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Ho ho ho ha ha ha ha! 
Nice nice!
God dammit indeed!
Excellent plot!!! :rofl::rofl::rofl:
Nice nice!
God dammit indeed!
Excellent plot!!! :rofl::rofl::rofl:
Exactly, but really it's not fun being genre savvy if you happen to be a guard, especially if you happen to work for someone who is unfamiliar with the evil overlord list.
Thanks, I rather liked that line myself.Ha! Great stuff, bloody wretches...
Glad you liked it.Ho ho ho ha ha ha ha!
Nice nice!
God dammit indeed!
Excellent plot!!! :rofl::rofl::rofl:
Another form of escape, the wild west (exhibit A)
As I gaze upon the statue of Antillia in Dubois Plaza, Les Cayes, with sword in hand, pose heroic, hair in tresses and skimpy dress blowing in the wind, I cannot help but feel a lump in my throat, for before me stands not just a personification of this nation, but a symbol of the hopes, aspirations and dreams that this land, my beloved Haiti, has to offer. And as I watch the people who pass without giving her a second glance, it makes me think about the Americas; a land that’s perpetually being discovered, over and over again. Not just Columbus in 1492 AD, or Leif Ericson in 1000 AD, or even in 10,000 BC when those first Siberians crossed the Bering land bridge, but every single day by so many millions of people.
America, the two hidden continents, is a land that is sparkling and new, but also wants something old to cling onto like a comfort blanket. It is an alien land, populated by immigrants and colonists, and throughout history it’s been a struggle. People, on the whole, feel a great need to feel a deep, ancient connection with the land, something that goes far in the mists of time, long before records were written or tales started to be passed down from generation to generation. A primordial link, that allows people to feel at home in their own skin.
America is a temptress. “Sever yourselves”, she whispers, “come to me and set yourselves free.” And people did so, in droves. A new life, a new world, boundless opportunities, cities of gold, riches beyond imagination; with promises like this, is it any wonder? The idea of a Land of Plenty, a Cockaigne where life is simple and free of stress, was nothing new, and here was some kind of proof; the legends were true.
And this separation precipitated an existential crisis that has never been resolved; the nagging feeling that this is a foreign land, someone else’s land. How can you put down roots in a few years and truly establish a new connection, a true sense of belonging?
One way is to say that the roots are already there, and have been for hundreds, even thousands of years. Some do this by claiming that Native Americans are descended from lost Hebrew tribes, or that the Egyptians helped build the pyramids of Mexico and Guatemala. You could argue that the Phoenicians visited Brazil and that the Chinese explorer Zheng He arrived in America in 1421. Maybe the Aztec deity Quetzalcoatl and the Inca Viracocha, described as having light skin, were actually a folk memory of a travelling Irish monk who had once visited these two civilisations, and maybe there really was a Kingdom of Saguenay, populated by blond men and rich with gold and furs.
None of these things, in fact, are true.
Well, except one.
Marissa Yaroslavich lifted her hat and wiped her brow, and cast her gaze over the hive of activity before her, as the walkways and drains of the temple complex slowly baked in the intense heat. Most of the actual physical work was being done by the locals, who spoke a form of French infused with the various local languages that sometimes made it difficult to understand what they were saying, while Marissa and her colleague Professor Johan Roerich oversaw the operation and studied the finds. The sky was perpetual blue and the sun was shining, and Marissa was still a little bit surprised every time she saw wispy clouds floating along gently amid the azure expanse.
The cloud was an alien concept to twenty first century Haitians. Although Reich's Cloudbuster meant that the Antilles no longer suffered the ravages of hurricanes and tropical storms, in one sense it worked too well; Marissa thought clouds were beautiful, filling her as they did with a little burst of delight, but nonetheless they were also somewhat unsettling. For some reason the Haitian government seemed to think the people wanted clear blue skies every single day, all year round; maybe they did. Marissa, on the other hand, missed nothing more than an overcast sky and the feeling of tiny droplets of rain on her skin, which she had experienced plenty of during her sojourn in northern France in her university days.
She was distracted from her daydreaming by a sweaty local, clothes and skin caked in dust, who was waving a piece of pottery and his trowel in front of her with a look of pride on his face. “Miss Marissa, come quick, I found something!”
“What?”
He shook his head, and handed her the find. “Can’t explain. Follow me.”
As she and the local negotiated her way across the site, over the wooden planks that served as bridges and walkways, she examined the piece of pottery. It was only a small fragment, but there was something about the crude, twisting patterns that made her feel cold inside, despite the heat. Vulgar, almost antagonistic in its design, it bore no resemblance to the Manden kingdom style or to the later artefacts of the Mali Empire, and this wasn’t the first such piece that had been found. There were literally hundreds of them similar, and Marissa was almost frightened to contemplate what a complete artefact would look like, but also morbidly curious. Malign and loathsome, there was one word that kept springing to mind; Lovecraftian.
She came to the African’s trench, and blinked in astonishment. He shrugged and smiled, almost apologetically, for in the middle of the trench was a large, circular hole, apparently the entrance of a hidden passage, and what was visible of the walls held the same gruesome designs as the pottery. She gazed down into the pitch black abyss, and felt a creeping sense of dread. Whatever this was, she just knew it wouldn’t be good. Her colleague, Roerich, appeared beside her, and laughed.
“Well this just gets more and more interesting, doesn’t it Marissa?”
“More and more weird, more like! Has anyone been down there yet?” She paused in contemplation, before adding darkly, “And come back sane?”
“Nope, it’s a sheer drop and there’s no way down. It’s lucky no one fell in, to be honest. It’ll have to wait until we can get hold of some proper gear. Just think, there could be a burial chamber down there, a tomb filled with the riches of a forgotten kingdom, untouched and unseen for aeons!"
Marissa regarded him sceptically. "If there was it would have shown up on the geophys."
"Well, we can dream, eh?" Roerich said with a grin and a shrug, followed by a sharp intake of breath. "At least this gives us something to talk to Keita about tonight.”
Marissa groaned internally. Salif Keita, President-for-life of the Democratic Republic of West Africa, descendent of the Mali royal line and self proclaimed reincarnation of his forebear Emperor Abubakari II. The two of them were due to dine with him in Timbuktu that evening, and it had completely slipped her mind. The President had, naturally, taken a special interest in the excavation, and had visited and inspected the site on numerous occasions. A truly vile man, with evil little eyes and a permanent leering grin on his flabby face, she reviled him, yet knew she had to keep him sweet as she was an official representative of Haiti and the University of Port-au-Prince, and he was a major sponsor. Without Keita's money and enthusiasm there would be no dig at all. She planned to do what she always did, and let Johan do most of the talking.
She checked her watch; a half past four. Normally they could keep on digging until six or seven in the evening in these long July evenings, but the car taking them to Timbuktu was due to arrive sometime around five, so it would have to be an early finish today. She glanced again at the watch, this time at the date, and it reminded her that it was Pierre’s birthday tomorrow.
Roerich shouted out the commands to the locals to drop tools and head home, while Marissa headed back to her tent to put on something more appropriate for meeting the President than her sweaty khakis. She thought about the abyss, and then about Pierre, mentally forming a plan to go into Timbuktu and find a Grid-hub to send him a happy birthday e-mail. It was the least she could do, and she felt slightly guilty for not having written to him since coming to Africa. Roerich will be okay by himself for a few hours, she thought, not noticing a man, dressed in indistinct mud-coloured clothes of the kind favoured by the West African workers and a wide-brimmed hat, watching her as she passed. He had intensely dark eyes and skin the colour of a cloudy midnight sky, and smiled slightly before hurrying away.
