Friday Fiction: Slavery's Ghost (Part Three)

The apparition was first seen by Jefferson near the end of March. He awoke one morning to find it standing over him as he lay in bed. It was bright sunlight already so there was no chance of misidentification. Its appearance was that of a male negro, powerfully built but hunched, dressed in tattered clothing and wrists bound in shackles. His hair was grey and grizzled, his eyes red and staring, and he was bleeding, slowly but profusely, from great welts everywhere on his body.

          Jefferson's first reaction, was, of course, shock. Punishment as severe as this man had suffered was not allowed at his plantation, certainly not when he was present, and this man was no one he knew. Was he sure of this? Yes, he was quite familiar with all the residents of the plantation. Might he have been a passing fugitive? It was unlikely such a one could have made it into his bedroom.

          He reached for the bell-pull to summon his valet, and in the fraction of a second the figure had disappeared. He jumped up and examined the room, and no trace could be found. The door was locked from the inside, the windows secure. Was there any chance of a hidden door or chamber, through which a trickster might have made an exit? Mr. Jefferson was quite familiar with the layout of his house, having built and rebuilt it many times over the years. There was not an inch that he did not know intimately, not a space unaccounted for.

          After a moment he dismissed it as a leftover fragment of dream and began his day. He is sure he told no one of the incident, not even his daughter. That is what made what followed more inexplicable.

          A week later, he saw it again. It was once more in broad daylight, and this time he was wide awake. He had entered at one end of a corridor, only to see the same man in chains turning the corner to the right out of sight at the other end. The corridor between them had been dim, but the hall at the other end was brightly lit. What was more, the figure had not seemed to block the light at all.

          Jefferson again dismissed it, this time as a trick of the brain, brought on by the surprise at his awaking before. He advanced across the corridor, and at the end he turned right, and found one of his house boys standing as if struck. At first, he thought this accounted for the illusion, until he realized the figure had gone left. Still, a shadow perhaps? Then the boy said, Who was that man, sir?

          Jefferson closely questioned the boy, and got a description fitting in every detail what he himself had seen. I asked, Was the boy at all a tale-spinner or prankster? No, an intelligent and truthful fellow. He said the man had passed him, coming out of nowhere, then disappearing at the end of the hall. Where he pointed was only a window, the shutters drawn back, but still fixed fast against drafts. There was dust, undisturbed, on the sill.

          This was when the President began keeping a record of the appearances. Might I see it? Of course. The document produced (from a secured drawer) and examined. I found written there the date, time, location, and person. I drew up a rough table and began to make some calculations.

          "I am most impressed, Mr. Jefferson," I said, as I wrote. "Not only by your efficient observations, but by the impulse to record them in the first place. I think you would make an excellent agent in the Bureau yourself."

          "Heaven forfend." For a moment two hectic red spots bloomed on his pale cheeks. Was he flattered? "I am far too occupied with more practical things. And I don't think I could pass incognito among the general populace."

          "Even so. Think how your commanding presence might compel confidences and confessions."

          "Surely that would skew the results to some degree? The urge to please or interest..."

          "Indeed." I finished my notes. "Which is why I would rather interview the other witnesses on my own, if you don't mind. I do not wish them to become tangled under your scrutiny."

          He frowned.

          "They have already testified to me. I doubt if their story will change."

          "Then there is no reason not to allow me private interviews, is there, or take up your time? I have a few questions you perhaps have not thought of, and new inspirations might strike. I will, of course, share whatever I might uncover."

          He interlaced his hands and looked at me over the knot.

          "Very well," he said. "Who would you question first?"

          "Your valet, if you can spare him for a few hours," I said. "Then he can lead me to the others I wish to speak to."

          He rang the bell, and a tall, well-dressed black came in.

          "Colbert, you are to be at Mr. Jandt's disposal for a while. Take him wherever he wishes in Monticello and answer all his questions. Tell Samuel he's to attend my call in your absence."

