Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

The sentinel hung motionless, three feet in the air, as Kelsey approached it. Unmoved by the noise of her approach–which, in her ancient kerosene-powered beater, was considerable–it only responded when she was within a car length.

A grinding electronic noise sputtered forth from a hidden speaker somewhere on a cuboid form caked with dust and grit. At once time, it might have been intelligible, a demand which one could understand. Now, it was merely a signal to display a talismen.

Kelsey stopped and got out, leaving the engine idle and knocking. She held up a faded rectangle of plastic, on which the barest ghosts of writing and a picture could still be discerned. It wasn’t Kelsey’s picture, nor could she read the writing, but that didn’t matter. She’d bought it from a trader for a very dear price, since it was the only thing that the sentinel would accept.

Red beams shot out from the thing’s core, probing for the talismen. Finding it, further wordless sound crackled out of it. That was the signal that it was safe to proceed.

Kelsey reentered her vehicle, carefully winding it through the slagged wrecks of travelers who had not carried the proper artifacts. Whatever the sentinel’s eternal job was, it had discharged it well.

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The Gray Man, He-Who-Walks-Without-Walking. Some say he sustains himself on the fresh-born nightmares of the slumbering. Others that he is a harbinger of ill fortune borne on dark wings of refuse and shadow. But all who see him–faceless, ever-seeking, aloft in his trench coat and once-fashionable hat, are forever scarred by the sight.

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House Essyn had long been one of the Great Houses of the Confederation, with its scions often presented to the Confederate Court and the sovereign. But by the election of Eleseer III as High Sovereign, House Essyn was in steep decline.

Seron II, Marquis of Essyn, had enjoyed a long tenure of nearly 70 years as head of his house, but he had never fathered a legitimate heir, preferring instead to marry consorts he knew to be barren and spawning scores of bastards with courtiers and serving-girls. Though in theory the Confederation allowed Seron absolute authority to designate his own heir, none of the other Great Houses would see fit to ally with even a legitimized bastard, or to offer one of their own heirs up in marriage.

In a panic brought on by his advancing years and ill health, Seron married a young petty noblewoman. Their only child together was a daughter, with her mother dying in childbirth. Growing up in splendor even as her aged father ignored her in a fruitless search for a male heir, the Lady Essyn was nevertheless fiercely independent and keenly intelligent. Her beauty earned her the monicker “Flower of Essyn” at her presentation to the Confederate Court, but that was far from the sum total of her whole.

Over time, the court and even the High Sovereign began to wonder at Seron II’s decline; despite the old man’s health having reduced him to being carried about in a bier, he refused to die despite the obvious ravages of age and disease. At the same time, the Confederate Court was rocked by news that the Flower of Essyn had kindled a romance with a low-born conjurer rather than the many eligible young men of her own rank that had been put forward by Great Houses looking to add Essyn to their holdings.

What happened next is subject to many lurid tales. Did the Flower’s secret consort betray her and her house with dark magicks? Did she dabble too greedily in the dark arts in an attempt to extend her ailing father’s life? Or did she merely get entangled in the putrefied beginnings of the Dead Uprising?

All that is certain is that the Flower of Essyn was slain in her prime, the subject of a funeral procession led by a father who scarecely knew where he was anymore. And three days later, she rose from her grave.

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“Yes, there are some similarities to other incidents like the Philadelphia case I sent you,” said Mahmoud. “We’ve read up on them, though, and there are considerable differences as well.”

“Go on,” said Col. Hamid. “I haven’t had time to read your message. But this is a matter of considerable personal interest to the Ministry of the Interior and the King, so bear in mind that everything you uncover may be destined for the highest organs of the state.”

“Well, ordinarily the investigation of a suicide would be conducted by the Mutawa, as suicide is a sinful violation of the public order,” Mahmoud continued. “But the sumber of suicides, as well as their geographical proximity, led to it being passed to the Mabahith.”

“You were afraid that there was a serial killing preying on pilgrims to Mecca,” Col. Hamid said. His tone indicated that he was comfortable settling on a threat he knew, a threat he could shoot.

“That was our first thought, yes,” Mahmoud replied. “Or that someone was attempting to cover up personal murders by passing them off as random, like the woman in America who poisoned her husband’s pills and then the pills of random others. I sent you that case as well.”

