Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

You who have dreamed of the holy land, come forth and face the dreamer’s ascent. But bear with you this warning: to seek the axle of our world is to court not only death but damnation. For the great Unmaker has long held designs over the power that it cannot use, and the great Architect has withdrawn in sorrow from what was once its proudest creation.

Seek out the place whence gentle showers once came, now dried into a desolation marked only by the tears of a land that has forgotten itself. At its heart lies a blighted spring where dark waters pool, wept from dead eyes the cosmos over. Breathe not the miasma of the desolace, or its dust shall devour your days. Do not drink deep of the dark pool, no matter your thirst, lest the darkness drink in turn from you.

Beneath the waters lies a dark catchment, which seals in the air of the old world. Do not let the echoes of the former paradise beguile you, for those days are irrevocably past and their merest suggestion may suffocate you with ephemeral ecstasy. Dark labyrinths twist beneath the thick rind of the earth there, sketches abandoned by the Architect when it recused itself in sorrow from the act of creation. You must pierce this dark stillness, a sword into dusk.

Many have called the penultimate chamber the everneed way, stretching as it does for league upon league with neither comfort nor succor. Through some abandoned design of the Architect or some machination of the Unmaker, the terrors unleashed upon the world at paradise’s end gather thickly there: hunger, thirst, cold, fatigue, and every other sort of desperate want. No supplies will slake the everneed, and to succumb to the welcome mists of slumber within is to have your soul torn from your body.

At the furthest reach of the everneed lays the morass of Nature’s Tomb, the repose of all that which the Architect has allowed to perish or the Unmaker has managed to destroy. Its bounty of flora and fauna are deceptive, for theirs is a mockery of life and to consume that which has died is to join it in the Tomb. The centralmost reach of the Tomb holds the Judas Cradle, repository of all the Architect has struggled to suppress and the Unmaker has struggled to encourage in humankind.

Somewhere in that puzzle of weakness and deceit lies the final door, behind which lies the holy land and eternal succor, and the power to shift the cosmos about its axis once and only once. None have made it so far, but there are whispers that the Unmaker itself stalks the Judas Cradle, gnashing its teeth over its inability to comprehend, and thereby undo, the Architect’s final and most devious riddle.

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Sleep has been taking me less and less lately. I’m sure it’s the stress that crackles about me like hot oil each day, the hurried faces on the other end of the coffee shop counter, the rejection letters floating in with the day’s post, the circled help wanted ads in the newspaper on the countertop.

Even when I dose myself with the strongest, cheapest sleep aids, I don’t get any rest. I’m plagued by stress dreams, not recurring in the Hollywood sense but anathema to peaceful slumber all the same. I’ll be somewhere I once was but now feel out of place: high school, the old forest behind Aunt Peg’s house, the lakefront before Cara sold her cabin. And I’ll be trying to move about, to fit in, and failing. Failing for two reasons:

In each dream, I can’t help but see myself as hopelessly out of place and living a lie that will be exposed at any moment.

In each dream, I see a shadowy presence quietly observing–stalking–me in my peripheral vision.

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“Smoke’s been hanging over town for days now. You’ve noticed it: like something from a bad cigar.”

Ransom didn’t move. “And like a bad cigar, it’ll eventually smoke itself out,” he said. “No need to concern yourself with it unless you’re the fellow who paid a dollar for it and was expecting a Cuban.”

The deputy reached into his pocket and produced a coin, which he dropped on the table. At once, Ransom sat up, pulling his worn boots off the saloon table. He bit the piece and slipped it into an interior pocket.

“I’ve seen this thing every now and then on the trail,” he said. “Most likely a forest fire up in the hills kindled by lightning. Probably no threat, but I’d cut a fire-break along the windward side of town if I was really scared. A posse of men with good backs and good axes can do it in a day or two. Any woodsman worth his salt can show you how it’s done, and you’ve likely got more than a few kicking around.”

Deputy Gautreaux nodded. “I thought that’s what you’d say. But I’m not in the business of hunches and likelihoods, Mr. Ransom. I deal in facts, as does the Sheriff.”

