Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Compared to conventional artillery, wizard artillery had both major benefits and major drawbacks.

On the one hand, it was much more powerful and versatile, capable of everything from summoning swarms of biting and stinging insects to feast on enemy rations to full-strength lightning bolts that struck with pinpoint accuracy. As long as the wizard artillery crew’s stamina held out, ammunition was not a concern. And it goes without saying that, on occasions when they were forced to defend themselves at close range, wizard artillery crews were more than capable of doing so.

However, the study of magic was expensive and intensely time-consuming. Even in places like Valois, which had an established system of identifying and training gifted magi from a young age, it could take ten to twenty years for a student to be ready for combat. Training accidents tended to be costly, especially given the need for large focusing crystals to give spells the range and power to be useful as artillery. The crystals themselves were delicate but heavy, requiring horse transport, and they were known to explode with arcane energy as well.

For every triumph like that at Murtagh, where massed wizard artillery devastated a force ten times its size, there was a defeat like the one at Edxix, where heavy cavalry charged and broke a wizard artillery battery before turning its focusing crystals on their former users. One veteran was find of saying: “A wizard is worth 100 cavalrymen, but it only takes one cavalryman to kill a wizard. And cavalry is a lot cheaper.”

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“Mr. Washington, no offense, but that’s a terrible mystery,” said Heath. “Give me a better one.”

“I grant you it’s not the kind of New York City mystery you’ll see on the internet,” Josiah said, “but this is a small town and mystery beggars can’t be mystery choosers.”

“You saying there aren’t any?” Heath said.

“Well, you know Richard Street?” Josiah said.

“You mean Snob Hill?” said Heath.

“No, Snob Hill is Richard St., Jefferson St., and Crestview Cove,” Josiah said. “Part of it, maybe, but not the whole thing.”

“What’s the mystery then?” Heath said.

“You ever been up there? Every single house on Richard St., bar none, has a chicken out front. Some sheet metal, some wood, but none of them food. All art.”

“So…?” Heath said.

“So that’s the mystery!” Josiah said. “I call it…”

The Legendary Cock Street of Tecumseh County

“Oh god, Mr. Washington!” Heath cried. “You can’t call it that!”

“Well, that’s what it is, isn’t it? You got a better name for a lineup of boy chickens all on one street?”

“You can call them roosters, maybe?” said Heath.

“Hmm, I guess I could call it, instead…”

The Legendary Roosters of Dick St

“No! That’s even worse! Just…just stop calling it anything!” Heath shuddered. “Why would you even shorten Richard like that? Nobody does that anymore!”

“Well, I’m an old man, so in my day they did,” replied Josiah. “You telling me you don’t want to hear more about the…”

The Legendary Cocks on Dick Street

“You’re just doing that to make me go away,” Heath said. “You know how gross it is for somebody old to say those words.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Josiah sniffed. “You don’t even want to speculate what dark powers the rich folks up there are keeping at bay with their row of fake cocks?”

“NO.” Heath said. “That is the worst mystery ever.”

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“Mysteries?” Josiah said. “Yeah, Tecumseh County’s got mysteries. But you’re not gonna like them.”

“Hit me,” Heath said. “I want to hear all about it.”

“You say that,” Josiah laughed, “But I don’t think you’re quite ready for the…”

Mystery Poo Poo Flowers of Tecumseh County

“Wait, the what?” said Heath. “Poo poo flowers?”

“You asked for it, so please keep your arms and legs inside until the mystery has come to a full and complete stop,” snapped Josiah. “But yes, an enduring mystery around here is the legendary…”

Mystery Poo Poo Flowers of Tecumseh County

“Please stop saying it like that,” Heath said, squirming. “Like the outside of a really bad movie theater.”

“Now, you know as well as I do that folks around here walk their dogs but don’t usually clean up the mess,” Josiah continued, ignoring Heath. “So there’s always been dog poo around here and there, landmines for unwary feet. But within the last couple of years, some of them–not all!–have been converted into the…”

Mystery Poo Poo Flowers of Tecumseh County

Heath wrinkled his nose, disgusted. “How?”