15
“They’ve all gone to look for America…” Simon and Garfunkel, AmericaAs I gaze upon the statue of Antillia in Dubois Plaza, Les Cayes, with sword in hand, pose heroic, hair in tresses and skimpy dress blowing in the wind, I cannot help but feel a lump in my throat, for before me stands not just a personification of this nation, but a symbol of the hopes, aspirations and dreams that this land, my beloved Haiti, has to offer. And as I watch the people who pass without giving her a second glance, it makes me think about the Americas; a land that’s perpetually being discovered, over and over again. Not just Columbus in 1492 AD, or Leif Ericson in 1000 AD, or even in 10,000 BC when those first Siberians crossed the Bering land bridge, but every single day by so many millions of people.
America, the two hidden continents, is a land that is sparkling and new, but also wants something old to cling onto like a comfort blanket. It is an alien land, populated by immigrants and colonists, and throughout history it’s been a struggle. People, on the whole, feel a great need to feel a deep, ancient connection with the land, something that goes far in the mists of time, long before records were written or tales started to be passed down from generation to generation. A primordial link, that allows people to feel at home in their own skin.
America is a temptress. “Sever yourselves”, she whispers, “come to me and set yourselves free.” And people did so, in droves. A new life, a new world, boundless opportunities, cities of gold, riches beyond imagination; with promises like this, is it any wonder? The idea of a Land of Plenty, a Cockaigne where life is simple and free of stress, was nothing new, and here was some kind of proof; the legends were true.
And this separation precipitated an existential crisis that has never been resolved; the nagging feeling that this is a foreign land, someone else’s land. How can you put down roots in a few years and truly establish a new connection, a true sense of belonging?
One way is to say that the roots are already there, and have been for hundreds, even thousands of years. Some do this by claiming that Native Americans are descended from lost Hebrew tribes, or that the Egyptians helped build the pyramids of Mexico and Guatemala. You could argue that the Phoenicians visited Brazil and that the Chinese explorer Zheng He arrived in America in 1421. Maybe the Aztec deity Quetzalcoatl and the Inca Viracocha, described as having light skin, were actually a folk memory of a travelling Irish monk who had once visited these two civilisations, and maybe there really was a Kingdom of Saguenay, populated by blond men and rich with gold and furs.
None of these things, in fact, are true.
Well, except one.
---
Postcolonial Africa
“I have been a stranger in a strange land.”-- Exodus 2: 21-22 (KJV)
Postcolonial Africa
Marissa Yaroslavich lifted her hat and wiped her brow, and cast her gaze over the hive of activity before her, as the walkways and drains of the temple complex slowly baked in the intense heat. Most of the actual physical work was being done by the locals, who spoke a form of French infused with the various local languages that sometimes made it difficult to understand what they were saying, while Marissa and her colleague Professor Johan Roerich oversaw the operation and studied the finds. The sky was perpetual blue and the sun was shining, and Marissa was still a little bit surprised every time she saw wispy clouds floating along gently amid the azure expanse.
The cloud was an alien concept to twenty first century Haitians. Although Reich's Cloudbuster meant that the Antilles no longer suffered the ravages of hurricanes and tropical storms, in one sense it worked too well; Marissa thought clouds were beautiful, filling her as they did with a little burst of delight, but nonetheless they were also somewhat unsettling. For some reason the Haitian government seemed to think the people wanted clear blue skies every single day, all year round; maybe they did. Marissa, on the other hand, missed nothing more than an overcast sky and the feeling of tiny droplets of rain on her skin, which she had experienced plenty of during her sojourn in northern France in her university days.
She was distracted from her daydreaming by a sweaty local, clothes and skin caked in dust, who was waving a piece of pottery and his trowel in front of her with a look of pride on his face. “Miss Marissa, come quick, I found something!”
“What?”
He shook his head, and handed her the find. “Can’t explain. Follow me.”
As she and the local negotiated her way across the site, over the wooden planks that served as bridges and walkways, she examined the piece of pottery. It was only a small fragment, but there was something about the crude, twisting patterns that made her feel cold inside, despite the heat. Vulgar, almost antagonistic in its design, it bore no resemblance to the Manden kingdom style or to the later artefacts of the Mali Empire, and this wasn’t the first such piece that had been found. There were literally hundreds of them similar, and Marissa was almost frightened to contemplate what a complete artefact would look like, but also morbidly curious. Malign and loathsome, there was one word that kept springing to mind; Lovecraftian.
She came to the African’s trench, and blinked in astonishment. He shrugged and smiled, almost apologetically, for in the middle of the trench was a large, circular hole, apparently the entrance of a hidden passage, and what was visible of the walls held the same gruesome designs as the pottery. She gazed down into the pitch black abyss, and felt a creeping sense of dread. Whatever this was, she just knew it wouldn’t be good. Her colleague, Roerich, appeared beside her, and laughed.
“Well this just gets more and more interesting, doesn’t it Marissa?”
“More and more weird, more like! Has anyone been down there yet?” She paused in contemplation, before adding darkly, “And come back sane?”
“Nope, it’s a sheer drop and there’s no way down. It’s lucky no one fell in, to be honest. It’ll have to wait until we can get hold of some proper gear. Just think, there could be a burial chamber down there, a tomb filled with the riches of a forgotten kingdom, untouched and unseen for aeons!"
Marissa regarded him sceptically. "If there was it would have shown up on the geophys."
"Well, we can dream, eh?" Roerich said with a grin and a shrug, followed by a sharp intake of breath. "At least this gives us something to talk to Keita about tonight.”
Marissa groaned internally. Salif Keita, President-for-life of the Democratic Republic of West Africa, descendent of the Mali royal line and self proclaimed reincarnation of his forebear Emperor Abubakari II. The two of them were due to dine with him in Timbuktu that evening, and it had completely slipped her mind. The President had, naturally, taken a special interest in the excavation, and had visited and inspected the site on numerous occasions. A truly vile man, with evil little eyes and a permanent leering grin on his flabby face, she reviled him, yet knew she had to keep him sweet as she was an official representative of Haiti and the University of Port-au-Prince, and he was a major sponsor. Without Keita's money and enthusiasm there would be no dig at all. She planned to do what she always did, and let Johan do most of the talking.
She checked her watch; a half past four. Normally they could keep on digging until six or seven in the evening in these long July evenings, but the car taking them to Timbuktu was due to arrive sometime around five, so it would have to be an early finish today. She glanced again at the watch, this time at the date, and it reminded her that it was Pierre’s birthday tomorrow.
Roerich shouted out the commands to the locals to drop tools and head home, while Marissa headed back to her tent to put on something more appropriate for meeting the President than her sweaty khakis. She thought about the abyss, and then about Pierre, mentally forming a plan to go into Timbuktu and find a Grid-hub to send him a happy birthday e-mail. It was the least she could do, and she felt slightly guilty for not having written to him since coming to Africa. Roerich will be okay by himself for a few hours, she thought, not noticing a man, dressed in indistinct mud-coloured clothes of the kind favoured by the West African workers and a wide-brimmed hat, watching her as she passed. He had intensely dark eyes and skin the colour of a cloudy midnight sky, and smiled slightly before hurrying away.
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Curse your Internet links! I just spent 45 minutes reading them, instead of your update! Now it will have to wait until tomorrow.
Good links, by the way. I hope I forget about that TV tropes website - even unemployed, I don't have enough time to read all of it.
Good links, by the way.
I hope I forget about that TV tropes website - even unemployed, I don't have enough time to read all of it.