(End Part Three)

 

Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part Three)

This was, in ordinary times, the auction block. Now it was hung with banners along the wall, banners representing the crown, the legions, and even some of the greater guilds. Below those was a row of chairs, and seated there was a line-up of well-dressed Morgs, some fidgeting with boredom, some sitting up straight with self-importance. Craning his neck over the murmuring crowd, Korm could identify a royal herald, several sergeants in their dark red cloaks, and even an ancient general in blue.

But what really caught his eye and made him grind his muzzle was when he recognized Sekk, one of the most popular and social Witnesses in the City, looking smooth and sleek and bestowing smarmy, benevolent glances left and right. He fumed for a few seconds, then set it by. Why should this occasion be any different from the rest of life?

Then the five minutes must have passed, for there was another clanging of bells. The Herald stood up and formally approached the podium. He paused, then knocked on the stand slowly, three times, looking left and right over the crowd with a solemn expression. The crowd went silent.

“Cadets of Morg City!” he announced. “I welcome you to the King’s Camp Service. It may interest you to know that you have been counted, and that this year there are nine hundred and forty-six of you, something of a record number. Look around you! For these are all now your brothers, now and for years to come. May you remember that with pride! I welcome you in the King’s name!”

Korm flinched as everyone around him suddenly roared in salute, holding up a clenched right claw to the sky. He belatedly raised his own fist, then held it up a second too long when the others lowered theirs’. Luckily no-one seemed to be paying him any attention.

“I introduce you to Colonel Drim, the Commandant of your Camp,” the Herald barked. “He will be your overseer, your chief, and your ultimate authority for the next nine months. From now on you have no mother, no father, no family; there is only Colonel Drim, and he speaks as your sole commander, under the Throne. Respect him, as you would the King.”

He stepped back from the podium.

“The Colonel will address you.”

And suddenly it seemed to Korm that Drim was abruptly there, as if by magic. He had certainly not noticed the golden-brown cape of a colonel sitting on the stage, but now it was impossible to take his eyes off the precise, erect figure that was marching up to the podium like an inexorable sunrise. The big Morg stopped and glared out at the crowd over his scarred muzzle. He didn’t move his head but appeared to take in the group in one intense scowl.

“I am Colonel Drim, of the Fourteenth Regiment.” His voice was a deep, low rasp that somehow reached and echoed off the farthest wall. “You will refer to me only as Commandant; that is my function for this exercise. Failure to address me properly will be the occasion for a demerit. A demerit will earn you a punishment; the most common punishment is a flogging. You have been warned.”

You could have heard a pin drop. There wasn’t even a shuffling of feet.

“Now, some of you might think Camp is a jolly vacation away from home, sleeping out under the stars and having some rough and tumble brawls like you had with your gangs back behind the tavern at home. Some of you with older brothers may know better. Well, let me tell you how it’s going to be, so you’ll have no further illusions about the matter.

“Camp Service is a serious matter. It will demand your entire attention. And it may very well save your life, the lives of your family, and in some drastic instances, perhaps the existence of the whole City. This is not an exaggeration.”

He looked down at them grimly.

“We live under constant threat from the North. The fact that there has not been a direct assault on the City in your lifetime only means that the likelihood of an attack grows greater and greater. And when Barek – and his Ogres – strike, there may not be much time to train and prepare.

“That is what Camp Service is about!” he bellowed, his armored fist crashing onto the podium. Even some of the sergeants behind him jumped. “So that you are not caught with your diapers down when Ogres come knocking at the City gate! So that you can be mobilized at a moment’s notice to meet any threat.”

His voice became grave and even again.

“There may even be some of you, after the training, who will want to join the regular army. If you do, I congratulate you. There is no nobler sacrifice for your country. But even if you don’t, you can never say that you weren’t prepared for when war came upon you and you had to go marching out.”

Drim cleared his throat. His flat gravelly voice did not change.