“Then you must not deal very much,” Ransom said, resuming his former posture with a yawn. “Out here, it’s more happenstance and hearsay than anything, with the Devil as likely to be blamed for something as a mean son-of-a-bitch with a shooting iron.”

“I’m not some rarified dandy from back east who came out here to play at being a shootist, Mr. Ransom,” said Gautreaux. “I know a forest fire, and I know the wind, and this smoke is too thick and too long in tarrying to be the usual sort of conflagration. You know these parts, and you’re the man the Sheriff wants to sniff out the trouble.”

“Well that’s a mighty fine vote of confidence from a man who didn’t care to tell me so himself,” Ransom sniffed. “If it’s all the same to you, Deputy, I’ll stick to my own business.”

A bag landed on the table, the burlap distorted by coins within. “From the municipal coffers,” said Gautreaux. “Half now and half later to lead a scouting party up into the hills for more information.”

Ransom had the bag opened and the coins spilled blindingly fast. “Now you’ve gone and made it my business, haven’t you?”

“The Sherriff has, not me,” said Gautreaux. “If it were up to me, it would be me and my men going up there. A snake’s always safer in the dust behind you than in your saddlebag.”

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Children have such a wonderful way of investing everything they see with an anima, an animating spirit, and it’s beyond their young comprehension that the playthings and pets they talk to might not understand or absorb every word, every secret.

Zoë’s parents had bought Goldie the goldfish on a whim, expecting a sailor’s funeral for him in a month. But to their surprise, the bowl’s water was changed, aerated, and sprinkled with nourishing flakes with astonishing regularity for a flighty six-year-old. But Zoë saw Goldie as a full member of the family, and he enjoyed her full confidence.

In fact, late at night–after her bedtime–Zoë would often sneak out of bed and hand her head over Goldie’s bowl. With the two of them lit only by light leaking in from the hall, or a nightlight, Zoë would talk to her fish. Her day at school, who’d been mean to her, questions about the water temperature and fish food…Goldie was better than a diary written in Zoë’s halting hand because he had his own wants and needs and opinions. Even if he couldn’t express them.

One night, not long after Zoë’s seventh birthday, she couldn’t sleep and approached Goldie’s bowl as usual. “How are you doing tonight, Goldie?” she whispered brightly.

“I’m doing fine, Zoë,” said Goldie. “How are you?”

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Nerissa would often ask Steamy if there was anything beyond the distant islets and the reef.

“Everything you want to know is in your books, my lady,” her teacher and servant would always reply, in his reedy voice that issued from pressure-fed bellows. “I cannot speak to the existence or nonexistence of that which is not in my program.”

The books, and Steamy’s daily lessons, did seem to indicate a wider world beyond the atoll. Nerissa has never seen many of the objects and creatures that stood for each letter in her worn alphabet book, and the books and novels in the tower library were ablaze with distant and exotic lands. But Steamy would not–could not–confirm which tales were true and which were false.

“My program allows me to administer the lesson and organize the library, my lady. I cannot speak to the truth or untruth of that which is not in my program.”

Certainly there was no reason to doubt the old automaton was sincere; he performed his daily tasks with aplomb. There were kelp greens to be harvested, traps and baits for fish and crustaceans to be emptied and reset, and of course meals to be prepared. The strong metal piles sunk deep into the rock at the center of the atoll to support the tower also needed regular maintenance; they were a bulwark against the storms and waves that sometimes lashed against the atoll.

Still, on those occasions when the barometers were low and Steamy allowed Nerissa to accompany him to the outlying islets on the outrigger, she would look out to the horizon, through the palms and across the barrier reefs, and wonder at what lay beyond. Perhaps her parents, who had vanished in the other outrigger many seasons ago, leaving Steamy and the books as her only companions.

And then something happened which confirmed her beliefs.

Steamy had gone beyond the reefs in the outrigger, through a passage only he knew, on his annual trip to the islet of Motanu (visible from the farthest islet) for rocks and birds to capture for egg-laying. He returned bearing an unusual crimson object that be wordlessly presented to Nerissa.

She’d never seen one before, but her alphabet book had it on page 6: F for Flower.

