, somebody had gone to the trouble of writing down every moment of Jaya!'s life into a big book that had been placed into a library from where every prophet seeking a vision would surreptitously tear out a page and come to disturb him in his tent by the sea. Jaya! considered boxing the prophet's ears and sending him on his way. But it would do no good, so instead he sat up and nursed the bruise that was forming on the crown of his head. For a reason he didn't understand, these great events that wouldn't leave him alone always started by causing him some pain. Jaya! decided that when it was all over he would come back and forgive the rock, but he would still move it to the other side of his tent. The prophet continued to babble.

...saviour of the fish of the sea. Protector of the birds of the sky. Devourer of the pains and misery and ills of man. Jaya! the victorious. Jaya, my wonderous master! Oh! Jaya! the magnificent!

At this point Jaya! really did box the prophets ears, and emplored him to come straight to the point. Which the prophet, being a wise man, did and then left in a hurry to ruin another man's day. In fact it was the prophet’s day that ruined, since he ran directly into the mango-swamp on Jaya!’s island, where he was promptly devoured by a crocodile.

And so it was that Jaya! awoke on the day that the seas stopped foaming.

-*-

In fact nobody had noticed that the seas had stopped foaming, except for the fishermen and the boys who dived for pearls. The fishermen were in general agreement that it was a good thing, since it made the whole bothersome issue of setting out on a leaky vessel much safer. Not all of their wives would privately agree. The pearl-diving boys simply continued to dive for pearls. There was a very great demand for them and the boys were given no time to consider the weather. The racketeers who extorted the pearls from the boys did consider the weather, since they generally believed themselves to be civilised men. However, they never got their feet wet and so missed the opportunity of considering the strange and beautiful sight of a strangely calm ocean.

Jaya! Did consider the strange and beautiful sight of a strangely calm ocean, and he considered it to be pretty awful. A portent of doom. The harbinger of some very great event indeed. ‘If that prophet had not run off and got himself eaten’ thought Jaya! as his boat paddled along, ‘I would have thrown him into this awful ocean just so as to watch the ripples’.

The House of Agadon

Hidden in the heart of the Rolling Hills is a green valley, where mortal shades find life. In this valley there are twenty one olive groves, each lorded over by a master. Through the labours of his thralls each master tends carefully to the olive harvest. The fortunes of a thrall depend entirely upon the mood of his master. Some live life in merriment, and some in hunger, such is the way of the valley. Order is maintained in this fashion by the noblest of men, King George the justifiable.

The valley is known as Agadon Twyx to its people, surrounded on all sides by the mighty Aga hills, the peaks of which can not be seen. Between these hills, and through the valley, flows the river Twyx. The legends and folk lore of Agadon are many, and varied, telling of such times as when all the olives turned black, or warning against travel beyond the forbidden point. There is one myth however that is known only to a few, and is believed by even fewer;

The story of Hadyn

Over three thousand olive crops ago it was tradition for the King of Agadon to take one suppliant from his people as his adviser. The last Supreme Suppliant was Hadyn the Lost. Now Hadyn was a musician by trade, and his melodies could soothe even the wrath of a man whose olive trees had wilted. A note once struck would roll on for all time, calming all in it's path, and eventually passing over even the great Aga hills. It was for this skill that the King of the time   whose name has become lost   chose Hadyn for his adviser. And for a long time did he give wise council.

Now it came to pass that in one season the crop of every man within the bounds of Agadon failed. The darkness of starvation hung heavy in the realm, and no amount of music could ease the pain. After only a few short months the stores were consumed, since such a catastrophe could never have been for seen. Hadyn then spoke wise council unto his sovereign,

'Sire, if it please thee, I will speak of the wise plot that lies within your heart, and shows itself with sorrow pity upon your brow.'

And the proud sovereign, eager for any plan, but ashamed lest another best him within the crises, bade wise Hadyn to speak of the plot he so discovered. Thus Hadyn revealed it so,

 'Sire, if it please thee, we are in a time of great measure, and some small adventure. If the many are to put from them their wont of food and survive this cursed time, then the few must put forward what little nourishment they have in their hearts.'