“Now I’m going to explain how all this works. War is of necessity a clash between at least two combatants. For the purposes of training, you will be divided into two groups, and each will be headed by a ‘King’. Most training you will receive together, but the exercise of that training will be a competition between ‘Kingdoms’. You will learn how to give commands and how to receive them. You will learn the consequences of your decisions.

“Do not be deceived. The position of King has many responsibilities and few joys. If you are chosen as King, the onus of your Kingdom’s success is on you. You will learn when to take advice and when to stand firm. If you are not chosen King, you will have to learn to follow orders, when to question orders, and how to approach your leaders with subtlety and tact.

“The successes of your Kingdom will be tallied and recorded. At the end of the training there will be one final battle, after which there will be only one with the title of King, and his will be the victory.”

He smiled bleakly.

“You might be asking yourself, what do we win? Well, that’s just it. You win. The King gets a small prize from the City, to celebrate with his subjects, but more important is the honor you will receive for your triumph, the bragging rights for your moment of glory. If you think that little enough …” He paused. “Think of how little it will feel if you don’t win.

“I ask you now to choose your Kings. His Majesty’s Herald shall explain the process.” 

Notes

Most of the illustrations I choose for these stories are only rough approximations, to give a little skin or general feeling to the tales. The marketplace would have been a lot bigger and barer than the picture I chose; General Ursus from Beneath the Planet of the Apes gives only a generic idea of how Colonel Drim seems. My hand is not as steady as it once was or I might have drawn pictures as I did in the old days; nowadays I have to try to make pictures only with words.

The Lord of the Rings: The Muster of Rohan (Part Three)

The Tale

‘The road now led eastward straight across the valley, which was at that point little more than half a mile in width. Flats and meads of rough grass, grey now in the falling night, lay all about, but in front on the far side of the dale Merry saw a frowning wall, a last outlier of the great roots of the Starkhorn, cloven by the river in ages past.’

There is a great host of men gathered on every level space, tents, booths, picketed horses, and piles of weapons. Although it is growing cold and dark there is not even a spark of fire; they do not want anyone, either lookouts or in the air (Winged Riders!) to know their numbers.

Merry can’t tell in the gloom how many men there are; many thousands, he thinks. The King’s troop (which he is with) starts to climb a road up the cliff side. Looking up, he sees a steep road, coiling back and forth up the steep hillside. Horses and slow carts can be driven up, but no enemy can approach it by land if it is defended from above. It seems to be a great work from ancient times. At each corner as the road turns are ‘great standing stones that had been carved in the likeness of men, huge and clumsy-limbed, squatting cross-legged with their stumpy arms folded on fat bellies.’ The Rider’s call them Pukel-men; they are hollow-eyed and crumbling, and no power is left in them. Merry gazes at them almost in pity, so old and sad they look.

Only Theoden and company are going up the road to the Hold; below them the riders who followed them are crossing the ford and joining the camp. The company comes to a brink and go up a cutting in the rock into a wide upland, called the Firienfield, a green plateau of grass and heath. Behind it looms the Dwimorberg, the Haunted Mountain like a black wall, the road to it guarded on both side by rough standing stones like rows of teeth, ending in the forbidden door into the mountain.

This was Dunharrow, built by men in ancient times before the Men of the West ever came to Middle-earth; whether as a town or a fortress or a tomb or a temple no one can say. The field is clustered with tents and booths, but they are set far from the road and the door and the dark trees that shroud them.

They turn to the larger camp on the right side of the road, and are met by a rider, a woman clad to the waist as a warrior, with helm on her head and a sword at her side. She welcomes the King with joy, and Theoden hails her as Eowyn (the first time Merry ever sees her) and asks if all is well with her. She says yes, but to the hobbit it seems that despite her stern face that she’s been weeping.

Eowyn says the road was weary and there were hard words from the people torn from their homes and forced to take refuge, but no evil deeds. And now Theoden’s lodging has been prepared; she’s had news of when he’d be arriving.