First thing I noticed about the map was the Ottoman Sultanate of Libya - nice. Then I noticed, on the extreme right of the map, a place called Darfur. And, hidden between Oyo and Cameroon, Biafra. Even nicer.
Okay, clearly Lovecraftian prose is not my strong suit, so that will have to do.
Finally, I wanted to say thanks for the explanation of the clear blue skies of Haiti. I had been curious, since you were so persistent in that description.
A passage to the netherworld, where the Old Ones lie slumbering in their deathless repose? What eldritch horrors will be unleashed when their rest is disturbed by the foolish humans excavating the site? Do they not know the powers they are up against...
Okay, clearly Lovecraftian prose is not my strong suit, so that will have to do.
Finally, I wanted to say thanks for the explanation of the clear blue skies of Haiti. I had been curious, since you were so persistent in that description.
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It's addictive, isn't it? I must have spent a couple of days reading articles on there, and still find new stuff to read when I look.Curse your Internet links! I just spent 45 minutes reading them, instead of your update! Now it will have to wait until tomorrow.
Good links, by the way.
Don't know about that, but if Keita gets it into his head to have himself crowned Emperor, I'm sure he'd cast his eyes towards little Guinea...
First thing I noticed about the map was the Ottoman Sultanate of Libya - nice. Then I noticed, on the extreme right of the map, a place called Darfur. And, hidden between Oyo and Cameroon, Biafra. Even nicer.
A passage to the netherworld, where the Old Ones lie slumbering in their deathless repose? What eldritch horrors will be unleashed when their rest is disturbed by the foolish humans excavating the site? Do they not know the powers they are up against...
Okay, clearly Lovecraftian prose is not my strong suit, so that will have to do.
Finally, I wanted to say thanks for the explanation of the clear blue skies of Haiti. I had been curious, since you were so persistent in that description.
About Libya (seeing as it's not too important plot-wise). What happened was that some time before, there was a revolution in Constantinople and the Sultan fled and established himself in Libya, which is now officially all that's left of the "Ottoman Empire". Turkey and the Middle East are now a loosely connected federation of republics. The existence of Darfur is a by-product of what happened in the 19th century, as Britain made Egypt a satellite rather than annexing them, whereas Darfur was directly colonised by them.
As for the Old Ones...Marissa thought it seemed Lovecraftian, but that doesn't mean anything from the Cthulhu Mythos will be showing up...probably.
Interesting to see Nigeria broken up, and probably not a bad idea...
That situation is the result of a vicious and bloody civil war, that continues to rage to this day.
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We live in unexpected places, and we breathe unfamiliar air
“We should arrive in Timbuktu by seven, and you’ll be joining the President at half past eight for dinner,” Diaby said as the two Haitians got into the back and were instantly hit by the icy thunderbolt of the air conditioning. “That’ll give you ample time to check into your rooms and have a wash.”
The driver, dressed in a crumpled suit, dark sunglasses and a wide brimmed hat, closed the doors, and after a short while they were on the way to the luxurious Sundiata Hotel in Timbuktu for their dinner date with President Keita.
“At least we’re going to get a good meal,” Roerich said, licking his lips, before adding in Russian, "if not good company. I swear the chef at that place dabbles in black magic, it’s the only way to explain how she can make something as simple as lamb and rice taste so wonderful.”
Marissa nodded in silent acknowledgement, and gazed out at the flat, repetitive desert landscape with disinterest. It was going to be a long journey, at least two hours assuming no technical hitches (and that could not be readily assumed), so it was lucky that she had brought along a book to pass the time. It was a collection of short stories by multiple authors entitled Unexpected Places, and she flipped it open at a story called Of Mice and Zen and began reading…
A thin smile creased on her face and she put the book down on the seat next to her, feeling slightly disappointed that Zen didn't really seem to feature in the story at all. The countryside passing by was no different to before, and Roerich appeared to be asleep, while Diaby was talking quietly on the phone in an unknown language, Bambara she guessed. Marissa decided to join her colleague in Dream-land, and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, they were rolling up to the Sundiata Hotel, the in-car clock showing it to be seven o'clock on the dot. As the driver, still in his shades, opened the door for her, all that remained of her dreams was a lingering memory of running frantically through a crumbling temple clutching a priceless relic while being chased by a large, rolling ball of cheese.
16
The car they found waiting for them was a large black Mercedes-Benz with shaded windows and covered in sand and dirt. Marissa and Johan were greeted with a nod by a man they both knew, Mamadou Diaby, who was leaning casually against the side of the car waiting for them. He was Keita’s man, of indeterminable age and an easygoing disposition, who seemed to have a phone permanently attached to the side of his face. He mostly acted as a dogsbody and intermediary for the President, though Marissa never knew his exact job description.“We should arrive in Timbuktu by seven, and you’ll be joining the President at half past eight for dinner,” Diaby said as the two Haitians got into the back and were instantly hit by the icy thunderbolt of the air conditioning. “That’ll give you ample time to check into your rooms and have a wash.”
The driver, dressed in a crumpled suit, dark sunglasses and a wide brimmed hat, closed the doors, and after a short while they were on the way to the luxurious Sundiata Hotel in Timbuktu for their dinner date with President Keita.
“At least we’re going to get a good meal,” Roerich said, licking his lips, before adding in Russian, "if not good company. I swear the chef at that place dabbles in black magic, it’s the only way to explain how she can make something as simple as lamb and rice taste so wonderful.”
Marissa nodded in silent acknowledgement, and gazed out at the flat, repetitive desert landscape with disinterest. It was going to be a long journey, at least two hours assuming no technical hitches (and that could not be readily assumed), so it was lucky that she had brought along a book to pass the time. It was a collection of short stories by multiple authors entitled Unexpected Places, and she flipped it open at a story called Of Mice and Zen and began reading…
It was a typical May night, the air pleasantly balmy and my mind slightly hazy from wine, that I first learnt of the Cheesiverse.
In those days I would spend my company discussing various topics, mostly of a philosophical nature, with a circle of friends of mine. I believe it was Santos, a Venezuelan who habitually threw in words of his Spanish mother tongue while speaking otherwise perfect French, who first mentioned the Cheesiverse. Somehow, as we were starting on our third bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, the conversation had gotten onto the subject of parallel universes; to be more specific, the idea that if one can conceive of a universe, it must surely exist somewhere, separated from our own by the slimmest of membranes. Santos had been quiet, and after a couple of minutes of brow-wrinkled contemplation he sprang to life, arousing all of my little circle’s curiosity.
It was in a long since out-of-print periodical that he had first read of the Cheesiverse, which had in turn cited an even more out-of-print journal of the metaphysical sciences as its source, in which the author conceived of a universe filled with nothing but cheese; the Cheesiverse. The author, whose name had long since disappeared from Santos’s mind, wrote with glee that having conceived of such a place, it now had form, and was a reality.
Obviously this begged a number of questions, but first Santos gave us a clearer description of this place. An entire universe of pure queso, with no holes or gaps anywhere, stretching so that if one were to tunnel through the cheese in one direction (obviously impossible without an air supply or anywhere to deposit the dislodged cheese, but that’s not the point), you would never come back to where you started, and the same would hold for any other direction you deigned to tunnel in.
The interesting part, Santos said while taking a sip of wine, was that the author then did something astounding. Having already imagined a Cheesiverse, he then invoked a Mousiverse; an entire universe filled with nothing but infinite mice. What would happen, Santos said, if these two universes were to collide, to merge and become one?