And the proud sovereign replied,

'Ah, wise Hadyn, I fear lest your own wont for nourishment has robbed you of sense. Already every man has given every morsel unto the stores, and already the stores are empty. What else then would you have a man find in his heart ?'

And so questioned Hadyn uncoiled the melody of his riddle,

'Sire, if it please thee, I will speak some more. If a man has nothing in his heart to give, then he must give of his own heart. If the people of Agadon are to survive then they must partake of the hearts and flesh of the spirits that have survived not. Each man that approaches the doors of death must be released from the agonies of a gnawing stomach. His body must then be spitted and divided amongst the people so that they may also be released from the agonies of a gnawing stomach.'

And the proud sovereign took to the council thus,

'Ah, wise Hadyn, this is indeed a difficult council you force me to consider, for I know the truth of your vision. This must be so, if any are to live. Thus I decree it so, however the flesh of no spirit will be taken unless freely offered up within the life of that spirit.'

And so it was decreed. And soon the stores were empty and the people of Agadon were wasting into death, and yet no hapless spirit came forth to offer up its flesh. Now Hadyn was a young man of strong breeding and he felt the hunger plague less than any other man within the realm. Understanding, however, the nature of his council he took it upon himself to set example. Thus in a public ceremony he did bequeath the flesh of his bones to the people of Agadon, and at that very moment he drove himself upon a sharp spear. The people let a great wailing out, the torrents of the river washed back upon themselves, and the nymphs of the wood let sweet tears feed fallow land. Then, according to royal decree and the wish of Hadyn, the spear was taken up and the body roasted upon a spit. In like manner did Agadon survive the famine, whence hunger overcame the many, the few, of high spirit, gave of their very hearts.

Although the story of Hadyn is known to only a few, it lives still, in the festivals of Agadon. Every season, after a successful harvest, a great feast is held in which the wasting stores from previous seasons are consumed. The Olive Feast, as it is known, may last many weeks. It is a time of great merriment for all the people, spare one. During the feast much wine is drank and many stories are unfolded. Once the wasting stores are depleted the feast is closed with the banquet of the Fool. Each and every year the King chooses from amongst his suppliants one of unsound mind or unpopular odour upon which to bestow the honour of Fool. It falls upon this person to give of his heart, and his flesh, unto the people of Agadon. It is a very great honour.

As harvest time draws near the people of Agadon grow ever watchful, lest dark famine should strike. The air of the valley becomes condensed into lines of concentration as every pair of eyes are turned to the olives. Watching, counting, waiting. There is little done and less said as Helios embraces all and the fruits of labour are inflated, skins stretched taught and pale hues deepened. For a whole week, or more, no word is spoken, no gesture wasted, until the first olive that has grown too heavy for the branch, breaks free and falls to the waiting nets.

Now, a little way to the southern tip of Agadon, there stands a small grove of only three trees. They have grown upon the land fertilised by the tears that the wood nymphs gave in memory of Hadyn. Their harvest has never been known to fail, and they are always the most bountiful. They are tended by Nathan and are greatly coveted by all of his neighbours. As Nathan is sat in care of his grove, watchful for the harvest signs and wary of the dark Famine, a wasteful neighbour of ten weak trees comes to him with some concealed plot.

'Good morning, Nathan' spoke the wasteful neighbour.

'Morning neighbour'

'Pray tell me the distance of the harvest from your grove, for truly the olives here are always both the first and last to fall within all Agadon. Some such clue would suit my purpose well.'

'And what purpose is that, neighbour ?' replied Nathan, unmindful of the plot afoot.

'Only that, since your olives are bound to fall first it seems wasteful to me that we should both spend time a plenty watching our own groves. The waste sore afflicts me, since bright Helios has placed it in my heart to spend the morrow fishing. Yet woeful would it be if the harvest were to start whilst I am away from the trees, only a Fool would risk a seasons work so.'