“Nobody knows! Folks who have seen them say it looks like somebody came by with a mold and pressed it into the poo, squashing and stretching it into a little flower shape. But no one knows how, or why, or who.”

“All they know is poo,” Heath said, tongue out. “Give me a better mystery, please.”

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BUZZY: And we’re back. For those of you just joining us, this is PlanTalk on MPR, Mississippi Public Radio. MPR: 51st of 50 states in per-capita public broadcasting funding when you count Puerto Rico, DC, or Guam. I’m your host, Horace “Buzzy” Dickens, and you may recall that we’d just received a call when we were forced to do a station break in order to curry favor with our very few advertisers.

JACOB: Am I on?

BUZZY: Yessir, as you can probably tell from the absolutely epic levels of radio feedback we’re getting. You’re on the air with PlanTalk, and I will go ahead and ask you to turn off any radio you have in the background out of respect for our listeners’ eardrums. They have to listen to my voice already; the least we can do is not torture them with any other sounds that are higher on the pain scale.

JACOB: Hi, Buzzy, my name is Jacob Washington, and I have a question about my plants. I’m having a devil of a time getting the goddamn things to grow, and it’s making me real goddamn frustrated.

BUZZY: Hi there Jacob. Don’t be alarmed by that sound; that was the click of dozens, perhaps hundreds of pearls being clutched in unison by our listeners at your language. But it does give me an insight as to what your problem might be.

JACOB: Oh, sorry. It just slipped out.

BUZZY: Perhaps someday soon we’ll be able to afford a tape delay to bleep you, but today is not that day and tomorrow ain’t looking good either. Let me ask you, though, Mr. Washington: do you swear at your plants?

JACOB: I beg your pardon?

BUZZY: Your plants. You mentioned having trouble getting them to grow. Does that frustration find an outlet in cussing?

JACOB: Well, yes. I get pretty frustrated, so I do swear a little.

BUZZY: Do you call them names? Opine on their recent ancestry from common garden weeds, be that real or imagined? Bring up the cuss bus, fully loaded mind you, and open the door shouting ‘end of the line?’

JACOB: Yeah, I guess.

BUZZY: Well, you see, there’s your problem, son. Your average perennial or annual is not going to be suited, temperamentally or otherwise, to the bevy of sailor-talk that your average Mississippian is capable of unloading. For as anyone who has ever lived here can tell you, our famous civility and hospitality is but a thin rind over a gooey center of pure cussedness.

JACOB: Really? Wow. So do I need to tell them that they’re good plants, pretty plants, stuff like that?

BUZZY: Well, are they?

JACOB: No, sir. They are the ugliest things on the goddamned earth, and when they’re not too busy dying they grow thick and ugly in all the wrong places.

BUZZY: Well then, Mr. Washington, to tell them that they are good plants would be a falsehood. The Good Book is pretty clear about the utterance of falsehoods, ain’t it? And, more to the point, plants are smarter than most folks give them credit for. They’ll know you’re lying.

JACOB: What do I do then?

BUZZY: What you need, Mr. Washington, is some shade-loving plants. It seems to be a given, if you don’t mind me extrapolating, that you’re going to heap verbal abuse on anything and everything in your garden. So why not buy some plants that will take the shade you’re throwing, as the kids say, and soaks it up? Why, with the proper shade-loving plants, you could cuss yourself a secret garden where love may one day grow.

JACOB: Oh, that would be nice. What kind of plants?

BUZZY: Well, kudzu is the obvious choice, growing fat as it does off the misery of humans, livestock, and its fellow plants. But it’s not for novice gardeners, so I’d suggest instead some fudgewort, greater effweed, and–if you can find it–some old-growth savanna acaciawood.

JACOB: So, are you making all that up, or…?

BUZZY: I’m afraid it’s time for another station break. You’re listening to PlanTalk on MPR.

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“You are English?” the farmer said.

“No,” Rhys Chwith said. “I am Welsh.”

“Ah,” Jean said. “So why are you here?”

“Because the King of England took my land and marched her men out to fight in his war with the King of France.”