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#324
“Hi, I’m Diaeyraeiynyae,” the girl said with a curtsey. “I am princess of-”

“I’m just going to stop you right there,” said Adjudicator Nomis. “Do you think there are enough vowels in your name? Maybe room to cram a few more in there? I mean it’s already got a point count high enough to hit infinity with a triple word score, but surely you can do better?”

“I-”

“Listen, sweetheart,” said Grand Mufti Al-Temsah. “Giving a princess a name with more vowels than the Hawaiian language was in about eighteen to twenty years ago, so we’ve seen enough of it to last a lifetime. Sorry, but you’re out.”

#982
“No, I do not think that my name has too many apostrophes in it! It’s a name of proud meaning and lineage among the D’in’olq’toq’plar!”

“All right, how about this?” said Adjudicator Nomis. “You’re argumentative and irritating. We want sparks, yes, but you’ll reduce the whole place to ashes!”

“Free tip, sweetie,” added Mufti Al-Temsah. “Arguing with the judges is almost always a direct ticket to exiting state right.”

#1428
“I’ve killed fifty men, saved countless idiot suitors, and I can do a horse rotation on my carriage while changing my own oats,” said Princess Dil.

“My congratulations to you, madam, but I’m afraid you just don’t have what it takes to make it to the next round,” said the Grand Mufti. “Thanks for coming.”

“It’s because I’m a strong female character, isn’t it?” snarled Dil. “You’re looking for a powderpuff to feed your misogynist princess ideals!”

“No, it’s because you’re not on the list and slaughtered twelve Heron Guards to get here,” said Nomis. “It wouldn’t be fair to the princesses who filled out their applications in full.”

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The Climb was first discovered by settlers arriving from the coast. The native inhabitants shied away from the area, holding it to be cursed; when the temple hewn of equal parts cyclopean masonry and the living rock of an isolated peak was discovered by Sartener’s expedition, they estimated the site had been abandoned for well over a thousand years.

Through an ornate door deep within the temple, they found a spiral staircase made of the same materials, one which–no matter how they tried–Sartener’s men could not surmount. Stranger still, rough calculations showed that the furthest the expedition traveled–Step 11,191–should have been far above the surface of the peak, rather than surrounded by dark and unyielding stone as it was.

In time, the mystery of the Endless Climb and the violation of natural law it seemed to represent attracted a sect of monks, who made their home in the old temple and tended to those who wished to climb. It also attracted adventure seekers who thought to make their fortune by discovering the top of the Climb. Most gave up or died before reaching even Step 11,191, commonly known as Sartener’s Step, where the now long-dead explorer had carved his name.

For many years the Telmon Expedition, which reached Step 24,365 before turning back, held the record for penetrating the Climb. Among their discoveries:

– A repair made to Step 17,853, which had been carved away and carefully repaired with brick and mortar.
– A sconce, about the size necessary to hold a small torch or statue, opposite Step 21,006.
– The “First Room,” a chamber off of Step 24,112 big enough to hold most of the expedition. They were forced to turn back not long after, but did recover a few featureless pottery shards and an unidentifiable bone from the chamber.

Telmon planned to return, but her early death meant that never happened, and years passed before another group was able to make it as far. The well-organized Pesek Expedition was the next to attempt; they carefully stocked the First Room with supplies over a period of months using an advanced pulley system before setting off upwards. Rather than returning as a group, the expedition left its members and a supply cache every 2500 steps and used a system of rolling spherical message balls to pass down reports. They discovered:

– The “Second Room,” a small closet off Step 29,993 which was barely large enough for two people.
– The “Demon Scratch,” a series of three linear marks on the wall just above Steps 31,012 and 31,013.
– A symbol, possibly a hieroglyph or personal name, carved near Step 35,631. It couldn’t be identified as coming from any known language or script.

The expedition’s leader, Dr. Erika Del Pesek, vanished somewhere above Step 45,000. One of her message balls was discovered by a rescue party on Step 45,392; it described her discovery of a “Third Room” and a skeleton bearing artifacts. A small gold ring was placed in the message ball, as was a drawing of the chamber, but the rescue party was forced to turn back before locating Dr. Pesek, who is presumed to have perished.