'True do you speak, for a Fool indeed would be unheeding of the trees at this time of harvest.'

'Yes, but still fair Harvest will dance within your boughs the first. So I take it to mind that tomorrow I will go fishing and ask of you to send a messenger to me, should the dance begin whilst I am away. In return for this small favour, I myself will sit in this very spot today and watch your grove, so that you may take yourself where ever your heart calls.'

Now it so happens that the wasteful neighbour tends to ten weak trees, and that the ten between them have yielded but one olive. The breeze from fair Harvest's dance caused the weak stem to break and the olive to fall, only moments ago, and it is within the heart of the wasteful neighbour to entice Nathan from his grove, so that the bountiful harvest may be spirited away from there. Unheedful of the plot, but mindful of the harvest Nathan replies,

'For sure their are affairs of the heart I would dearly love to pursue at this very moment, were it not for the ever presence of the fair Harvest.'

And the wasteful neighbour beguiled Nathan further,

'Indeed the fair Harvest is ever present and could arrive at any moment, and that is why I offer you time whilst there yet is time. That is why I say go tend your heart today, and tomorrow let me tend mine, even though time may run out tomorrow. So tarry not here any longer, follow your heart whilst there is yet time, for when the harvest arrives we shall all be poor in that way.'

And in that frame of mind Nathan thanked the wasteful neighbour and set off upon his path. Upon the meeting of Nathan and the turn in the path, Fair Harvest arrived at his grove and began to dance. Each olive that swooned from the branch in the light of her rhythm landed within the evil grasp of the wasteful neighbour, who then spirited half the crop away to lay in his own nets. He then sent word out, of the start of the Harvest, to all but Nathan.

 It happened that Nathan liked to spend most of his spare time in a solitary place. Thus he had taken no wife, the people of the village would often consider this and worry after the health of Nathan. For there were many a pretty girl who would cast her olive nets over him. Nathan then found himself walking up the side of the Aga hills, as far as the forbidden point, across which no living soul may pass. When the call to harvest came then, he was far from the soundings of any messenger.

The village came quickly to life under the spell of the dance, puppets hung still for five days took the action that their bodies had been poised for. Olives were counted down, and the nets wrapped over. The storage silos were flung wide open and an ensured future bestowed there in. The wasting stores were checked, olives from seasons past inspected and the length of the Olive Festival was determined. A great organic machine was ticking over through out the town, missing only one link, Nathan. After the first frantic burst of activity in the Harvest stopped, people started to wonder about Nathan and his bountiful crop. Where was he ? Surely not with holding from the royal stores ? Presently whispered questions and half rumours grew into a large armed posse of concerned friends, set on finding Nathan and his crop.

When the posse arrived at Nathan's grove of three bountiful trees they found the trees bare, the final few olives just then falling to the soil to waste. All around trodden into the ground lay the dregs of a bountiful crop, a decaying sea of dead labours. Never before had it been known for Nathan's trees' crop to fail in such a spectacular manner. The sight brought wailing to the men who found it, for no ill omen is received with a glad heart. In that moment of grief each of the three trees cracked with a mighty split through the heart of their wood. The echo of this crack reached even the ears of Nathan, in the forbidden zone.

Nathan had reached the edge of the tree line, high up on the Aga hills. Now no mortal man may pass beyond this point, for there lies the land of nymphs and gods. No mortal sustenance can be found in that place and the land will suck life from moving flesh. Nathan stood at this point for a long time, considering the prison of his civilized valley with its Kings and festivals. He stood yearning for the expanse, to let go of the weight of his body, to step from the edge of society into the abyss. When a man stands at a high point and casts his gaze down then he is over taken with a wave of giddiness. A subconscious wish to jump, only rational mind can pull such a man back from the edge. As Nathan looked into the abyss, the unknown called him, and he leapt from a great height. At that point he heard the fabric of his valley split.