I thought it a silly question, and told Santos so in as many words. The wily Venezuelan smiled, and told me to think again. The ratones would eat the cheese; if there’s an infinite number of mice, and a solid mass of infinite cheese, could the mice ever devour all the cheese? Clearly they couldn’t, I responded with confidence, as infinity is not a number, and to regard it as such was a common fallacy. Also, infinite mice still have finite stomachs, and so I joked half-mockingly, that eventually you’d end up with a universe filled with the equivalent of Santos’s ideas.
Santos gave me a withering look, and something occurred to me. The Cheesiverse contained an absolute infinite amount of cheese. If you introduce the mice, then there will be less cheese, yet still an infinite amount of cheese. What then is infinity, Santos said, if it is not equal to itself? I had to admit I had never given it much thought. It is absurdo, Santos insisted. The concept of infinity is contradictory, self-defeating; or at least, it is an idea much too vast for our finite brains to ever comprehend, rendering all speculation worthless. This also means, he told us with a dismissive wave of his hand, that the Cheesiverse is in truth impossible, as the author could never truly have conceived of it in a satisfactory way.
The conversation continued, despite Santos’s gloomy pronouncements, on the subject of the nature of infinity, and it was only when I heard the words “set theory” that I took my leave, as the conversation had departed from my beloved philosophy into the dangerous waters of mathematics, which to this day I have little taste for.
In later years I drifted apart from Santos and the others in my little circle, and it was only decades later that I remembered the conversation. It was by pure chance I happened upon a newspaper cutting from some provincial Saint-Domingue newspaper, while sorting through a large leather-bound trunk of the belongings of a deceased acquaintance; a list of deaths. I had to read twice when I saw, in smudged print, “Alonso Santos (57), of Venezuela, crushed to death by a giant cheese of unknown origin.”
In those days I would spend my company discussing various topics, mostly of a philosophical nature, with a circle of friends of mine. I believe it was Santos, a Venezuelan who habitually threw in words of his Spanish mother tongue while speaking otherwise perfect French, who first mentioned the Cheesiverse. Somehow, as we were starting on our third bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, the conversation had gotten onto the subject of parallel universes; to be more specific, the idea that if one can conceive of a universe, it must surely exist somewhere, separated from our own by the slimmest of membranes. Santos had been quiet, and after a couple of minutes of brow-wrinkled contemplation he sprang to life, arousing all of my little circle’s curiosity.
It was in a long since out-of-print periodical that he had first read of the Cheesiverse, which had in turn cited an even more out-of-print journal of the metaphysical sciences as its source, in which the author conceived of a universe filled with nothing but cheese; the Cheesiverse. The author, whose name had long since disappeared from Santos’s mind, wrote with glee that having conceived of such a place, it now had form, and was a reality.
Obviously this begged a number of questions, but first Santos gave us a clearer description of this place. An entire universe of pure queso, with no holes or gaps anywhere, stretching so that if one were to tunnel through the cheese in one direction (obviously impossible without an air supply or anywhere to deposit the dislodged cheese, but that’s not the point), you would never come back to where you started, and the same would hold for any other direction you deigned to tunnel in.
The interesting part, Santos said while taking a sip of wine, was that the author then did something astounding. Having already imagined a Cheesiverse, he then invoked a Mousiverse; an entire universe filled with nothing but infinite mice. What would happen, Santos said, if these two universes were to collide, to merge and become one?
I thought it a silly question, and told Santos so in as many words. The wily Venezuelan smiled, and told me to think again. The ratones would eat the cheese; if there’s an infinite number of mice, and a solid mass of infinite cheese, could the mice ever devour all the cheese? Clearly they couldn’t, I responded with confidence, as infinity is not a number, and to regard it as such was a common fallacy. Also, infinite mice still have finite stomachs, and so I joked half-mockingly, that eventually you’d end up with a universe filled with the equivalent of Santos’s ideas.
Santos gave me a withering look, and something occurred to me. The Cheesiverse contained an absolute infinite amount of cheese. If you introduce the mice, then there will be less cheese, yet still an infinite amount of cheese. What then is infinity, Santos said, if it is not equal to itself? I had to admit I had never given it much thought. It is absurdo, Santos insisted. The concept of infinity is contradictory, self-defeating; or at least, it is an idea much too vast for our finite brains to ever comprehend, rendering all speculation worthless. This also means, he told us with a dismissive wave of his hand, that the Cheesiverse is in truth impossible, as the author could never truly have conceived of it in a satisfactory way.
The conversation continued, despite Santos’s gloomy pronouncements, on the subject of the nature of infinity, and it was only when I heard the words “set theory” that I took my leave, as the conversation had departed from my beloved philosophy into the dangerous waters of mathematics, which to this day I have little taste for.
In later years I drifted apart from Santos and the others in my little circle, and it was only decades later that I remembered the conversation. It was by pure chance I happened upon a newspaper cutting from some provincial Saint-Domingue newspaper, while sorting through a large leather-bound trunk of the belongings of a deceased acquaintance; a list of deaths. I had to read twice when I saw, in smudged print, “Alonso Santos (57), of Venezuela, crushed to death by a giant cheese of unknown origin.”
A thin smile creased on her face and she put the book down on the seat next to her, feeling slightly disappointed that Zen didn't really seem to feature in the story at all. The countryside passing by was no different to before, and Roerich appeared to be asleep, while Diaby was talking quietly on the phone in an unknown language, Bambara she guessed. Marissa decided to join her colleague in Dream-land, and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, they were rolling up to the Sundiata Hotel, the in-car clock showing it to be seven o'clock on the dot. As the driver, still in his shades, opened the door for her, all that remained of her dreams was a lingering memory of running frantically through a crumbling temple clutching a priceless relic while being chased by a large, rolling ball of cheese.
Indiana Jones and the Temple of Edam, anyone?
Hah, exactly.
Unexpected cheese is funny. This is a fact.
:rofl: My, I have to admist the cheese death got me more than anything else...
Thanks.
For know there are two worlds of life and death...
Normally, all this is resolved at death, and all these aspects come together in eternal peace.
The trouble is I don’t die. But! I am not the divided man. His true purpose shall be revealed in time.
But, ah, never mind all that for now. There are other matters at hand.
The rooms in the hotel were sparse but clean, and each room was equipped with an electric fan rather than any kind of air conditioning. There was a bed, an en-suite toilet and a television, which was more than adequate for the needs of Marissa and Johan. When they had arrived at the hotel, the porter had shown them to their rooms, despite them having no luggage apart from a travel bag each.
“Here you are,” the porter said in heavily accented French, “Miss, you’re in Room 26, and Professor Roerich’s is 28.”
As the porter was unlocking the door, Marissa glanced down the corridor and frowned. “Where’s room 27?”
The porter laughed loudly as the door opened, but stopped when he turned and saw that Marissa was not sharing in his mirth. “It’s nothing you should be worrying about,” he said quickly, lifting his cap and shutting the door.
Marissa shrugged and checked her watch. It was a quarter past seven, so she watched some nonsensical television program about an alternative reality where the world was secretly run by ancestral spirits, and then read a short story from her book, which I won’t reproduce here as it wasn’t very good.
The dinner with Keita was precisely what Marissa had been expecting. There were numerous shadow men dressed in dark suits and sunglasses milling around the function room where they would be eating, Mamadou Diaby amongst them, as always whispering secrets into his phone. The room itself was outrageously fabulous, she had to admit. An oval, enclosed by gilded arches of gold, overlooked by decorated cherubs so fine they could have been crafted by the artisans of paradise itself. The ceiling was filled with beautifully sculpted and painted designs, interrupted only by two lavish chandeliers, which glittered with stupendous splendour. Marissa thought it like something out of a European palace.
