Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

I reach across the gulf, a fingertip outstretched
Words mean nothing, but they’re all that I have
I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t
Even though I think I can see, dimly
Through the haze of memory and delusion
That you won’t, you can’t, reach back
Still the hand is outstretched
The handshake half-complete
Forever

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The demon was on Derek’s bed when he turned around, casually sharpening its claws with a file and ignoring the rain of tiny sparks that sizzled on the rumpled bedspread with every stroke. “Hey there,” it rasped.

“You’re back!” Derek cried, jumping up. The chains on his pants jangled merrily as he bounded from desk to bed. “You’re bringing me power in exchange for the soul I sold you!”

“Ah, no,” the demon said, with a casual blow on its nails. “Look, Derek, baby, it’s not like the dark powers don’t appreciate the offer. But we’ve got more souls than we know what to do with, and lots of power to give out besides. Plus, this whole Black Sabbath aesthetic you’ve got going on in here? Yeah, it looks like we’d be doing you a favor by letting you in on our brand, Derekins, and we don’t do favors.”

“So…I get my soul back?” said Derek.

“Luckily, we were able to find a buyer for that particular item,” said the demon, “and one that is very much in line with our ethos of causing pain and misery. Those boys down in ironic punishments deserve a promotion for this one, let me tell you. You can come in now!”

The picture window in Derek’s bedroom was suddenly suffused in a supernova of white light. It burst open, and in drifted a radiant being on luminous wings.

“You sold my soul to an angel?” Derek cried. “What’s wrong with you?”

“See? That’s what I’m talking about. Pain and suffering, and our brand is untainted.” The demon dusted off its hands. “Well, I’ll leave you in good hands, here.”

“Do I at least get power in this life?” Derek said mournfully.

“You get the ultimate power in this life,” the angel said sweetly. “The power to be good and pure, to do holy works and charity, and to have no say or free will in the matter.”

Derek came upon the demon like a man possessed, grabbing it by the fur on its chest. “You can’t leave me with that thing,” he cried.

The demon waved goodbye. “Enjoy an eternity of stultifying goody-two-shoery, Derekins,” it said, blowing a kiss as it melted away into sulfurous vapor and vanished.

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Daqin, vast in its wilderness and often hostile in its temperament, has always been regarded as backward by much of the world, and its regular wars with Ceres and the Crimson Empire have only served to underscore this, with its vast tundra and taiga serving to bog invading armies down. But Daqin’s history has also been one of expansion, and there is no greater casualty of this than the halflings who once lived there.

Believed by some to be an admixture of the dwarves from the Shattered Isles and the humans from the south before the Sea Peoples destroyed the dwarven kingdoms, halflings occupied some of the best and most productive agricultural land in what is now Daqin, but they were also staunch pacifists and pastoralists. None of their settlements was larger than a few families, and isolated farms which only gathered for a few annual festivals were the rule rather than the exception. Pacifism was also an imperative in the halflings’ interpretation of their religion–a syncretic mix of local shamanism, dwarven dualism, and the Sepulcher of the Creator. This was non-negotiable; it was preferable to die resisting passively than to raise a hand in self-defense against a thinking being.

The modern nation of Daqin coveted the halfling lands, and easily established its supremacy over them once it had emerged from the civil wars that were its birth pangs. But merely taxing the halflings and making use of their farms was not enough; the rulers of Daqin constantly faced demands from their own people to evict and/or exterminate the halflings, a demand made all the more pressing by the Sepulcher which regarded their syncretism as heresy. So the halflings’ lands and rights were systematically restricted until they were little more than chattel laborers on massive estates owned by Daqin nobles. But even this was insufficient, as they were smaller and weaker than humans, and eventually the Daqini simply rounded up the survivors and deported them to the farthest reaches of their empire.

Halflings, despite their relative isolation from one another in terms of family groups, were intensely social beings who could not thrive, let alone thrive, without a fixed social unit like a family. The tumult of their relocation proved to be their undoing, as most of the population had wasted away or even taken their own lives within a decade of the move. The last reliable census by the Daqini had less than 300 halflings, and as that was just before a period of 30 years’ warfare, they are widely regarded as extinct.

It is possible some halflings persist, especially if they moved out into the taiga in family units, but without a broad social context for intermarriage and other social rituals, it is highly unlikely that they will survive as a species. Since halflings, alone among known sapient species, can interbreed with both dwarves and humans, there are many of remote halfling ancestry alive today. Sadly, the culture that sustained them is lost and likely irretrievable.

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Petit-Maxais (harbor of refuge) is about halfway between Whalefish Bay and Grosse Island, and the only harbor of any kind in this stretch of about 90 miles of dangerous coast, along which numerous wrecks have occurred; it is therefore useful as a harbor of refuge. Local commerce has declined with the exhaustion of the timber; the population stands at approximately 400 souls.

Wreck of the Prudence — The wreck of a wooden steamer, the Prudence, lies 12 miles west of Whalefish Point, and about 21 miles east by north from Crisp Point Coast Guard station, about 590 yards from shore and outside of the first reef, in a depth of about 18 feet with 14 feet directly inside on the reef. It has gone to pieces below the water line. While dangerous for yachts or small boats, the wreck is too far inshore from the usual course of vessels to obstruct navigation. The souls of the 24 people who went down with the steamer remain onboard, and are known to foul anchor chains that drift nearby. Attempts to lure mariners to a watery grave have been reported, but no deaths resulting therefrom are known.