Nathan lands a few inches forward, feet falling on solid ground. Behind him the trees stretch away into the distance, to a fine point where the village lay, a speck in the Rolling Hills. He feels the weight of his body shuffle off. He no longer falls into the abyss, he walks through it, no pushing, no pulling. A land of Nymphs and Gods. The Rolling Hills themselves are immortal, are leviathans slumbering. The hills are not owned by god, they are not created by god, but they ARE god. And Nathan feels his feet on the ground.

Wisps flash over Nathan as he walks through the corporeal air. A slight way ahead a form takes shape, the goodly image of a Nymph. The space between Nathan and the Nymph draws back and so they move closer. The Nymph holds Nathan in an embrace, Nathan feels the colour of another filter into him. Then he feels as two spirits, melting into the earth, into the immortal. He recalls. The land will suck life from moving flesh. At the final moment he fails to make the cut. He is recalled, to his body, to his senses. He steps back from the edge, into the cover of trees.

In the posse of men at Nathan's grove, stands the wasteful neighbour. When the wailing has subsided he takes it upon him self to address the company thus,

'Friends, this is a grave matter. The loss of so much must be reconciled, even though my own unexpected crop was most bountiful, this loss must not stand. What kind of Fool would let such a magnificent crop waste ? What matters of the heart drew Nathan from the harvest ? '

No man in the posse could give an answer, and so the wasteful neighbour took it upon himself to supply his own,

'Friends, this is a grave matter. The fault must be atoned, and the fault lies at the feet of Nathan. Never was their such a fool. I say that Nathan is the greatest Fool that this town can offer up to his majesty King George.'

No man in the posse could give answer, and so it was declared that Nathan was the most fitting man to receive the Honour of Fool.

Nathan walks slowly back to the village. Nauseous and a little bit shaken. He is unaware of how long he has been away, he concentrates solely on one fact. He has been over the border. No man may pass the forbidden point. Yet he had. How does this effect Agadon ? The rule of the King ? Will the rule of King George still be absolute outside the boundaries of the forbidden point ? If the boundaries of the area of play disappear, then will the rules also go ? Nathan speaks aloud

 'I must take council on this point when I return to Agadon.'

In the courtyards of the house of King George preparations for the Olive Feast were almost complete. The high table sits upon a dais, with five strong seats, each adorned with a purple coverlet. The finest men of Agadon will sit themselves here. Firstly, Tirese the court seer, then Poepylon the high priest, thirdly in the centre, King George himself, and immediately to his right, Hepalyon the warrior general. The fifth seat will lay vacant for much of the feast, and is reserved for the dually appointed Fool. Within the sight of the high table, twenty one further tables are arranged, one for the master and kin of each of Agadon's glorious groves. The master's tables mark a great arc, within which much entertainment will be displayed. Within the outer courtyards the thralls of Agadon may fight and feast over the abundant scraps that fall that way.

Now, when the tables were thus arranged, and the meal prepared, and the handmaidens and cup bearers ready, the call to feast was sounded. Firstly the outer courtyards were filled with the many low men and thralls of Agadon, each barbarous and rough of tongue. Secondly the master's of the groves took their places with kith and kin at each appointed table. Then did the finest men of Agadon enter in order, Tirese, Poepylon and Hepalyon. Finally King George himself came down from his tall tower and took his place at the high table. Thus every man of Agadon became seated within the courtyards, except wise Nathan. King George cast his eye over each and every one of his suppliants, and upon coming across the empty table of Nathan, asked there of. And the wasteful neighbour stood so to speak, seeing a device therein to multiply his good case in the eyes of the King.

'Sire, if it please thee, I shall speak to answer the questions you hold. For my part I am Ahriman, Nathan's hard grafting neighbour. For many seasons I have toiled in my grove to little avail, and all the while Nathan receives good profit from his land. Yet never did I wax wrathful over my neighbour's good fortune. Thus amazed was I when this season my own crop came in most bountiful. And doubly amazed was I when passing the Grove of Nathan I found it laid bear, wasted, with no sign of the master. I know not what matters of the heart called Nathan away thus, causing the despoiling of the most bountiful crop of all, and his missing of the feast. A strange matter indeed must it have been. And it afflicts me sore to see good crop wasted, when I have worked without pleasure for so long. So against my heart I say, that Nathan is our supreme Fool.'