“Ah, we are the same, then,” said Jean. “We serve the Duc d’Anjou, but the King of France makes us fight for him. In my great-great-grandsire’s time, the King of England did the same when he claimed these lands. Half the men in the village are gone to fight as we speak.”

“Half mine as well,” said Rhys. “All those who could shoot a bow, anyhow.”

“So you are from the English army, then? I had heard it was destroyed at Pontvallain. A very great victory, or so they say.”

“I woke up the night after the battle ended,” Rhys said. He indicated his staff. “This is an unstrung English longbow, you see.”

“Ah! Very clever. You might be mistaken for a simple traveler then, no?”

“That’s my hope,” Rhys said. “I’m trying to make my way to Vaas Abbey, where my kinsmen have a garrison. Do you know the way?”

“It is not far, but do you think you can make it? Not every person you meet will be as easygoing as I am, especially if they’re under arms.”

Rhys shrugged. “I have a shortsword, a bow, and fifteen arrows. What could possibly stand in my way?”

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When your dog hears a mew
And she takes off with you
That’s a workout

When a scent’s on the wind
And your dog plunges in
That’s a workout

Another dog in her view
Marks the boundary with poo
That’s a workout

When a stranger walks by
Dog gets murder in her eyes
That’s a workout

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The cyclops had grown its hair long, long, impossibly long, braided into a thick rope that it had wound around itself as both garment and rope, thick chestnut framing its one great watery blue eye.

“There’s no way the Sage of Spolcyc can help me if this is all he is,” said Ponomnocit. “You can’t even tell how far away something it.”

“It does not matter how far away it is,” the cyclops said in a serene voice. “If it is coming, it will come. If it is not, it will remain.”

“Then tell me what I can do to change the future,” Ponomnocit said, “if you’re the one cyclops that’s also a philosopher, that should be easy, yeah?”

“You are changing the future now,” came the reply. “Every action you take ripples into the future in ways that even the wisest cannot see.”

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John Mody bought the simple bollock dagger from a high street merchant not long after his first payday as a town guard. He took great pride wearing it openly around town, even when off-duty, seeing himself as the sort to draw steel for righteousness even though the worst foes he’d ever faced had been ragged deserters and half-starved brigands.

Though the bollock dagger got its nickname from the handle appearing rather like a very familiar part of male anatomy, John always thought that the hilt looked more like a woman with a widow’s peak, her hair piled high on her head to form the handle. Once he’d had it for a year, he paid a friend of his who’d once apprenticed as a metalsmith to etch a lady’s face on either side, one smiling and one frowning.

Well-pleased by the look, John Mody took to calling his sidearm Mary O’Red or Dag Mary, and after spending his pay at the common house he would more often than not have her out for carving meat, cutting bread, or idle tavern games and boasts. If John couldn’t recall which way he’d put Dag Mary in her scabbard, he’d draw her as a simple scrying tool: the face that showed (which he touched up once a year or as needed) would be his fortune for the night. Despite her given name, Mary O’Red was stained more from wine and rare meat than blood, and her owner’s great feats were knife-throwing contests rather than chivalric battles.

On his last night on this earth, John Mody was roused by the town’s hue and cry to repel an attack. He never learned who the attackers were, nor would he have much cared about the kingly matters that brought civil conflict to his shire. But when the town guard had formed up and been shattered by a light cavalry charge, John was left with nothing but Mary when his spear, which had no particular name, was shattered under charging hooves. With chaos around him, John used his only skill, and the only possession he really gave a toss about, to defend his home. When he drew her, he was comforted to see that she was smiling side up.

Mary sailed true, lodging in the exposed neck of one of the riders. He would die in the saddle, and his death broke the attack, as the nominal commander of the marauding force was little more than a figurehead. John Mody was laid low during the retreat, trampled like so many others, and died during the night. But the town was saved, if its guard was somewhat decimated in the saving.

And Mary O’Red, otherwise known as Dag Mary? She rode away with the dead lieutenant, and was pulled from his body the next day. The cavalryman who did the deed wiped the clotted blood away, smirked at the face he saw–angry, frowning–before dropping her on the pile of damaged weapons that were for the crucible, to be melted down and recast.

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