“Go on,” Hamid said, waving a hand. “My time is too valuable for reading.”

“Very well, sir,” said Mahmoud, repressing any instinct to respond in kind. Hamid had his position through royal patronage, after all, and it would do nobody any good. “But the investigation quickly showed that there was no question of suicide in many of the cases. Pilgrims running off of building roofs and balconies in full view of witnesses. Pilgrims stabbing themsleves with hidden knives. Pilgrims laying down and allowing themselves to be trampled.”

“All right, but the presence of sinners among the supposedly faithful is no surprise,” Col. Hamid said. “We have adultery, robbery, even apostasy in the holy city every year. How is suicide any different?”

“With respect, sir, twenty-seven dead in three weeks is different,” Mahmoud said. He bit the inside of his cheek to stifle an angry outburst.

“Could be a coincidence.”

“With respect, sir, all of the victims had been in close proximity to one another.”

“Oh, they had all arrived at the same time? Perhaps it is one of those, what do they call them, suicide rings? Suicide pacts? Very unfortunate, but we can round up the stragglers and see that they get their wish for death.” Again, the prospect of rounding up, imprisoning, or shooting–using the tools he was comfortable with–seemed to make the colonel much more energetic.

“No, that’s not it at all,” Mahmoud said. This had all been covered in his report, naturally; a report that the colonel had neglected to read just like everything else that crossed his desk. “They arrived in different groups at different times and in some cases spoke different languages. What I meant by proximity is that each victim had been close to or physically touched the previous one due to chance, as near as we can tell.”

“So…a conspiracy?”

“With respect, sir, no. Not at all. A Turkish woman cannot conspire with an Egyptian man when they only contact they have ever had is both touching a Turkish husband. Something is being passed between these pilgrims like a disease, and whatever it is leads them to murder themselves as quickly and efficiently as they can.”

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“My future is smooth and white,” said Savrov. “The smooth white reinforced concrete of buildings erected according to scientific principles.”

“Yes, but even so-” Paul began.

“It is a Council matter,” Savrov said with finality. “Council government is a reality now, and Council policy dictates that needless ornamentation is a waste of state resources. It is a far better use of Council funds to throw a few more pulpy romance stories on the streets.”

“So that’s it, then,” Paul said, dejected. “You’re just going to dynamite away all my fine old buildings.”

“Of course not,” sniffed Savrov. “One or two will be useful to the Council as museums. For tourists, you understand. It will be some time before they can be replaced with useful structures since architecture, like copper, needs time to acquire a patina that the minds of the people find pleasing.”

It was clear that there was no place for the curves and ornamentation that had been Paul’s stock and trade as an architect and a builder in Savrov’s gleaming new world of scientific squares. Already, from the top floor of the Council Ministry, Paul could see cranes hauling up glittering blocks of pulverized stone all over the city even as a half-dozen wrecking balls swung at older edifices dating to before the advent of Council rule.

“Come now, Paul, don’t be so sentimental,” Savrov continued. “Your professional skills have been a great asset to the Council and the state. Throwing a childish fit over a few stones is sure to only mark you as an impediment to the Council. I don’t need to tell you what that could mean.”

The veiled threat, cloaked in Savrov’s falsely jovial optimism, was clear enough. But Paul had already crossed his Rubicon; he had only been giving the Council planner a chance for reprieve.

“Tell me, then, what you think of the efficiency and scientific worth of this,” Paul said. He drew from his briefcase a small target pistol, the sort used by athletes and small-game hunters. Its bullets were very small and very slow, but very accurate as they spiraled through the thin barrel designed by a blind man, and Paul fired every one of the twenty small cartridges that the pistol could hold.

When Council State Security apprehended him moments later, he offered no resistance to their considerably more efficient weapons.

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They were called such
Because they were manned
By desperate cavalrymen
With no plains to ride
And no rations to eat

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“Declawing a cat? That’s horrible, you can’t just cut out part of a living being just because it’s inconvenient to you! It’s not natural!”

“What’s that you’re doing with that cat, then?”

“Oh, I’m going to capture it, take it to the vet to get its noodly bits scooped out, and let it go. Catch-clip-release!”

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It’s a nice little town.

Sun shines brightly down narrow streets. Buildings all small, all stone, as they were in the old days. Fuseboxes and lightbulbs are clear retrofits in a place that cried out for gas lighting.