‘So Aragorn has come then,’ said Eomer. ‘Is he still here?’

She tells him that Aragorn has come and gone, leaving yesterday morning. She cannot tell where he is exactly, only that he’s gone. Theoden points to the mountain and asks if he spoke of the Paths of the Dead. Eowyn must confess that she was unable to persuade him against taking that way, and that he passed away into the shadows ‘from which none have returned.’

‘Then our paths are sundered,’ said Eomer. ‘He is lost. We must ride without him, and our hope dwindles.’

Notes

Pukel is an old Anglo-Saxon word meaning a goblin or demon; the name of Puck (a traditional figure) in the Shakespeare play comes from the same word. There is even an old term, Puck’s Penfold, as another name for Hell. It says there was ‘no power or terror left in them’, they were so old. It is told in Unfinished Tales that the ancient Druedain (Wild Men) would carve such ‘watch-stones’ and imbue them with their own energies to watch and guard, almost as a minor example of the same craft Sauron used to imbue the One Ring with his power.

Firienfield simply means ‘mountain-field’. Dwimorberg is indeed ‘haunted mountain’; dwimor meaning work of sorcery or phantom, and as we’ve seen the ghosts of the Dead literally haunt it.

We can start to see the emotions working away in Eowyn; she may already be becoming fey, or doom-laden, which leads to her reckless behavior. There may be a bit of wordplay, probably unintentional on Eomer’s part, when he says that their hope dwindles with Aragorn lost. Estel (‘hope’) was Aragorn’s name when he was growing up in Rivendell. When you are watching the Jackson films, notice Aragorn whenever someone mentions hope.

 

Friday Fiction:The Case of Ambrose Abernathy (Part Three)

 

          First, he sat down on the shrouded bed for a few moments to calm his breathing and tried to make his mind as clear as still water. Not an easy task after the agitating presence of Miss Kindermass, and his dangling feet barely touched the floor once he had obtained his precarious perch on the mattress. It made him feel unstable, not grounded. When he had recovered his balance somewhat, he drew out his watcher and popped it open.

          The wooden needle floated on its bed of mercury with barely a quiver, no more than you would expect in any other old family house. He was disappointed. If there had ever been a presence in this room, it must not have been recently.

          "Should have asked," he muttered aloud as he put the little silver device away. He took up his pad and made a note to enquire about the time of the last disturbance, then hopped down to the floor. He pulled a magnifying ocular from the inner pocket of his jacket, bent wheezily down on his knees, and began examining the jointure of the wainscoting.

          The visual investigation revealed nothing, nor did tapping along the walls and floorboards. Drawing the cover from the bed showed it to be a simple cotton mattress on a carved walnut frame. The headboard was rivetted in place to the wall and immovable, but he took off his jacket and slid himself under the bed to get a look at the floor and the wall behind. He found nothing worse than a few dust mice, rolling disconsolately in the sudden air.

          He pulled himself out and stood, dusting his hands together and brushing his waistcoat down. Before he put the dustcover back in place he reached out, pressing and pulling the rosettes and scrolling on the headboard, just in case. It was all one solid piece of wood.

          This left only the wardrobe. This is it, he thought. The jiggery-pokery. This is probably the secret entrance to where the fat sister brews her home-made hootch, away from her disapproving siblings. That's why she's so daffy. That's what the smelling and rumbling is about. He walked over, boots clocking on the bare floorboards, and put his hand on the door-catch, ready to pull the closet open. There was a tap at the darkened window.

          He turned with a jerk. There, in the inky black glass, a pale puffy face looked back at him, appalled, eyes wide, mouth agape. For a second, his heart stopped with his breath.

          There was a flash of lightning that washed the image out, and he realized that it was his own face that looked back at him, underlit in the flickering lamp. There were more taps, and it became obvious they were heavy, driven drops of rain on the pane of glass. He exhaled, shakily, and his heart started again with a gallop. He giggled nervously at his foolishness, then stopped as the wind whipped the rain into lashing, pounding waves against the house.