In the centre of the room was a long table, with places laid out for at least thirty people, even though only five (the other two being Keita’s two young twin daughters, who he took everywhere with him and who never appeared to speak) were eating tonight.
“A big diplomatic conference tomorrow evening,” Keita offered by way of an explanation as they ate, “all of the leaders of West Africa’s friends, dining together with a spirit of co-operation and goodwill,” before adding sourly, “No French or Germans, though. Apparently they don’t wish to discuss the little matters of Namibia, Swahililand and Djibouti.”
The main course of lamb and rice in a secret sauce arrived, and as Keita tucked in, chin wobbling uncontrollably, he said with mouth full, “I heard you made an interesting discovery at the site today? Tell me about it.”
Marissa and Roerich exchanged glanced. “Yes, sir, we found a hole-well, a tunnel of…some sort.”
“A tunnel!” Keita’s piggy eyes lit up. “Built by my ancestors do you think?”
Roerich cleared his throat. “Ah, well, no, um…”
“What? What is it?”
“The thing is,” Marissa said, taking a deep breath, “The things we’ve been finding. They don’t seem to have anything to do with the Mali Empire. They’re earlier, we think, much, much earlier." She paused, before adding uncertainly, "We think. They must be.”
Keita’s face was a mixture of disappointment and curiosity. “How much earlier?”
Marissa chewed on a chunk of lamb for a lot longer than necessary, until she realised that Roerich and Keita were both staring at her, waiting for her to answer. “That’s the problem, sir, we don’t know.” Marissa’s eyes went cloudy, troubled by the absurdity of what she was about to say. “It’s almost as if there is some time…missing. Like there should be a linear chronology, but we have a whole load of really strange stuff from a period which never seems to have happened. As if it’s somehow been…placed there by some outside hand, or…”
It was obvious that Keita didn’t really understand what she was saying. Marissa wasn’t sure she understood what she was implying herself, but felt certain she was better off not knowing. The President just nodded, blankly. “Well I trust you and Professor Roerich will be able to solve the mystery!”
Marissa smiled hopelessly, and it wasn’t long before the meal was over. Keita told them that he and his girls were to retire early, as he had an important day ahead of him what with the African summit, and so by eleven o’clock Marissa was in her hotel room, wanting nothing else than her bed. Before getting undressed, she took out a pen and a scrap of paper from her bag, and wrote in big letters, “PIERRE’S BIRTHDAY, REMEMBER TO E-MAIL.”
Just as she put the pen down, the phone began to ring. She stared for a moment in surprise; she could have sworn the room hadn’t had a phone before. Marissa crossed the room to the bedside table where it sat, and after letting it ring several times she picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” she said, cautiously.
A tinny female voice replied. “Miss Yaro…Yaroslav…?”
“Yaroslavich. Yes?” she said wearily.
“Oh, hello, this is reception. Could you just come down here? There’s a phone call for you.”
Marissa sighed, feeling sleepiness overtaking her. “Who is it?”
“Um, he won’t say, but he says it’s urgent that he speak to you right now.”
“Urgent? Oh, all right, I’ll be down in a moment.”
She grabbed her room key, and went out into the stuffy, empty corridor. As she turned a corner, the lights flickered violently. A couple more steps and Marissa found herself plunged into darkness as the lights flickered again, and then failed completely.
“Oh, that’s just great. Hello? Is anyone th-mmffff!”
She felt powerful arms grab her and force a strong-smelling cloth over her mouth, and as she desperately tried to struggle in the pitch black she felt her strength sapping as she breathed in the fumes, fading away like smoke in the air. The last thing that she felt, before collapsing into unconsciousness, was a sense of indignation.
How dare they? I need to e-mail Pierre! I need to…sleep
A week later Marissa Yaroslavich awoke from her drugged stupor, lonely, cold and afraid in a dank, dripping dungeon.
Meanwhile, back at the dig site, work had come to a permanent halt. Both of the Haitian archaeologists had suddenly disappeared, and the loathsome passageway was covered up by the locals and never spoken of again.
17
The world is a complicated place, a lot more complicated than you may realise. Percy Shelley; poet, rebel, romantic. I think he had some idea of what it is I am trying to get across. Think, as I type these words, there is another me, another Pebble, but totally reversed; the Anti-Pebble, if you will, my shadow form occupying a different reality. On top of that, there are alternate aspects of me scattered through time and space, destined to be forever disunited. Then, there are also identities attributed to me by other people, which in time I have taken on facets of whether I wanted to or not.Normally, all this is resolved at death, and all these aspects come together in eternal peace.
The trouble is I don’t die. But! I am not the divided man. His true purpose shall be revealed in time.
But, ah, never mind all that for now. There are other matters at hand.
TRANSITION
While Molly sat having lunch with her colleagues Maurice Molyneux and Anney Burleigh in the canteen in blissful ignorance, never having heard of Albert Louverture or M. Minuit, and while Pierre slept late and was being haunted by the nightmares of the burning towers, it was early morning in Timbuktu. The sun was rising as it had a tendency to do, and at the Sundiata Hotel, Johan Roerich was just waking up from a long sleep, having no clue of the events that had transpired the evening before, and no clue where he was or why everything seemed so wrong.The rooms in the hotel were sparse but clean, and each room was equipped with an electric fan rather than any kind of air conditioning. There was a bed, an en-suite toilet and a television, which was more than adequate for the needs of Marissa and Johan. When they had arrived at the hotel, the porter had shown them to their rooms, despite them having no luggage apart from a travel bag each.
“Here you are,” the porter said in heavily accented French, “Miss, you’re in Room 26, and Professor Roerich’s is 28.”
As the porter was unlocking the door, Marissa glanced down the corridor and frowned. “Where’s room 27?”
The porter laughed loudly as the door opened, but stopped when he turned and saw that Marissa was not sharing in his mirth. “It’s nothing you should be worrying about,” he said quickly, lifting his cap and shutting the door.
Marissa shrugged and checked her watch. It was a quarter past seven, so she watched some nonsensical television program about an alternative reality where the world was secretly run by ancestral spirits, and then read a short story from her book, which I won’t reproduce here as it wasn’t very good.
The dinner with Keita was precisely what Marissa had been expecting. There were numerous shadow men dressed in dark suits and sunglasses milling around the function room where they would be eating, Mamadou Diaby amongst them, as always whispering secrets into his phone. The room itself was outrageously fabulous, she had to admit. An oval, enclosed by gilded arches of gold, overlooked by decorated cherubs so fine they could have been crafted by the artisans of paradise itself. The ceiling was filled with beautifully sculpted and painted designs, interrupted only by two lavish chandeliers, which glittered with stupendous splendour. Marissa thought it like something out of a European palace.
In the centre of the room was a long table, with places laid out for at least thirty people, even though only five (the other two being Keita’s two young twin daughters, who he took everywhere with him and who never appeared to speak) were eating tonight.
“A big diplomatic conference tomorrow evening,” Keita offered by way of an explanation as they ate, “all of the leaders of West Africa’s friends, dining together with a spirit of co-operation and goodwill,” before adding sourly, “No French or Germans, though. Apparently they don’t wish to discuss the little matters of Namibia, Swahililand and Djibouti.”
The main course of lamb and rice in a secret sauce arrived, and as Keita tucked in, chin wobbling uncontrollably, he said with mouth full, “I heard you made an interesting discovery at the site today? Tell me about it.”