 Then several of the other masters, who had each been within Nathan's grove at the splitting of the bountiful trees, each took it in turns to verify the story, and recant further details there of. King George listened at length to all that the masters had to say, then replied,

'And it sore afflicts me to hear such things of Nathan, who has always brought us a most bountiful crop. These are grave concerns, which I shall consider. Yet no proclamation of foolishness shall I pass until such time that I have heard from Nathan his own case. For now, let the feasting commence.'

Now, the tradition of the feast is such that the King does first suffer to hear the grievances of his suppliants and make justice there on, and so the aggrieved are first called upon to make known their sorry case. The first to step forward rises from the table of Ahriman, the wasteful neighbour, and he beseeches the King thus,

'Sire, if it please thee, I shall make known my grievance. In the house of Ahriman I live, in constant hunger due to the poor profit of that land. In such hunger I found my self readying the banquet halls where great fare was laid out for my master and his close friends. And in such hunger I waited upon my lords for three days and three nights. At the end of this work I was rewarded with dry stones from consumed olives with which I could only make a small portion of soup. In no wise may such hunger be silenced. In no other house do I hear of thralls treated in like manner. Sire, my grievance is that Ahriman can grow fat upon weak land, whilst frequently his thralls starve within halls of feasting.'

King George listened carefully to the sufferance of the thrall and then gave judgement,

'It is the duty of all thralls to bear great loyalty to their masters, and to suffer whatsoever their master require them. In no way do you lie dead from poor nourishment, and thus your grievance is ill founded. A greedy and unloyal thrall must be taught proper decorum. Thus my judgement is that you learn the feel of true hunger. You are to be taken from this place so that a strong twine at the end of a true needle may bind your greedy and traitorous lips closed. Only thus may one such as yourself serve good purpose, as an example to other thralls.'

So the man was carried away by the forces of Hepalyon who would perform the bidding of the King, and Ahriman the wasteful neighbour drunk much wine in libation to the wise judgement of the King.

 Upon his return to the village Nathan made first and foremost to the place of his grove, high of heart but with a vexed mind. Questions of his passage into the forbidden zone still teasing him. Thus it was that he saw no sign of the harvest or any event until he entered his own grove. No sign of the wasteful neighbour, or of the crop. It is plain to anybody with eyes to see what had happened here. Then Nathan's gaze fell upon the rent trees, each of them torn in twain, and tears filled his words as he spoke,

'What manner of evil has brought this to pass ? How great was this grove, that it gave freely of it's fruits so that no man may feel the pain of hunger ? What manner of man would covet the fruits so, and lay the land to waste ? How now will the people of Agadon fair against the threat of Dark Famine?'

And as he spoke three spirits came forth, one from each of the mighty trees, and each spoke to him in turn. The first was a wasted maiden with fair complexion and dark raiment. Within the folds of her cloak were many weak men, gnarled and suffering poor nourishment, their hands held out for whatever scraps they could find. This cold creature was the first to speak unto Nathan,

'I am the Dark Famine, that mortal men fear so. For so many seasons I have slept content within the earth, but now your foolish and wasteful neighbours have awoken me, their nemesis. Far and wide now shall I roam, despoiling stores and laying groves barren, as this grove is now barren. Great vengeance I shall wreck upon all the people of this valley. None shall evade my infertile touch. At the end of this day no plant will grow here, no waters will flow, and no woman shall bear seed to any man.'

And though her form and her words struck terror into the heart of Nathan, he dared to question her,

'Dark Famine, despoiler of man, I tremble greatly within your presence. Even so I will speak the words in my heart, and if I offend you, then you may strike me down with but a look, as I kneel here. Pray tell me for what do you seek vengeance ?'