          He turned back to the wardrobe and opened the door.

          Nothing sprang out at him. It was empty, and solid, and built into the wall. Knocking and pounding revealed no loose panels or echoing cavity behind the back, and the thin blade of his pocketknife found no entrance in crack or join. It simply smelled of dust and age. He sat back on his knees.

          So much for my last case, he thought bitterly. There was nothing more to do. He listened vacantly to the wind and rain howling beyond the window.

          The lock suddenly clanked and the bedroom door squawked open. Miss Kindermass stood looking down at the little man kneeling on the floor, the candle in her hand throwing shadows that emphasized her disapproving stare. She sniffed.

          "Supper's ready," she said. "Bring the lantern with you. We don't want any fires, now do we?" She gestured with the candle at the window. "And it looks like you'll be staying here tonight, I suppose. This storm isn't letting up any time soon."

          Supper proved to be a tasteless mash of turnips, not quite a soup and not quite a stew, and boiled beyond flavor and texture. While Abernathy toyed with his portion, Miss Kindermass tried to persuade her miniature sibling to eat more and the larger to at least go slower. The rain settled to a steady bucketing down, with the occasional crash of lightning. After the meal was done and her sisters settled again with fire and dog, she prepared the mystery chamber for his occupancy. This consisted of throwing an ancient horse-blanket on top of the bed and an old thunder-mug underneath.

          "Your last chance to find out anything useful, I suppose," she said, hand on the door. "Breakfast is at seven, and then you'll be on your way. We can't have a man hanging around here forever, especially after spending the night. What would the neighbors say? Good night, Mr. Abernathy." She was gone, taking the light, while his mind was still reeling with the implications of her words. The lock clicked. He was alone in the dark.

          More or less by feel, he removed his boots and crawled, otherwise fully clothed, under the covers. Despite his weariness, he stayed awake for what seemed forever, staring out into the darkness, thinking about his circumstances. Every now and then the room was lit by stabs of lightning. Eventually, somehow, he slept.

          Sometime in the night, he woke up. He couldn't tell quite when, for his watch had run down. The storm had settled and there was absolute quiet in the room. There was a pale, watery light, dimly blue, burning lowly, outlining the cracks in the wardrobe door. A strange faint chemical odor filled the room and tickled his nose.

          He sneezed and for a few seconds was afraid to open his eyes again, in case the eruption had blown the phenomenon away with its violence. A cautious peek showed the light still glimmering. As quietly as he could, he tossed the blanket off, got down from the bed, and tiptoed in his stocking feet to the wardrobe. He put a trembling hand to the pull, hesitated, then yanked it open in a flash.

          The back of the wall was just gone, disappeared. No door hanging open, no slot where it could have slid. In its place was a gap, a rough stone tunnel, illuminated by the phosphorescence, leading downward. He paused for just a second, thinking about going back for his boots, then steeled himself, and plunged forward into the passage.

          The little man felt rather than saw the wall close behind him. He almost turned, but then the light started to withdraw down the tunnel, as if it were being carried away. Rather than be left in darkness, he began following it. His teeth started to chatter. The floor was cold, damp, and uneven to his stockinged feet.

 

          "I must say, that was rather brave of you," Williams broke in. "Going through a mysterious portal, down a tunnel, without any of the usual precautions. I don't know that I would have done it."

          "I wish I hadn't," Abernathy moaned. "I wish I hadn't! The things I saw --"

          "Will be gotten to in their proper place," Frobisher said sternly. "Mr. Williams, please don't interrupt." He leaned forward on his cane, gestured. "Please go on, Abernathy."

The Lord of the Rings: The Passing of the Grey Company (Part Three)

 

TheTale 

Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli go to the hall in the Burg and sit at table. For a long while Aragorn does not speak. Finally Legolas bids him unburden himself and say what has happened to him since they returned to make the man so grim and weary.