Marissa and Roerich exchanged glanced. “Yes, sir, we found a hole-well, a tunnel of…some sort.”
“A tunnel!” Keita’s piggy eyes lit up. “Built by my ancestors do you think?”
Roerich cleared his throat. “Ah, well, no, um…”
“What? What is it?”
“The thing is,” Marissa said, taking a deep breath, “The things we’ve been finding. They don’t seem to have anything to do with the Mali Empire. They’re earlier, we think, much, much earlier." She paused, before adding uncertainly, "We think. They must be.”
Keita’s face was a mixture of disappointment and curiosity. “How much earlier?”
Marissa chewed on a chunk of lamb for a lot longer than necessary, until she realised that Roerich and Keita were both staring at her, waiting for her to answer. “That’s the problem, sir, we don’t know.” Marissa’s eyes went cloudy, troubled by the absurdity of what she was about to say. “It’s almost as if there is some time…missing. Like there should be a linear chronology, but we have a whole load of really strange stuff from a period which never seems to have happened. As if it’s somehow been…placed there by some outside hand, or…”
It was obvious that Keita didn’t really understand what she was saying. Marissa wasn’t sure she understood what she was implying herself, but felt certain she was better off not knowing. The President just nodded, blankly. “Well I trust you and Professor Roerich will be able to solve the mystery!”
Marissa smiled hopelessly, and it wasn’t long before the meal was over. Keita told them that he and his girls were to retire early, as he had an important day ahead of him what with the African summit, and so by eleven o’clock Marissa was in her hotel room, wanting nothing else than her bed. Before getting undressed, she took out a pen and a scrap of paper from her bag, and wrote in big letters, “PIERRE’S BIRTHDAY, REMEMBER TO E-MAIL.”
Just as she put the pen down, the phone began to ring. She stared for a moment in surprise; she could have sworn the room hadn’t had a phone before. Marissa crossed the room to the bedside table where it sat, and after letting it ring several times she picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” she said, cautiously.
A tinny female voice replied. “Miss Yaro…Yaroslav…?”
“Yaroslavich. Yes?” she said wearily.
“Oh, hello, this is reception. Could you just come down here? There’s a phone call for you.”
Marissa sighed, feeling sleepiness overtaking her. “Who is it?”
“Um, he won’t say, but he says it’s urgent that he speak to you right now.”
“Urgent? Oh, all right, I’ll be down in a moment.”
She grabbed her room key, and went out into the stuffy, empty corridor. As she turned a corner, the lights flickered violently. A couple more steps and Marissa found herself plunged into darkness as the lights flickered again, and then failed completely.
“Oh, that’s just great. Hello? Is anyone th-mmffff!”
She felt powerful arms grab her and force a strong-smelling cloth over her mouth, and as she desperately tried to struggle in the pitch black she felt her strength sapping as she breathed in the fumes, fading away like smoke in the air. The last thing that she felt, before collapsing into unconsciousness, was a sense of indignation.
How dare they? I need to e-mail Pierre! I need to…sleep
A week later Marissa Yaroslavich awoke from her drugged stupor, lonely, cold and afraid in a dank, dripping dungeon.
Meanwhile, back at the dig site, work had come to a permanent halt. Both of the Haitian archaeologists had suddenly disappeared, and the loathsome passageway was covered up by the locals and never spoken of again.
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There is some kind of link between the temple complex in West Africa and the missing century in Haiti. Now, if time can be taken away from one place or time (such as happened to Haiti) and it can be inserted where it doesn't belong (as seems to be the case in the temple complex), can it also be taken from one reality and be transplanted into another? How far does the complexity stretch? Judging by some of Pebble's comments, it could be quite far.
Then again, I am not sure it is smart to put faith in anything that Pebble relates.
Then again, I am not sure it is smart to put faith in anything that Pebble relates.
Not only is Pebble an unreliable narrator, he's someone who revels in being one.
Some interesting ideas there, and good questions.
I knew it was a trap!!!
It seems fairly obvious in hindsight, but then, hindsight is a wonderful thing.
Well, didn't see that coming...
Good. Thanks!
All: Sorry about the length of the next update. There was another little section I intended to include as well, but had to cut that out due to the update already being overlong.
I can't keep calling her Blue-eyes forever, can I?
I shrugged. “It’s not my responsibility. I’m just the guy telling the story.”
“Hmmph! Not good enough, Pebble! Have you no pity? Well then, if you won’t do anything, then I will. Good day to you!”
“…um, okay.”
“I remember this room,” Marissa said, looking around. “We were here about half an hour ago.”
Blue-eyes sucked her teeth, and shook her head. “Damn, you’re right. I don’t understand. In our cell we had a window. You could hear the seagulls and see the sunshine. Yet,” she said with a sigh, “yet, we can’t find no exit.”
“You know, I remember reading somewhere that the way to find your way out of a labyrinth is to keep going left.”
“Left, huh? Well I’ll bow to your superior knowledge and let you lead the way.” Marissa glared slightly, but strode out into the corridor and Blue-eyes followed. “It’d been helpful if that damn guard had told us about this…” she added in a low voice.
They turned left. “This is silly,” she continued to murmur to herself, “There’s probably a whole load of sumbitches on our trail, hardened bastards with guns and stuff, yet here we are wondering round this bizarro place like… (mice?) like things stuck in a big underground…thing.”
They turned left. “Yet in all this time, we ain’t seen a solitary soul. An’ it don’t look like these walls have had a clean in a couple hundred years. Abandonment and ruin, like something from a different age. Strange kinda base for a villain, I’d say. Stinks in here-“
They turned left. Both stopped dead in their tracks. Two sets of eyes widened. “Well I’ll be damned!” Blue-eyes looked at Marissa. “But didn’t the guard say…?”
“Yeah, he did,” said Marissa. “We should use the stairs, and avoid…”
Before them stood an elevator, its shiny metal doors a strange contrast to the rest of their surroundings. They both noticed around the same time the two icons above the door, two arrows indicating whether the lift was going up or down. The down arrow, at that precise moment, lit up. Someone was coming.
“Uh.”
“The word you’re looking for, I think, is crap.”
“Actually I was thinking of something a little bit stronger...”
The two ladies, wide eyed and uncertain, took a perfectly synchronised halting step back. There was a ping, and the metallic doors slid open.
“Stay back!” said Blue-eyes at the figure that approached them, “or else I’ll…do something...erm?”
Whatever they had expecting, this was not it. Out from the lift came a lady, with a garland of leaves entangled in her blonde hair and with almost ethereally pale skin, holding out her hands in front of her in a symbol universally recognised as; don’t worry, I’m not a threat, friend, not foe, no need for flight or fight. She blinked deeply, and when she spoke her words were like chocolate.
“You poor wretches, you must be tired of wandering around this place. I have come to help you.”
Blue-eyes blue eyes flared in suspicion, but Marissa stepped forward with instinctual confidence. “Good, because we need it! Can you show us a way out of here?”
“I can.”
Blue-eyes grabbed her arm, and dragged her a short distance away while the pale lady just stood and watched them with an understanding and serene smile.
“You ain’t just gonna trust her, are you? She just randomly appeared from an elevator! I know a lot of strange and crazy stuff goes on as a matter of course in this world, but still, I smell trap.”
Marissa knew that Blue-eyes’ words made sense, and couldn’t help but remember back to what had happened at the Sundiata Hotel. But something deep inside her told her that they should give the pale lady the benefit of the doubt. Something at that moment she could not quite explain. “I think we should trust her.”