To date, no one has equaled her climb, found her body, or discovered the Third Room.

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This post is part of the March 2013 Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s prompt is “What the Leprechaun Said,” your generic St. Patrick’s Day sort of thing.

Our last thrilling episode!

“The Leprechaun took it.”

It didn’t surprise me that the trail led back to the Leprechaun. Every piece of gold in Halftown, everything that could possibly be converted into a piece of gold in Halftown seemed to wind up in his pot eventually. Many a gumshoe had gotten a good working over from his goons, provided that they were small or sloppy enough to be overpowered by halflings. So I suppose you could say not that many gumshoes had been worked over, since it was mainly me and Marlow the Low in the Halftown PI gig.

I found the Leprechaun at his usual watering hole, The End of the Rainbow Club, a little speakeasy under the city’s main sewer line. He was at the head of a sumptuous banquet, a fine old halfling tradition that had been driven (literally) underground by banquet prohibition. The guard at the door let me in for some reason when I said I had business with the Leprechaun, probably because I’d come out black and blue every time I went (or was dragged) in.

“Word on the street is that you have a Gorgon’s head-snake in your pot,” I said, cutting straight to the head of the feast with a causal lope. “Just so happens I’m in the market for one.” I casually took out a pack, shook a cigarette into my hand, and then bit the end off. Candy cigarettes kill more halflings than real ones; we like our sweets early and often.

“That so, Tuesday?” said the Leprechaun. He slid off his chair, which put him at about eye level for me. He’s a halfling, of course, not a real leprechaun–that’s just a silly idea. Everyone knows leprechauns are extinct. But if you’re a halfling redhead named Mungle Snuh, the name has a certain cachet.

I tugged on the brim of my fedora. “That’s right. Girl likes her hair the way it is and hired me to bring it back.”

“Do you have any idea what a Gorgon’s snake is worth to the right people?” the Leprechaun continued. “It sees everything they see, hears everything they hear. It’s an easy ticket to blackmail or more, and it’s going to take more than the sayso of a shoer punk like you to make me give it up.”

Halflings don’t trust anybody that wears shoes, you see, least of all their own kind. Me, I kind of like mine–gum sticks to it a lot better than the alternative. Being called a “shoer,” a shoe-wearer, is one of the worst slurs you can sling at a halfling, right up there with “kid” and “dieter.” “Oh, you’re going to give me what I want, Mungle,” I said, hooking my thumbs under my suspenders. “And you’re going to do it for free.”

“Is that so?” The Leprechan’s feastgoers began to rise, looking rather put out and brandishing clubs and small-caliber mohaskas. “And how exactly are you going to do that?”

“That’s an excellent question, Mungle,” I said. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

The exciting continuation!

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
robeiae
writingismypassion
Sudo_One
randi.lee
pyrosama
SRHowen
katci13
MsLaylaCakes
meowzbark
dclary
Angyl78
KitCat
Bloo
areteus
dolores haze
ConnieBDowell
Lady Cat
Araenvo
MichaelP
Ralph Pines

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Nakis and Nomos made their demands, one at a time.

“You must side with freedom,” said Nakis. “Only through self-expression can you truly be happy. The meaningless and self-imposed facade of order is a straitjacket on the mind.”

“You must side with justice,” countered Nomos. “Only through self-restraint can you truly make others happy. The raw and unrestrained milieu of chaos is an invitation to excess and unaccountable horror.”

The First Mother considered each of their statements. “Must I choose?” she said. “I see merits and dangers in both positions.”

On this one point Nakis and Nomos agreed. “You must choose, one or the other,” said they in unison. “Order and chaos, freedom and justice, Nakis and Nomos…we are binaries.”

“I refuse.” said the First Mother.

“What?” again, the twins spoke in unison. “You cannot refuse.”

“And yet I do,” countered the First Mother. “I pass the decision on to my children and their children, to choose Nakis or Nomos or some combination thereof. But I will not bind my line to absolutes.”

The twins persisted in their arguments, and even offered the First Mother gifts to gain her favor. But her decision was final.

We live with its repercussions to this day.

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