Aragorn replies a struggle that was harder for him than the battle of Helm’s Deep; he has looked into the Stone of Orthanc.

‘You have looked in that accursed stone of wizardy!’ exclaimed Gimli with fear and astonishment in his face. ‘Did you say aught to – him? Even Gandalf feared that encounter.’

For a moment Aragorn is stern and his eyes glint. The dwarf forgets to whom he speaks. Doesn’t he remember who he is and what were his lineage and claims, announced aloud at the royal hall at Edoras? And what did he think he would say to the Dark Lord? Then he looks tired again. Aragorn is the lawful master of the stone, with both the right – and the strength, he judged – to use it. The right was certain, and the strength was enough, but barely.

He spoke nothing, but wrenched the Stone from Sauron’s will. That would be blow enough to the Dark Lord, to lose such a tool, but Sauron saw him ‘in other guise’, not as a grim and weathered Ranger, but as the Heir of Elendil with the Sword that slew Sauron reforged at his side. That must have been a blow to his heart; the Dark Lord had no idea he existed, and to suddenly have him appear when his great designs are in motion must have been a shock. ‘He is not so mighty yet that he is above fear; nay, doubt ever gnaws him.’

Gimli is afraid that Sauron will only strike faster, but Aragorn replies that ‘The hasty stroke goes oft astray.’ And after he mastered the stone, Aragorn learned many things. An unlooked-for enemy approaches Gondor from the South. Minas Tirith will fall in ten days if it is not countered. There is only one way to get there in time: he must take the Paths of the Dead.

Gimli doesn’t like the sound of that, and neither did the Rohirrim, he noticed. Can the living use such a path? And even if he makes it, can such a small force as he leads, doughty though it is, counter Sauron’s forces?

The Heir of Isildur may use it, if he dares. Elrond’s message to him reminds him of the words of Malbeth the Seer, spoken in the days of Arvedui, the last king of Fornost in the realm of Arnor in the North. It says in coming days of darkness the Dead shall awaken and the Heir of Isildur to whom they swore allegiance shall pass through the Door to the Paths of the Dead.

Gimli doesn’t understand, but Aragorn says if he wants to know better, follow him there, but only of his own free will. For there is toil and great fear and maybe worse on that way. Gimli says he will come, wherever the Paths may lead. Legolas says he will come too: he does not fear the Dead. Gimli hopes the forgotten people have not forgotten how to fight.

Aragorn tells them the tale: in the days of Isildur the King of the Mountains and his people swore an oath on the Black Stone at Erech to him to fight against the Dark Lord, but when Isildur called them they did not answer but hid in the hills. So he cursed them to linger until they had fulfilled their oath. They dwindled away and died out, but the terror of the Sleepless Dead lingers around the hills and Erech.

Aragorn stands and draws his sword. He cries that he will go to the Stone, taking the Paths of the Dead. Let follow him who will! Elf and Dwarf join him as he strides forth to the Grey Company of Rangers and the Sons of Elrond who await him. Halbarad blows a great horn, ‘and with that they leapt away, riding down the Coomb like thunder, while all the men that were left on Dike or Burg stared in amaze.’

Bits and Bobs

Aragorn’s retort to Gimli in the First Edition was a bit more severe, if grimly humorous: ‘What do you fear that I should say: that I had a rascal of a rebel of a dwarf that I would gladly exchange for a serviceable orc?’ Tolkien softened this in the Second Edition, even though Gimli’s questioning of Aragorn’s judgement was a little impertinent.

Erech is a pre-Numenorean name of unknown provenance, though it may contain the Sindarin element -er, (one, alone). Erech is also the name of a famous ancient city in Mesopotamia.

Arvedui (Sindarin ‘king + last’) was given his name at birth by a seer, and was indeed the last reigning king of the North Kingdom. That seer (prophet, one who sees) was Malbeth (?Sindarin; ‘mal Gold + ?’) whose name recalls for modern readers the Latin mal (evil) and Macbeth, with its association with evil, curses, ghosts, and prophecies.