But Dark Famine passed on her way, offering no reply, for it was not her wont to converse with mortals. Then the second spirit drew up to him. As fair and gentle as the first was fierce. And she also spoke unto Nathan,

 'Nathan, you speak wisely and you question wisely, now hold your tongue wisely, so I may take time to answer you. I am fair harvest, that has danced divinely within this grove for many seasons. But all things turn upon a wheel, and as my dance ends, so that of my dark sister begins. A time of great measure, and some small adventure awaits you. For although my sister will tread far and wrathful not every patch of land, nor every man of Agadon will succumb to her touch. You, Nathan, have been into the forbidden zone. You have seen beyond this small world known as Agadon. You have touched the earth, and so we call you son. Listen next, with careful ear, to the spirit that even now is anxious to step forth. He will relate to you exactly how to evade the dance that Dark Famine, even now does weave.'

And so Nathan's heart was filled with hope, even as he watched the Fair Harvest wither in his vision, and finally disappear. Then the third and final spirit approached him and did speak,

'Mark my words Nathan, for I am Hadyn, the spirit of the people of Agadon. The mother Earth, the giver of grain, has today sent forth her most wrathful daughter, to reclaim what is hers. Mark this well, take only that which you require, return the rest to the soil to feed the future. When a man forgets this, when a man buys, sells, owns, or steals the grain of the earth, the earth is wrathful against him. And no man may withstand such wrath. We call you son, and forswear that you shall be appointed with high honours, and you shall lead a small band of men from out of the dark times of Agadon. Now listen to how this may be achieved.'

And Nathan and the spirit of Hadyn talked at length, under the concealing guise of a close fog, lest any should see them. Nathan marked well all that was unfolded.

Now at this time only three matters remained to be resolved at the Olive Feast; First Tirese would consult the oracles upon the fates of the coming season, Second Hepalyon would demonstrate the strength of his forces, and finally the Fool would be appointed and crowned.

The Oracles of Tirese

'Sire, Masters, people and thralls of Agadon, mark well now my words. Birds in the sky, stones upon the ground, and organs pulled bleeding alive from deep inside the bodies of young believers have revealed unto me ill omens of this day. In the Feast of the Olive and the Banquet of the Fool we are gathered to commemorate the giving of flesh for life and the return of the harvest. But in the ceremony of the Fool we have despoiled the memory of Hadyn, and all those high of heart that gave of their flesh to save Agadon from Dark Famine. In the wasteful gorging of the feast we have grown arrogant of the seed of the earth. No longer do we take what is required and sow back the remainder, but we take all, and claim the fruits of the land as the fruits of our labour. Now the most wrathful daughter of the earth will awaken to avenge our gluttony. Before this day is out Dark Famine will entertain us at our feast. And more do I see. The walls of this house will run red with blood as the bands of death are sealed upon us. One man will come amongst us, bearing the seal of Hadyn, and he will avenge the death of every consumed Fool. Twenty two men will die at his hand, two thousand more at the dance of Dark Famine. And never more will Fair Harvest move within the valley of Agadon.'

The feast is silenced. A great confusion is cast over all. Those men that know the story of Hadyn quake with fear at the seer's words. Then from out of the quiet speaks the King,

'Tirese, old man, many years you have served us well with your prophecies, but the old can become blind. You scare us with stories of old, but Hadyn is long dead. Only the living can avenge the dead. And you speak of famine, yet the harvest is complete, the stores overflowing. In no doubt am I that your omens are wrong, just stones on the ground. No, Dark Famine still rests, for a whole season at least, and if any man comes to slay my people at the feast, then we can rely upon the strength of Hepalyon to deliver us. So people of the feast, continue your merriment, and Hepalyon, I call upon you to demonstrate your godlike strength, so that we may all feel secure.'