“Damn, hey well you know what fine. But you know, if she’s leadin’ us on a merry little dance, the blame will fall squarely on you.”
“Naturally,” Marissa said firmly. Blue-eyes sighed, and they returned to the lady.
“We have decided to accept your aid.”
“Excellent! I’m Miss Charlotte, by the way. I already know both of your names.”
“Sure you do,” Blue-eyes said, “sure you do. ‘Cos that ain’t suspicious or anything, no missy.”
Miss Charlotte ignored her sarcasm and plucked a leaf from her eternal garland, and blew on it. Blue-eyes opened her mouth to make a caustic remark, but before she could say anything the stone walls of the labyrinth appeared to distort and twist and turn into cloth, falling like a stage curtain to reveal that, of course, they had been outside all along. Miss Charlotte’s eyes remained closed, and the gentle breeze that now blew dispersed the remnants of the leaf, which floated away.
Marissa and Blue-eyes were awestruck, speechless, mouths hanging open, and when Miss Charlotte opened her eyes and saw their faces she let out a laugh that resembled a gentle stream.
“A simple trick, nothing more,” she said with her eyes down. They were standing in a courtyard of a ruin, the walls half-collapsed and the ground overgrown with grass and brambles. Out of sight was the sea, discernable by the sound of the crashing waves that couldn’t have been far away.
“The guard said we need to steal a boat. Come on,” murmured Blue-eyes, and Marissa and Miss Charlotte followed her to a ridge, and suddenly, before them lay the sparkling azure expanse of the sea. Below them lay a beach, and the curve of the coastline formed a natural harbour which was, sadly, devoid of any ships. The three of them clambered down the hill and onto the shore, and stared starkly at the empty sea.
“Well damn,” Blue-eyes said quietly. Miss Charlotte smiled.
“The island we are on is called Navassa. A long time ago it was occupied by the Americans, who then abandoned it. Not long after it was claimed for Haiti, who then also abandoned it. No one has officially claimed this island for over seventy years, and it’s just been left to decay and fall into ruin.” The waves crashed against the shore with violent intent, and Miss Charlotte nodded. “These are treacherous waters, a graveyard of ships.”
“We’re on Navassa Island?” Blue-eyes said strangely.
“Yes. Have you been here before?”
“Have I been here before, now why d’you go and ask a question like that?”
“One of the ships that sunk off these shores was a British Royal Navy frigate, the HMS Impossible,” said Miss Charlotte, seemingly ignoring Blue-eyes. “It got half blown to smithereens in a vicious pirate attack, and led to the slaughter of its entire crew. Some of them made it to the island alive, but they weren’t spared. The rest were claimed by the sea, and the ship went down with them.”
“Why are you telling us all this?” Blue-eyes snapped, her voice coarse. “There’s no damn ship there now, is there?”
“Not yet,” said Miss Charlotte mysteriously.
Marissa watched this little exchange with bemusement, and had the distinct feeling she was missing something here, some kind of barbed edge. From the way Blue-eyes was reacting, it was almost as if she…no. No way.
“Whaddya mean, not yet?”
“This.” Miss Charlotte took another leaf, and whispered something too quietly for them to hear. She let the wind take the leaf, and there was a distant rumbling, like the thunder of a coming storm. Gradually it grew in volume until it was almost deafening. There was a rush of movement some way out to sea, and it first appeared to Marissa that some kind of vast whirlpool had appeared, another Charybdis but more terrible. That was until she saw, emerging from the mass of swirling water, the top of a pointed mast of a ship, rising from its watery grave.
“You didn’t…” Blue-eyes said, her eyes filled with horror, as the rest of the ship came to the surface, water cascading from the wreck and crashing back into the sea in a deluge. Once the ship had fully surfaced, Marissa could make out its features more clearly. The mast was bent and sails non-existent, and the hull was battered, so full of holes that by all the known laws of nature it should not have been able to float. Yet there it was, in all its forgotten glory.
“The HMS Impossible,” Miss Charlotte said proudly. “It’s all yours.”
Marissa laughed in astonishment. “Wow. That was…that was amazing!”
“That’s great, really great, thank you for that,” said Blue-eyes, “but I can’t help foreseeing one incy wincy little problem; it’s a damn frigate! There’s no way two people can sail it alone! That’s not mentioning the fact it’s a wreck! This is one mean trick, and I ain’t having any of it! I knew we shouldn’t have trusted you!”
“Calm down, it’s not a trick,” said Miss Charlotte. “Well okay, it is a trick, but not in the way you’re implying. If you accept my generosity and take the Impossible, it will sail itself and take you wherever your hearts desire. And believe me, I deem few worthy of such gifts.”
“I’m not having this,” Blue-eyes spat. “Just who are you? I don’t have truck with witches or conjurers. This is twisted, you know?”
“We’re not getting off this island otherwise,” Marissa said urgently. “I don’t know what your problem is, but we have to take this opportunity!”
“This is weird, and believe me I know weird. I know full well that plenty of ships have sunk off these shores, why did she have to go raisin’ the Impossible? Ah, goddamn.” She spent a moment in silent contemplation, appearing to mentally wrestle with something, before looking up at Miss Charlotte, her eyes dark pools. “It will truly take me wherever my heart desires?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, all right then.”
Upon hearing this, Miss Charlotte smiled. “I shall keep watch over you. May a good wind blow for you on your travels.” She took a leaf from her garland, and as she blew on it she vanished, leaving Marissa with a distinct sense of upwardness.
They regarded the floating wreck in contemplative silence. Eventually, Blue-eyes said,
“You know, it woulda been kinda useful if she’d told us how we’re supposed to get on board.”
---“There!”
“A ghost ship?” I said with a facepalm. “Oh you’ve got to be kidding me.”
18
“Look at those poor little girls lost, scrabbling around in the labyrinth like mice in a maze. You should do something to help them!” I shrugged. “It’s not my responsibility. I’m just the guy telling the story.”
“Hmmph! Not good enough, Pebble! Have you no pity? Well then, if you won’t do anything, then I will. Good day to you!”
“…um, okay.”
---
The air was cold and musty. Marissa’s feet were aching, and she was feeling quite irritated. It had been at least two hours since they had escaped from the prison cell, but instead of sweet freedom, they had found themselves lost in some kind of elaborate, underground labyrinth, with grey stone walls covered in lichen and a series of rooms and galleries devoid of any kind of decoration or furniture.“I remember this room,” Marissa said, looking around. “We were here about half an hour ago.”
Blue-eyes sucked her teeth, and shook her head. “Damn, you’re right. I don’t understand. In our cell we had a window. You could hear the seagulls and see the sunshine. Yet,” she said with a sigh, “yet, we can’t find no exit.”
“You know, I remember reading somewhere that the way to find your way out of a labyrinth is to keep going left.”
“Left, huh? Well I’ll bow to your superior knowledge and let you lead the way.” Marissa glared slightly, but strode out into the corridor and Blue-eyes followed. “It’d been helpful if that damn guard had told us about this…” she added in a low voice.
They turned left. “This is silly,” she continued to murmur to herself, “There’s probably a whole load of sumbitches on our trail, hardened bastards with guns and stuff, yet here we are wondering round this bizarro place like… (mice?) like things stuck in a big underground…thing.”
They turned left. “Yet in all this time, we ain’t seen a solitary soul. An’ it don’t look like these walls have had a clean in a couple hundred years. Abandonment and ruin, like something from a different age. Strange kinda base for a villain, I’d say. Stinks in here-“
They turned left. Both stopped dead in their tracks. Two sets of eyes widened. “Well I’ll be damned!” Blue-eyes looked at Marissa. “But didn’t the guard say…?”