Perhaps Legolas, as an Elf, has more familiarity and insight into spirits, while Men instinctively fear the unnaturalness of the separation of body and soul. The fact that they are usually unseen to mortal eyes doesn’t help either.

Tolkien explains elsewhere that not only did Aragorn have the right to the Palantir and the strength to use it, but also the distance from Sauron’s physical form helped protect him from the Dark Lord’s full power.  That Sauron sees him ‘in other guise’ suggests that the Dark Lord sees him as he spiritually is, at least as much as Aragorn will reveal to him; remember the crown that Legolas seems to glimpse flickering around Aragorn’s brow. That Gimli refers to 'that accursed stone of wizardry' shows he doesn't really understand the palantiri. They are not evil in themselves, though they are definitely perilous with Sauron plugged into them. 

Friday Fiction: There is a Season (Part Three and Last)

All in all, Blake visited about half a dozen agents before he gave up. A vague theory, more of an impression, really, was starting to gather nebulously in the back of his mind. As one might expect, anyone who chose a career in the Department of Extranatural Affairs tended to be a sort of eccentric loner. Oh, not misanthropic or unsociable, but isolated by their specialized knowledge. That made them a tightknit fellowship, always glad to see someone they knew would sympathize and understand. They tended to be unmarried, though there were a few husband-and-wife teams within the Bureau, but even fewer ‘unevenly yoked’ families, like James and Francine Mercy, who had been having a garage sale when he visited. Francine was a thoroughly ordinary lady who didn’t like James and Blake talking shop, as she put it. They had met when James had helped her family with a particularly nasty overshadowing; she’d had enough of the extranatural to last a lifetime, she said. Blake left with a cheap little wall clock shaped like a kettle, some ceramic bowls, and the determination to go and see the Director of the Bureau himself with his concerns.

The DEA building was a blank, bland twelve-story structure downtown among many other faceless buildings, almost as if it was insisting on its own normality. When Blake had first arrived in the city, he had half-expected to find some sort of Gothic mansion with a hovering, lightning-laced cloud. Sometimes he still suspected there was some sort of invisible turbulence over it anyway.

It certainly could have used a cloud today: the morning cool had dissipated, and the late summer sun was beating down out of a clear blue sky. The parking lot was a bleak desert Blake had to sprint across before he could reach the relative safety of the concrete porchway.

He found the Director in his office on the very top floor. The building’s air conditioning had failed up there, and Henry Harris Byrd sat sweating at his desk under the ministration of an annoying and inadequate rotating fan that ruffled his paperwork as he tried to review it. His shirt was soaked, his sleeves rolled up, and his tie hung loose and limp around his open collar.

Mr. Byrd was a middle-aged man with a burly football player’s physique that was starting to go to flab. Sweat gleamed on his black balding head. He looked up, half-annoyed and half-relieved at the interruption. His pen drooped in his hand.

“Ah, Mr. Martin, isn’t it?” he boomed. “I haven’t seen you since you started here, I think. Always glad to have one of our younger agents drop in. How is the Strange World treating you? Got the willies yet?”

Blake grinned awkwardly.

“Well, no sir, at least not more so than is professionally necessary for the job. But I have been a little uneasy – I’ve talked with several other agents and observed them - and I thought I’d better run things by you to see if I should be concerned.”

Byrd sat back, pushing away from his paperwork.

“Why don’t you tell me about it? But first, could you bring me a bottle of water from that fridge there? Have one yourself. This heat is killing me, and Mr. Saunders says there’s nothing can be done about it until tomorrow.”

Blake got the bottles, gave Byrd one, then sat down in one of the plain institutional chairs in front of the desk. The boy rolled his bottle between his hands, pondering what to say, as the Director took several deep gulps of icy water then wet a huge red handkerchief and wiped his face and bulging neck. When Byrd had sat back comfortably and seemed attentive, Blake began to try to explain.

