Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Day 52 – 2nd of June?

Two more of the spheres along the plain, not nearly so perfect as the first one. One, in fact, looked positively ancient and worn away by the intense forces of this awful place. They were not laid out with any pattern that I could see either. But I am not giving up hope. Perhaps they serve some strange Russian purpose and have been maintained here for decades. The maps did, after all, go down with the ship. I may not be near Franz Josef Land at all but some other islands further south.

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Day 51 – 1st of June?

Today I saw a sure sign of salvation. A rocky sphere, perfect in every way, standing on the barren plain a small distance inland. So perfect, I thought, that it could only have been shaped by human hands. Surely this was not the work of any Arctic nomads, nor indeed would any have been able to reach such a high latitude. Surely this is a monument of a more modern type, perhaps thrown up by the Czar in his hubris, with a settlement or weather station to follow.

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Day 50 – 30th of May?

I had thought that the islands might be more hospitable than my ice floe, but I could not have been more wrong. They are desolate, windswept, and offer little from which to build a shelter. After two days spent in a hollow I scooped from scree rocks on the beach, I will have to move inland if I want to survive. The sledge and most of the supplies were borne off on the waves before I could recover it, weak as I am.

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Day 47 – 27th of May?

I had thought that our lot was miserable in the igloo on the floe. But now Jenkins is dead and the ice is breaking up. I collapsed his sleeping bag over him, when he failed to rise, and I loaded as many of our supplies as I could onto the sledge we’ve dragged south from where the Resolute wend down in the ice. It was not a proper raft, and much was lost, but at least I didn’t go into the drink. And my papers are still dry, and my ink, for what it’s worth. Unless Washington’s sledge has had better luck, I may be the last of our party still above the waves.

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“Did I ever tell you about the last days of the war?” Francois said. “The Germans were running away, the Maquis were ascendant, and the arsenal over at St. Etienne got raided.”

“Yeah, I know,” Claude said. “You’re older than dirt, I get it.”

“Most of the things that the Maquis stole from there just melted away into the countryside,” Francois said, continuing his story as if he hadn’t heard Claude. “Oh, some went to the front, and they sent some De Gaulle men to round it up, but…to this day you can find lathes from that workshop in people’s garages.”

“I’m sick of listening to your stories,” Claude said. “I’m going after Babette. If you come after me, I’ll break every tooth in your worthless old head.”

Francois held up a pistol, a Modèle 1935 from before the war. “I never registered it,” he said. “Never got the evaluation. It’s only got 7 rounds and I can’t get any more. But it’s enough, I think, to stop you.”

Claude sized the old man up. “You don’t scare me with that rusty old thing,” he said, and began to advance.

Francois took aim and pulled the trigger. A dull snap, nothing. A dud in a decades-old cartridge.

“Hmph, see?” Claude grinned. “I’m going to enjoy breaking that antique over your head.”

Taking a step back, Francois racked the pistol’s slide like he’d seen them do in the movies. The dud round popped out and clicked to the tile floor. The next pull of the trigger was also a harmless snap.

“Put that piece of junk down,” Claude said. “You’re embarrassing yourself, old man.”

Francois pulled the trigger again. The gun roared to life, spitting out a smoking case that fell to the floor and melted itself into the cheap plastic tile. Claude gasped, clutching at his chest where a red stain was already spreading.

“Yes, this won’t look good when the police arrive,” said Francois. “But I’m willing to take that chance.” With Claude gasping before him, he emptied the pistol into him, another dud and three live shots.

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“Is it really so hard to believe?” Myers said. He’d come up slowly, like a ghost, wreathed in the neon light from the city above and the water vapor streaming from his vape. “A city built on a lie?”

Ty pointed the pistol at him. “Don’t move! I’ll shoot!”

Myers scrunched up his nose and waved dismissively. “I know you will,” he said. “But I’m just going to keep talking until you do, all right? Let me ask you something, kid. Can you name a city that wasn’t built on a lie? Even one?”

Shaking and all but blinded by the lights, Ty didn’t answer.