The Strength of Hepalyon

So it fell to Hepalyon to restore the merriment of the feast, and as always he proved himself in sport and battle. Firstly their came a competition of hurling, in which the mighty Hepalyon overthrew the furthest shot of the people of Agadon. Next he did show himself the most superior in swimming, he alone crossed safely to the far bank of the Twyx whilst the others were caught in the reeds and dragged down into the deep, or caught by the current and smashed against treacherous rocks. In like manner he was shown to be the swiftest of foot in the races, the strongest of arm in the wrestling, the surest of eye in the javelin, and the hardiest of spirit in the crossing of hot coals. And never did he fail or grow weary.

Now, any man within the realm of Agadon had the right to challenge the warrior general to do battle. The victor would take the throne of the armies and the looser would be laid his full length in the dirt. So the King gave out his challenge,

'Masters, people and thralls of Agadon, I now call upon you to send forth a challenger to take battle against Hepalyon the Warrior General. Your challenger may choose any single weapon, whilst Hepalyon will make no use of such devices. Who will answer the challenge ?'

Now it so happens that the grieved thrall, who earlier in the feast had been led out to have his lips bound by strong twine, was speaking for all the thralls within the house of Ahriman. Now his son, Mastag, a young cup bearer for Ahriman stepped forward. He had taken no part in the preceding games, preserving his strength for battle. He takes up a double handed sword and steps into the arena with Hepalyon.

They face each other over a short distance, the one with sword out stretched the other laughing heartily at his opponents rough style. Mastag's heart was inflamed with the vision of his father, the hunger of the thralls in Ahriman's house, and the sound of that taunting laugh. So he rushed Hepalyon in blind fury and smote him across his heavy shoulders. At that moment the laughing was redoubled, for the mighty two handed sword split at the hilt, in the manner that it had been fashioned for. This is the manner in which Hepalyon ensures he may keep his crown, by trickery and unfair fighting. Before Mastag is able to turn and bring to light the poor justice of the game, Hepalyon has him in a terrible grip. One hand closes around the neck, the index and fore fingers of the other hand sink into Mastag's eye sockets, and once securely fastened there Hepalyon applies all his might to shake free the head from the shoulders. He holds his trophy high before casting it amidst the thralls, some of whom fight over the nourishing flesh. Many of the masters drink great libation to the strength of Hepalyon.

 'Resume not your seat, just yet, Mighty Hepalyon. For I too would take up the challenge against you.'

So speaks the stranger that has just come amongst them   heavily clad in armour bearing an ancient device   and the King answers him,

'What manner of stranger you are, I do not know. You are not dressed as the people of Agadon dress, and yet no mortal life exists beyond the forbidden point. There fore I determine that you are some immortal come here to beguile us and do us no favour in your sport. Only an Agadonian may replace the warrior general, and so on what grounds do you lay down your challenge ?'

And the stranger answers the King thus,

'No immortal am I, but only a man that comes to you in the grace of the immortals. Therefor do I challenge Hepalyon for his throne, in the name of Mastag, in the name of the father of Mastag, in the name of the hungry thralls of Ahriman, in the name of all the thralls of Agadon, and in the name of Mother Earth, the giver of grain. The weapon of my challenge shall be this simple dagger that I carry. Further more I shall use this dagger to prove my own mortality, and show you that I bleed as any man bleeds.'

And so saying the stranger draws the dagger down the left side of his chest and there a deep wound bleeds openly, and so the King consents to the challenge. Now Hepalyon does not laugh, but stands solid his ground, with arms out stretched to grip the stranger who stands afar. Thus both men stand, awaiting the other's move. At length, when Hepalyon believes he sees a moment of distraction in the strangers eyes, he leaps forward. The stranger, having feigned distraction, lets fly the humble dagger with a true and strong throw, and so Hepalyon's heart is pierced, even from a distance. As the warrior sinks to his knees the humble dagger works its magic. Flesh peels from bone in dry tatters, and the bones themselves crumble into dust, until only charcoal is left in defence of the realm.