Piers — The entrance to the harbor, about 167 yards wide, is protected on either side by parallel crib piers, which are riprapped with large rock on both sides and at the outer ends. The east pier is 515 yards long, including 100 feet of pile dike, but exclusive of the wing at the inner end, and extends 481 yards beyond the shore line. The west pier is 637 yards long, including 100 feet of pile dike, and extends 317 yards from the shore and 115 yards farther into the lake
than the east pier. Both piers have been fortified with buried crucifixes as protection from the nearby Prudence as well as many other wrecks further offshore. The west pier is regularly sprinkled with holy water as part of its maintenance, but the shorter pier relies on an electric spirit repeater which may go offline when the electric current is cut.

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“We were united in our purpose. To find some way, any way, for our species to continue to thrive on a rock that is increasingly hostile to us. The others, one by one, gave up and tried to leave. As if eking out a life elsewhere is any sort of alternative. But I keep going. I must. For to fail is to confront the howling void of the grave we have dug for ourselves. To fail is extinction. And I will not fail.”

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“The Beast of Truth and Beauty.” It wasn’t so much a statement as it was a sigh of longing, escaping as mist between the parted lips of the specter.

“A thing with a love for Keats, then,” I said.

“Hardly. The Beast is what Keats only glimpsed, dully, through the haze of mortal perception. When he wrote that beauty was truth and truth was beauty, he failed to capture the essential, intertwined, bestial nature of those things.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “It is beautiful and dangerous?”

“You speak of beauty and truth and dangerous beasts as if implying a distinction where one does not exist,” said the spirit. “They are one and the same, trunks from the same roots.”

“I don’t understand,” I muttered. “Can’t you speak plainly?

“What is truth but savagery? The truth is a harsh light that illuminates what you would leave dark. What is beauty but danger? Those that lack it are jealous and those that possess it are covetous. The Beast is those qualities of the wood made flesh.”

I looked at the spirit, its insubstantial form comely as it lingered in the darkness. “How will I know it when I find it?”

“That is why so many have failed. That is why so many have died.”

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The interview tape continued:

“You ask why I am for Unity then? Hmph. Let me tell you a little illustrative story, then. In my hometown, there was once a very rich family that had just one son. He died in a car accident after driving drunk, spoilt little shit that he was, and his parents were as bereaved as the parents of spoilt little shits are wont to be. Fair enough. What did they do with their bereavement? They started their own charitable foundation to combat drunk driving.”

On the tape, the interviewer shifted in their chair. “Sounds admirable.”

“It’s foolish. Ludicrous. There are a dozen foundations and charities devoted to stopping drunk driving, all of them needing and deserving the support of those very rich people. Unity would dictate that they combine their efforts. But no. We are all individuals here, doing our own thing, even if it means diluting our efforts to the point where nothing is done. Even if it means people will die. Because we’d rather do it alone.”

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The wild, loose steppes between the great empire of Ceres and the old Crimson Empire was once the territory of the trolls, beings of exceptional size, strength, and intelligence. Typically 7-9 feet tall, trolls were distinguished by their grey skin, large eyes, and lanky build. One key difference, and one only, kept them from establishing an empire or kingdom to rival that of the other sapients: their nocturnal nature.

Possessed of excellent nighttime vision and skin that was extremely sensitive to sunlight, trolls were generally unable to function during the daytime hours and would instead retreat to caves or underground dwellings. The light was enough to cause intense sunburn with long exposure, and the bloom from even a roaring bonfire was enough to blind a troll that had not had time to adjust. These traits were extremely desirable in the hot, arid steppes of west Ceres, but they came at a cost. Alone out of all the sapient races of the world, trolls never mastered fire, and they found themselves unable to make use of the wild steppe horses for riding or the great steppe aurouchs for meat and milk.

Instead, trolls hunted in organized bands, eating meat raw and also subsisting on what they could gather or steal. Since the other sapients tended to sleep during the night, troll culture regarded them as lazy and unintelligent, and therefore fit to be stolen from accordingly. Many a trade caravan, set upon by raiders at midnight, found itself relieved of most or all of its goods. The wiser caravans eventually worked out a system of trade, leaving valuables–typically forged metals or cooked meats–at designated places in exchange for safe passage.

In all other respects, trolls were formidable. They easily mastered languages and were powerful fighters and thinkers, with an oral tradition spanning thousands of years. One troll skald, or battle-poet, participated in each band, driving their fellows forward with ancient songs and rousing stories. The penalty for misremembering a single word of the old troll epics was death at sunrise. Those few trolls that were able to withstand the sun, usually due to generous clothing combined with near-blindness, were prized as scouts, diplomats, and traders.

But with their inability to make metal implements, their reputation as raiders and thieves, and the encroachment of Ceres from the east, the days of the steppe trolls were ultimately numbered. Cerean troops waged a series of extermination campaigns against the major troll groups, driving them further into the wilderness and breaking them up. In a cruel, if effective, move, the Cerean troops targeted the skalds specifically in battle, often taking them as hostages or prisoners. While this did lead to several rather complete skald-histories of the trolls being taken down by Cerean chroniclers, it also meant the distruption and destruction of their way of life.

By the beginning of the modern era, when Ceres began turning inward in a series of devastating civil wars, trolls were functionally extinct. It is possible some yet survive at the furthest edges of the great grasslands, near where the steppe turns to taiga, but if any yet live they are long since cut off from the stories and traditions of their forebears. And unlike the other sapients, their lack of mastery over fire means that the harsh winters of the taiga are an impenetrable wall of starvation and death.

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