“Is that because you can’t think of any, or because you just don’t know that many cities?” Myers took a healthy drag from his vape and exhaled sharply. “I came here from a town of 1500. 1500 if you counted the dogs. Grew up because it was a nice place to stay when you had to change railroad lines. then when the railroads went away, there wasn’t much left for it. But here’s the thing: the east-west railroad? It looped ten miles north to pass through. The old man who’d owned the property paid a bribe to make sure the thing came through. A lie that built a town.”

“And eventually destroyed it,” Ty said. “In case you weren’t listening to your own story.”

Myers made another dismissive flutter of his hand. “Every city dies eventually, when the lie runs out of steam. But do you think people would have wanted that bribe out and about beforehand? It meant the difference between my city having a century of life or maybe ten years. This lie, though? It’ll sustain this place for a millennia. If you don’t screw it up, of course.”

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NARRATOR: Peter and Marie have no idea which poem belongs to which contestant as they sample them.

[PETER looks at RANI’s poem. He reads it silently, rolling the words around in his mouth.]

PETER: It looks good, but…it’s got a soggy ending. The last stanzas just don’t hold up. Someone didn’t leave enough time and their ideas came out half-baked.

[RANI grimaces.]

MARIE: It is very close-textured, their word choice. I would have liked to see more feminine rhymes to help cut the sharp masculine flavor. And the meter just doesn’t have that smooth, flowing consistency that I’d like.

[PETER and MARIE move on to JASPER’s poem.]

MARIE: This one has a nice texture.

PETER: You see that bit there, in the middle? That’s raw verse. Completely undercooked poetry. I’m not gonna read it, it’ll make me sick.

[JASPER is nodding slowly, sadly. PETER and MARIE move on to LUCINDA’s poem.]

PETER: This looks good at first glance, let’s see what’s inside it.

MARIE: Lovely texture to the rhymes, and the meter is spot-on.

PETER: You can clearly see all the layers of meaning here. It stands up to Marxist, Freudian, even feminist readings. Delicious language, really well-done.

[LUCINDA is struggling to contain a gigantic smile as PETER and MARIE move onto MAX’s poem.]

MARIE: It’s a fine piece of poetry. But we asked for an alexandrine, in one of the classical forms, to be a part of your poem. This has only Hectian double dactyl.

PETER: It’s a good poem, but there’s no alexandrine. We can’t count it.

[MAX mines tearing out what little hair he has left.]

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NARRATOR: For her alexandrine, Rani has chosen to double up on her masculine rhymes and write in spicy dactylic hexameter as opposed to iambic pentameter. With 8 stanzas, it’s also a very long alexandrine.

[PETER and MARIE stop by RANI‘s station, where RANI is preparing her stanzas for composition.]

PETER: Classical alexandrines are always rhymed in couplets alternating masculine rhymes and feminine rhymes. I see you’ve got two masculine rhymes together there.

RANI: Yes, well, I’m writing mine as more of a fusion, with some spice from a Spanish alejandrino.

PETER: You’ve set yourself up a challenge there, it’ll be difficult to get the syllables right. If you’re not careful, you’ll get soggy syllables especially near the end of your stanzas.

[MARIE points at RANI‘s unfinished stanzas.]

MARIE: I see you’re using dactylic pentameter instead of iambic hexameter. Any reason?

RANI: It’ll be faster for me to compose, so I can get all the stanzas ready and set before time runs out.

MARIE: It’s a challenging poem you’re writing here, but if you pull it off, I think the results may be quite scrummy.

RANI: Thank you.

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They were girded for war, all relative youngsters, led by an older and more experienced-looking leader with warpaint that accentuated her scars and the tips of her ears, one of which was ragged and partially shorn away by a sharp implement like a saber. They were armed with clubs and spears, but no bows and no rifles or repeaters.

“They sent their greenest kids to me, thinking I’d be a pushover,” Jinny said. “Don’t you worry, little Witchazel,” she said. “Mommy’s no pushover.”

Seeing empty scryers laid out in front of her–the wild folk were only coming from a single direction–Jinny decided to have a word with them. She fumbled for a potion from the root cellar, one that would project her voice and allow her to hear replies a bit better, and downed it.