“Yeah, he did,” said Marissa. “We should use the stairs, and avoid…”
Before them stood an elevator, its shiny metal doors a strange contrast to the rest of their surroundings. They both noticed around the same time the two icons above the door, two arrows indicating whether the lift was going up or down. The down arrow, at that precise moment, lit up. Someone was coming.
“Uh.”
“The word you’re looking for, I think, is crap.”
“Actually I was thinking of something a little bit stronger...”
The two ladies, wide eyed and uncertain, took a perfectly synchronised halting step back. There was a ping, and the metallic doors slid open.
“Stay back!” said Blue-eyes at the figure that approached them, “or else I’ll…do something...erm?”
Whatever they had expecting, this was not it. Out from the lift came a lady, with a garland of leaves entangled in her blonde hair and with almost ethereally pale skin, holding out her hands in front of her in a symbol universally recognised as; don’t worry, I’m not a threat, friend, not foe, no need for flight or fight. She blinked deeply, and when she spoke her words were like chocolate.
“You poor wretches, you must be tired of wandering around this place. I have come to help you.”
Blue-eyes blue eyes flared in suspicion, but Marissa stepped forward with instinctual confidence. “Good, because we need it! Can you show us a way out of here?”
“I can.”
Blue-eyes grabbed her arm, and dragged her a short distance away while the pale lady just stood and watched them with an understanding and serene smile.
“You ain’t just gonna trust her, are you? She just randomly appeared from an elevator! I know a lot of strange and crazy stuff goes on as a matter of course in this world, but still, I smell trap.”
Marissa knew that Blue-eyes’ words made sense, and couldn’t help but remember back to what had happened at the Sundiata Hotel. But something deep inside her told her that they should give the pale lady the benefit of the doubt. Something at that moment she could not quite explain. “I think we should trust her.”
“Damn, hey well you know what fine. But you know, if she’s leadin’ us on a merry little dance, the blame will fall squarely on you.”
“Naturally,” Marissa said firmly. Blue-eyes sighed, and they returned to the lady.
“We have decided to accept your aid.”
“Excellent! I’m Miss Charlotte, by the way. I already know both of your names.”
“Sure you do,” Blue-eyes said, “sure you do. ‘Cos that ain’t suspicious or anything, no missy.”
Miss Charlotte ignored her sarcasm and plucked a leaf from her eternal garland, and blew on it. Blue-eyes opened her mouth to make a caustic remark, but before she could say anything the stone walls of the labyrinth appeared to distort and twist and turn into cloth, falling like a stage curtain to reveal that, of course, they had been outside all along. Miss Charlotte’s eyes remained closed, and the gentle breeze that now blew dispersed the remnants of the leaf, which floated away.
Marissa and Blue-eyes were awestruck, speechless, mouths hanging open, and when Miss Charlotte opened her eyes and saw their faces she let out a laugh that resembled a gentle stream.
“A simple trick, nothing more,” she said with her eyes down. They were standing in a courtyard of a ruin, the walls half-collapsed and the ground overgrown with grass and brambles. Out of sight was the sea, discernable by the sound of the crashing waves that couldn’t have been far away.
“The guard said we need to steal a boat. Come on,” murmured Blue-eyes, and Marissa and Miss Charlotte followed her to a ridge, and suddenly, before them lay the sparkling azure expanse of the sea. Below them lay a beach, and the curve of the coastline formed a natural harbour which was, sadly, devoid of any ships. The three of them clambered down the hill and onto the shore, and stared starkly at the empty sea.
“Well damn,” Blue-eyes said quietly. Miss Charlotte smiled.
“The island we are on is called Navassa. A long time ago it was occupied by the Americans, who then abandoned it. Not long after it was claimed for Haiti, who then also abandoned it. No one has officially claimed this island for over seventy years, and it’s just been left to decay and fall into ruin.” The waves crashed against the shore with violent intent, and Miss Charlotte nodded. “These are treacherous waters, a graveyard of ships.”
“We’re on Navassa Island?” Blue-eyes said strangely.
“Yes. Have you been here before?”
“Have I been here before, now why d’you go and ask a question like that?”
“One of the ships that sunk off these shores was a British Royal Navy frigate, the HMS Impossible,” said Miss Charlotte, seemingly ignoring Blue-eyes. “It got half blown to smithereens in a vicious pirate attack, and led to the slaughter of its entire crew. Some of them made it to the island alive, but they weren’t spared. The rest were claimed by the sea, and the ship went down with them.”
“Why are you telling us all this?” Blue-eyes snapped, her voice coarse. “There’s no damn ship there now, is there?”
“Not yet,” said Miss Charlotte mysteriously.
Marissa watched this little exchange with bemusement, and had the distinct feeling she was missing something here, some kind of barbed edge. From the way Blue-eyes was reacting, it was almost as if she…no. No way.
“Whaddya mean, not yet?”
“This.” Miss Charlotte took another leaf, and whispered something too quietly for them to hear. She let the wind take the leaf, and there was a distant rumbling, like the thunder of a coming storm. Gradually it grew in volume until it was almost deafening. There was a rush of movement some way out to sea, and it first appeared to Marissa that some kind of vast whirlpool had appeared, another Charybdis but more terrible. That was until she saw, emerging from the mass of swirling water, the top of a pointed mast of a ship, rising from its watery grave.
“You didn’t…” Blue-eyes said, her eyes filled with horror, as the rest of the ship came to the surface, water cascading from the wreck and crashing back into the sea in a deluge. Once the ship had fully surfaced, Marissa could make out its features more clearly. The mast was bent and sails non-existent, and the hull was battered, so full of holes that by all the known laws of nature it should not have been able to float. Yet there it was, in all its forgotten glory.
“The HMS Impossible,” Miss Charlotte said proudly. “It’s all yours.”
Marissa laughed in astonishment. “Wow. That was…that was amazing!”
“That’s great, really great, thank you for that,” said Blue-eyes, “but I can’t help foreseeing one incy wincy little problem; it’s a damn frigate! There’s no way two people can sail it alone! That’s not mentioning the fact it’s a wreck! This is one mean trick, and I ain’t having any of it! I knew we shouldn’t have trusted you!”
“Calm down, it’s not a trick,” said Miss Charlotte. “Well okay, it is a trick, but not in the way you’re implying. If you accept my generosity and take the Impossible, it will sail itself and take you wherever your hearts desire. And believe me, I deem few worthy of such gifts.”
“I’m not having this,” Blue-eyes spat. “Just who are you? I don’t have truck with witches or conjurers. This is twisted, you know?”
“We’re not getting off this island otherwise,” Marissa said urgently. “I don’t know what your problem is, but we have to take this opportunity!”
“This is weird, and believe me I know weird. I know full well that plenty of ships have sunk off these shores, why did she have to go raisin’ the Impossible? Ah, goddamn.” She spent a moment in silent contemplation, appearing to mentally wrestle with something, before looking up at Miss Charlotte, her eyes dark pools. “It will truly take me wherever my heart desires?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, all right then.”
Upon hearing this, Miss Charlotte smiled. “I shall keep watch over you. May a good wind blow for you on your travels.” She took a leaf from her garland, and as she blew on it she vanished, leaving Marissa with a distinct sense of upwardness.
They regarded the floating wreck in contemplative silence. Eventually, Blue-eyes said,
“You know, it woulda been kinda useful if she’d told us how we’re supposed to get on board.”
---
“A ghost ship?” I said with a facepalm. “Oh you’ve got to be kidding me.”
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