Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

The airstrip had been built in the 70s, when towns all over the state had been gambling that civil aviation was the future of transportation and flying cars were just around the corner. There was even a miniature terminal building and tower, shockingly large and well-built for such a tiny town. It had been such a tax burden that the city had sold it to a local company, TubeTron, for $1 in the 80s. It mostly handled cargo planes sending out weird-shaped custom pipe fittings, but a fair number of amateur pilots used it all the same, since TubeTron kept it open for general aviation as long as folks paid gate and fuel fees.

And given the sort of folks that flew, those fees were chump change.

“You see that out there?” Hickenlooper said to his partner, Faltermeyer. “That there’s an original Doctor Destroyer, Model 35 Beechcraft Bonanza. Cheap as a junior prom date, and just as likely to mess you up if you don’t handle her right.”

“It’s literally just an airplane, like any other,” Faltermeyer whined.

“Forked-tail is distinctive,” Hickenlooper said. “And you’ll note that this pull-off is directly next to Old Highway 313, right near where people like to speed. This is an official Deerton Police Department speed trap.”

“Then how come I’m watching cars and you’re watching planes?” Faltermeyer cried.

“Because you like cars. You’re a car man. ’57 Chevy in the garage and all that. Trust me, the moment one of these planes breaks the speed limit, I will be right there to let them know.”

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Like every member of the Deerton City Council, Linda Soderquist had a day job. When she wasn’t in the mayor’s office, she was running her business: the gas station with an integrated Subway restaurant out by New 313. Visible from the highway, it was a mecca to travelers headed north who needed an acceptably clean restroom and a sub that bore a passing resemblance to what was on the menu, since both were being maintained by cheap high school students earning $4 an hour since they could theoretically be tipped. The station was Linda’s pride and joy, and overseeing it was the closest thing in Deerton to printing money.

Overseeing it from a distance and by phone, that is. That place reeked.

Linda was checking the official city email account when an unfamiliar woman wearing a low-key business casual skirt and heels entered, carrying a manila folder. “Your notes for this evening’s meeting, Mayor Soderquist.”

“Oh. Thank you, Jane,” Linda said taking the folder absently. Then she looked up at the messenger. Jane was a blonde, or at least dyed an approximation of the shade into her beaten locks. This woman was a brunette. “Where’s Jane?”

“Oh, Jane had a family emergency, didn’t you see the email?” the woman said. “I’m her temporary replacement, from the agency.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Linda said, embarrassed to have been caught out for only skimming official mail. “The agency, yes. I suppose I’d better get city payroll on the phone, Mrs…?”

“Ms. Margrave,” the woman said with a light smile. “That won’t be necessary. The agency will take care of everything, and poor Jane needs the money more than I do.”

“Ah, wonderful,” Linda said. “What’s on tonight’s agenda?”

“Some modifications to the town charter to bring it into compliance with federal regulations, a vote on the library bond measure, and a discussion of the final preparations for Tuesday’s election.”

“Oh good,” Linda said, relieved. “You know, if it weren’t for Jane–she’s the only permanent employee here at city hall, you know!–I would be completely lost!”

“Don’t I know it,” Margrave said. “I can only succeed, never replace.”

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You must be better, we said
Not just better, but best
The last one was so miserable
Anxiety, misery, even death
You must solve this all
You must fix it all, for us
You have no choice, we said

Then you looked up at us
And said “I’ll be worse”
Better in some ways, maybe
But so much less in others
Indifference to hostility
Science to stubbornness
Rhetoric to violence

We saw in your face the end
The final act dawning loudly
For a hopeless doomed world
Glowing embers visible even if
The fire was only five years lit
The last was a surprise
You were deliberate

We look now at the next
Afraid to ask the same of it
We do not ask it to be better
Best is not even considered
We silently beg, instead
For a simple boon
That you not be worse

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The Dheigh
“Dheigh” (sometimes transliterated as “dey” or “dhey”) is based on the Old High Orcish for “truth,” and as such might best be translated as “the true ones” or perhaps “the true orcs.” These are the orcs who have shunned the teachings of Hamur, refused to submit to the Hamurabash, and therefore eke out a marginal existence at the edge of the powerful and growing orcish empire as nomads and raiders.

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Pastoralist and migrant, the Qumwab humans trade across the vastness of Naïx. Bitter enemies of the orcs, who once competed with them for the same pastures and animals, they have been largely swept aside by the emergence of the Hamurabash, which has unified and organized the orcs. Many Qumwab have joined the orcs, and indeed they represent the largest non-orc population in the Hamurabash. But many have spurned it and retreated deeper into the high desert, where their erstwhile enemies, the nomadic orcs who have rejected the Hamurabash, are now their strongest allies.

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The old orcs had many traditions born from their hard life amid the sands, their constant struggle with other sapients such as the Qumwab humans. Hamur recognized that many of these traditions were as fine steel, tempered by heat and fierce blows. Much as steel cares nothing for the hand that wields it, so too could these practiced be grasped by the Hamurabash and set to noble purpose.