“Hello there!” she said. “My name is Jinny Witchazel, and this is Witchazel Farm. I can’t help but notice that you’re trespassing on my land, armed for war! If you’re here to buy some potions, salves, or spells, I’m happy to oblige you! But if you’re here for anything else, I’ll thank you to get gone from my lands before I have to take action to defend myself.”

The leader held up an arm and the wild folk stopped their advance. “You can call me One-Ear,” she said, “for my actual name is not for you to know. We have heard that you, in violation of whatever trust the wild folk had placed in you, directed outsiders to one of our most revered edor leaders, and not long after one of our brightest rising stars was killed at one of our most sacred sites.”

“I know all about what happened at the Meeting Rock,” Jinny said, “and I’m really sorry about it, love. It’s awful! But the easterners I sent up to Father Zelten meant no harm, and you’ve no quarrel with me!”

“It is we who decide when there is a quarrel,” One-Ear replied. “Not you. Just as it is we who decide when squatters will be permitted on the lands that we have long shared with our green brethren. You have gained a reputation as a betrayer of secrets and a caster of unlucky spells, Jinny Witchazel! We have come to see justice done upon you.”

“Is it really justice, to cut a young woman down in her prime when she is with child?” Jinny said.

One-Ear seemed surprised by this revelation, and whispered to the other young elves in her cohort. “We were not aware of this,” she said. “You may depart, then, if you wish, leaving your word never to return.”

“I have often felt that the wild folk and the edor were treated badly, with a heavy hand where a light touch would do. Are you to throw in your lot with them, love, and see yourself counted among those who fling the innocent off lands they have worked?” Jinny said. “I have my reasons for wanting to stay.”

This, in turn, seemed to make One-Ear angry. “You’d dare put us and they in the same group?” she hissed. “With child or not, human, you will leave or you will die.”

“I’m not leaving,” said Jinny. “This is the patch of ground I’ll die on, my child by my side, if need be. You said that I have a reputation for unlucky spells; are you ready to see what I’m capable of?”

“We are through talking,” One-Ear said. She made a curt movement. “Attack!”

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Her little fellow kicked like a mule, and Jinny winced, pausing a moment to hold herself. “I know, I know,” she said. “This isn’t any sort of circumstance for a little guy to be born into.”

Another kick, and Jinny reached for one of her altered bullets. “Yes,” she said, “you make a good argument, love. Killing people that attack is the only proven way to keep them from coming back. And I’m not opposed to that, at least not at my greatest need. But if I kill them, that means that there’s revenge in the mix, and for all that folks say about the elves out east being too soft and too rich, the ones out here hold grudges measured in generations.”

“But these,” she said, tapping the newly cast bullets. “Holy water, garlic cloves, and white oak shavings, crystallized and hardened with elemental sap. It’ll give a nasty but most likely not fatal surprise to anybody that gets hit with one, so long as they’ve got violence in their heart.”

One last, much gentler and almost half-hearted kick from Jinny’s little fella. “Okay, little Witchazel,” she laughed. “I promise not to shoot myself with it, love. I promise.”

When dawn was just a few degrees below the valley’ landscape, Jinny emerged from her hiding place. She’d stocked it with extra bullets and food, so it could serve as a last refuge, but if Sally had been right and the wild folk knew that she had been hiding there, it could wind up a shooting gallery.

Jinny brewed some tea over enchanted blue flame, anointing it with a wakefulness spell based on coffee beans that had been soaked in agave and pimento. Then, repeater slung over her back with a rude rope made of twine, she shut and barred all the downstairs windows and doors. A sleeping poultice knocked out her one remaining chicken and goat, and she buried them both gently under some straw in the hopes that they might survive.

All that done, Jinny took up a position on her second floor. She set a scrying sphere made of magicked water and brambles at each window in the four cardinal directions, and twinned them with four others that she set in front of her at the north-facing window, directly above the door. With that, and a meal of milk, eggs, and pemmican set out beside her, Jinny waited for the arrival of the wild folk, all the while hoping that she had made her preparations for nothing.

When she saw the first wild folk filtering through the trees at the far end of her homestead, she knew she’d hoped in vain.

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