Then the stranger reveals himself to the people of the feast,

 'You call me stranger, and to the evil in your heart I am strange. But know me now for who I am.' And the stranger lifts from his head a strong helmet. 'I am Nathan, keeper of the bountiful grove, Herald of the immortals. I have travelled beyond the forbidden point and learnt the secrets of the earth. I have communed with Dark Famine, Fair Harvest, and the spirit of Hadyn. Now mark my words. Dark Famine will come amongst you to avenge the Mother Earth, to take back what is hers. By the end of this day no man that has eaten at this feast will suffer ever to eat again. The groves will be barren, the river dry, and the women infertile. Let those people who have not eaten at this feast collect their kith and kin and travel with haste to the once bountiful grove, so that they may be set aside from those upon whom the death bands are sealed.'

With these words the rough thralls in the outer courtyards made haste from there, except those that had eaten of Mastag's flesh, for they were not able to move. The hungry thralls at the table of Ahriman stood to leave, and all the people of Nathan's table stood to leave, and Tirese the seer himself stood to leave. Then the King spoke upon them all,

'Am I not King of this realm ? What man dare to leave my table whilst I still feast ? You people will retake your seats, lest my guards stick you there permanently with their sharp swords.'

And the King's guards stepped forward, and all the people who would leave look with fear upon Nathan, so he spoke to them yet again,

'Good people who know the measure of hunger, and wasted not the fruits of the earth through foolish feasting, fear not. For I am the herald of a greater power than any mortal King. No number of guards have power to crush Famine, but are crushed by her.'

As Nathan spoke thus, the breath of famine blew upon the faces of all the guards. Flesh cracked and peeled away from bone and life seeped from them, and yet the skeletons did not sink into the dirt and crumble, Mother Earth the giver of grain, held them animate. Then upon the word of Nathan this ghoulish army did hold by force the King and all his masters. Nathan spoke once more to those that would leave,

'Go now to the bountiful grove, for if you tarry, the dance of Dark Famine may affect you all.'

And then Nathan turned to the King and the masters and he spoke,

 'At this feast and at all times you steal from the earth and waste her good fruits. At this feast and at all times you feed off the weak thralls. Now in the name of those thralls, and in the honour of Hadyn, I take revenge.'

Nathan steps first up to Ahriman, who is most deserved of retribution, and Ahriman's senses leave him. With the humble dagger Nathan removes the hands that steals the grain of the earth, and the tongue that tastes over much of her fruits. In like manner Nathan deals with all twenty of the masters, yet not one drop of blood is spilt, by the magic of the dagger. Next Nathan turns to the King and with the humble dagger opens his belly. The warm entrails there stored he casts to the ground, and again by the magic of the dagger no blood is spilt. Then Nathan himself leaves, as the masters feel compelled to fight over the mess that has been cast at their feet.

As Nathan leaves, Dark Famine begins her dance. And she ceases not her dance until every store of Agadon is despoiled, until every man that has eaten at the feast has repaid the debt in mortal weight. Those who ate great, such as Ahriman, wasted completely to nothing, those who ate less wasted less. Once the debt has been repaid thus Dark Famine goes on her way, and the great river Twyx follows her steps, leaving Agadon dry and barren.

Nathan and those that wasted not are met at the forbidden point, behind them lays Agadon, utterly wretched and wasted, ahead lay the Rolling Hills. The few gathered there feel the pull over the edge, but even now fear the fall, and so Nathan speaks unto them,

'We must now put behind us the evils of Agadon, and return to our mother the earth. I have passed beyond this point and I tell you with clear heart that life will not be sucked from you, you will be sucked into life itself. At the point where we rest there will be fertile land, and future generations will feed off this land that we have made fertile, just as past generations fed off the flesh of Hadyn. As he gave of his body so that others may live, we may give of our spirits, so that others may prosper. I bid you one and all now to return with me, unto the Earth.

And having thus spoke Nathan stepped off the edge. As, in time, did the rest of them. Thus the house of Agadon was broken.