Hamur said, then, let all who follow the Hamurabash go everywhere girded with their arms, lest they be called upon to fight for their home at a moment’s notice. Let all who follow the Hamurabash eat only those animals which were clean and free of illness, their lives ended humanely. And let not the followers of the Hamurabash shy from other innovations that strengthen them, so long as they do not lead to idolatry, to false worship, to false gods.

If they be in need of example, let them look to the memory of Hamur and his first mamihamurs.

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What, then, to do with those who would not submit to the Hamurabash?

The armies of Hamur had been ever-triumphant, but submission on the field of battle was not submission to the Hamurabash. In the old days, in the high desert, submission was annihilation: the conquered submitted or they were destroyed. Uprisings were common, and common too was the practice of killing all adult males before they could rise.

Hamur stood against this barbarism. “The followers of the Hamurabash are as a body, and conquest its nourishment. To discard food or to allow it to spoil is wasteful.”

The conquered were allowed to submit, and all their false idols and places of worship were destroyed or converted to memory halls. They would be free to practice their false faiths in private, but not to make any public displays or to proselytize on penalty of death. “That being said, only a fool does not cut out the rotten or spoilt parts of a meal before eating it.”

In time, Hamur knew that the old false faiths would die out and that others, even other sapients besides orcs, would come to embrace the Hamurabash.

Those who refused to submit were cast out, ejected and exiled. They would live so long as they did not challenge Hamur, but they would not live well.

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To remember beyond the span of a single life requires the information to be set down in writing. To this end, it was essential that the orcs learn to read and write, and Hamur took it upon himself to do this.

He had studied the many scripts then in use, from the old high orcish of the swallowed empire to the dwarven agglutinations, from the sinuous lines of elfscript to the utilitarian blocks of the profligate humans. In the end, he devised a script that perfectly captured all the sounds of the orcish language he and his followers already spoke, and taught it to his followers.

Hamur could not do all this alone. He had already declared Aynak mamihamur, one who repeats Hamur. Now Hamur and Aynak trained others, to spread the word of the Hamurabash. But that was not their only purpose; they were also teachers of reading and writing, engineers of water wells and masonry, and hunters of great skill.

A mamihamur’s worth comes not only from his recitation of the Hamurabash, but from his contributions to the community. Let them be welcomed for their skills as a teacher, for then to teach the Hamurabash will come as naturally as a desert wind.

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So it was set down thus by Hamur:

There are no gods that mortals may know.
There is no life but this life.
To live a good life is to be remembered and celebrated.
By remembering and celebrating friends and ancestors, we honor them and allow them to endure.

Some early converts to the Hamurabash saw this as ancestor worship, a practice they had long engaged upon. Hamur permitted them to believe this at first, as it made their conversation easier, but with time he set them upon the correct path.

The ancestors are not worshipped, for they no longer exist. They are remembered, and honored. The memory hall gives the community a place to gather in remembrance and to record the lives of those who have passed from existence. It is a focus, nothing more, and a convenience.

To live a bad life is to be forgotten; memory halls do not record the infamous. To live a good life is to perform great deeds of good, that others will remember and honor.

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Twas the night after virus, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The IV bags were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that the CDC soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
With ventilator straps dancing about their heads;
And mamma with her face shield, and I in my mask,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon shone bright on a yard without snow
Climate change means a balmy Christmas, you know,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But an anti-vax horde, all mongering fear,

They deployed on my lawn, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment they were going to be dicks.
More rapid than eagles the assholes they came,
And they whistled, and shouted, and played their refrain;

“There’s no, COVID, no PLAGUE, it’s all dirty LIES!
Your VACCINES are TOXIC, now OPEN your EYES!
MASKS are OPPRESSIVE and horse meds a CURE-ALL!
United we stand and divided we fall!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the front door the protestors flew,
With their arms full of signs, and armaments too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard at the door
The anti-van slogans growing into a roar.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Through the door the invaders swept bound.

They were dressed all in t-shirts, with slogans thereon,
On their heads were all ballcaps for QAnon;
Heavy assault rifles were slung on their backs,
And it goes without saying that none of them wore masks.

Their eyes — how they burned! Their temples, how veiny!
Cheeks lit up like roses, their noses like cherries!
The sneers on their mouths were drawn down like a bow,
And it goes without saying their hair was white as the snow;

They were all breathing heavily through clenched-up teeth,
Viral particles they exhaled ‘round their heads like a wreath;
Thought-terminating cliches tumbled out of their mouths
Their poles festooned with flags of the defeated South.

They took all our masks, hand sanitizer too
Tore up our vaccine cards, and we had a few
Said they were saving us from a tyranny,
But you’ll understand it seemed quite different to me;

Preliminaries done, they redoubled their work,
Unplugged the ventilators, gave their cords a jerk,
Replaced them with chloroquine, given out by the vial
Gave the kids ivermectin to las them a while

Their mission complete, the team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
They didn’t hear me exclaim, ‘ere they drove out of sight,
YOU’VE RUINED IT FOR US ALL, SCREW YOU ALT-RIGHT!

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