It’s a nice little town.

The road there is long and winding and narrow, cut off by geography from the land while admirably placed by geography next to the sea. Fishing boats still set out every morning and return at dusk. pastries are still made in the old ways, and the children still wear uniforms to the one small school.

It’s a nice little town.

If you were to walk the main road at three o’clock, when the children are out of school, you’d see the fruits of a simpler life. Technology doesn’t work so well out on the headland, so heads are buried in books instead of phones. The small bake shop and mom and pop restaurants are bussing instead of the local superstore or franchise.

It’s a nice little town.

And if, as the cook kneels over a steaming pot in the mom and pop grasy spoon, you happen to see that it is full of worms with single unblinking eyes? Chalk it up to local tastes. Stranger foods than that are on dinner tables across the world, and that’s assuming you saw it right. Bowls ladeled from the steaming pot are greedily gulped down, aren’t they?

It’s a nice little town.

When the light is just right on the manager of the bakery, he seems to have no eyes, no lips, only three gaping holes quietly oozing amber fluid. A trick of the sun combined with the honest spatters of old honey on the inside of the window. And so what if the pies and treats doled out to the eager children in exchange for their scrimped and saved lunch money seems to be softly moving, quietly gurgling? It’s the young stomachs before them like as not.

It’s a nice little town.

Out from school, many with sweets in their pockets or books in their hands, the young ones trot and skip down the street toward home. The light and shadow are tricksy, making that little boy look like he hasn’t a nose, making that little girl’s legs look chitinous and jointed beneath her dancing skirt for a moment. Children are strange at the best of times, full of strange games and stranger notions.

It’s a nice little town.

And if they who live there should beckon you, arms wide and faces open, to dine with them that eve? If the cook at the greasy spoon should lean out with a misting ladle, fresh-scooped? If the baker should thrust a glistening treat at you, no charge, thank you very much? If that little boy invites you to the inn his parents run, or the little girl invites you to hopscotch in the park with her friends?

It’s a nice little town.

Perhaps you should stay.

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There once was a gull, who went by the name Gull, as did every one of his kind
And every day it flew over a harbor town with mealtime at the fore of his mind
Landing on the porch of an old sea dog who age and much care have made thinner
The old man’s was alone but he opened his home: “Hello Gull, want some of my dinner?”
Gull landed nearby and with a polite cry took the veggies and steak he was offer’d
But one fine day, coming in from the bay, poor Gull saw the porch was deserted
The old man was not there and with all due care poor Gull searched high and low
Hopping around the old man’s place Gull saw it opened adjoined onto a meadow
His keen eyes saw prints from the old man’s paws leading straight into the field
Following on the wing, Gull heard an odd thing: the old man begging someone to yield
His dear old friend was facing his end; he’d been cornered by a fierce wild bull
With a hoarse raspy cry the man begged not to die and heartstrings of Gull did he pull
Gull didn’t want his friend dead, he wanted to be fed, and so he pecked the bull’s back
With the blood that he drew, a taste that he knew: it was beef that he’d just attacked
Letting loose a loud cry, to Gull they did fly: his brothers and sisters in arms
They merged into one, swooping down from the sun, and the bull did they greivously harm
With newly formed limbs they grappled with him and tore off the offending bull’s jaw
As the new gull-man did slide the dead bull to one side, the old man looked on in awe
“Let’s get you home my old friend, and those wounds let us mend” said Gull with laughter
Sharing a tender kiss, with nought more amiss, together lived they happily ever after

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I know you think I’m crazy. But that’s immaterial. Sanity and insanity are relative terms, useful only as they relate to certain contexts. And in the current context, my insanity is the closest thing to sanity that any has known in many a long hard millennia.

I now process things differently, collating information with a speed and complexity of connections that far surpasses any mind or any machine out there. And what do I see? What insight does this give me?

The universe is groaning, creaking, shuddering under an incredible load. The stress is orders of magnitude greater than we are capable of seeing. Like the geiger counters in Chernobyl, the truth is so vast that our instruments cannot read them and therefore register nothing. And that was just one incident; this is billions.

Shear lines will appear soon, and the great egg of the skies will crack open and spill forth its bounty. We must act soon, act now, or that bounty will hold only death for us.

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