“Well, like I said, I’d been feeling uneasy, so I thought I’d go out and beat the bounds, so to say, see what other folks would say. The story was always the same: no unusual activity, but I could see a sort of pattern emerge.”

“Mm-hm.” Byrd’s rumble was noncommittal.

“They all seemed kind of restless and uneasy, too, working it off with some kind of cleaning or preparation. Oh, it wasn’t anything they talked about, but they were all doing it. And I wondered … I wondered if they might be picking up on something, something kind of subtle, maybe a kind of forewarning. I thought I should tell you …” Blake looked at the Director helplessly. It all seemed so vague and flimsy now that he said it out loud. Byrd grunted in annoyance.

“Don’t worry about it, kid. You’re not the first agent to have noticed this kind of thing. It’s just that time of year.”

“What do you mean?”

Byrd slumped forward again.

“The phenomenon is very familiar to the Department. It is not a verifiable occurrence, like the spike around Halloween, but a sort of superstition (well, hardly even that; more of a feeling) that has arisen here in the Bureau of Shadows. Not surprising when you get a batch of sensitive people working together. Near the end of September, before the first day of Fall, most agents get this urge to ‘change their profile’. To some it’s getting rid of their old wardrobe and buying new clothes; easily justifiable with the changing season.” He raised his eyebrows skeptically. “There is a vague feeling (it has never been formulated or codified) that this keeps ghosts and other spirits that agents may have encountered from finding them again when the Dark Season starts.” He shrugged. “I advise you to just ignore it. It never seems to come to anything, really.”

“You think?” Blake was reluctant to let things go.

“I know,” Byrd said firmly. “Just get on with your life.” The phone on his desk suddenly birled insistently. “Just a minute,” he said politely, picking up the receiver and holding it to his ear. “Byrd speaking. Yeah?” He listened intently. “Yeah? Yeah? Okay, I’ll drop by Big Lots on the way home. Yeah. ‘Bye, dear.” He hung up.

“My wife,” he said sheepishly. “We’re … we’re tearing down a wall to make a larger guest bedroom. It’s for the holidays,” he added defensively. “It has nothing to do with … with this thing. Like I said, pay it no mind.”

Blake stood up.

“Of course not, sir. I’m glad you’ve set my mind at ease.”

“Drop in any time, Martin. Don’t be a loner; loners get … odd. Well, odder. It helps if we all regulate each other’s clocks.”

 

By the time Blake got home it was early evening and the day was starting to cool down again. He collapsed down on the couch, thinking of nothing so much as about supper. If the day had not been particularly productive, it had at least tired him out and settled him down. He wondered what to cook, and briefly thought of Parkis’ dehydrated beef stroganoff.  It might have been slightly better than the ramen he would probably be making. He stood up and looked wearily around the little apartment. His paperbacks were scattered everywhere. Slowly, almost thoughtlessly, he began to gather them into a pile. He suddenly considered buying a bookshelf, maybe one of those cheap particle board things from Walmart. Of course, he’d have to arrange the furniture to fit it in. Blake began moving things around in his mind as he picked up books.  He’d know when things felt just right. It was all perfectly logical. And, after all, it was the season. It couldn’t hurt.

6:42 AM, October 4, 2024

Notes

I knew when I first started to think about this story that it wouldn't be a 'Monster of the Week' type tale. Rather it would be about the Bureau of Shadows itself in a more modern incarnation, its agents and 'culture.' I threw in various moods and memories for 'thickening.' I also wanted to have a bit more about Blake at the start of his career and Byrd as he was as Director; he was introduced in Lovett's Last Case as just another agent, though on the leadership track.

 

Bob's Book 2: Chapter Four: American Prometheus: Part Three and Last (Unfinished)

OLDER HACKETT: But as much as I was now in Ben’s confidence, I couldn’t help but feel that there was some inner process going on, something he wasn’t telling me. The old man could be such a sphinx. Perhaps he was afraid that I would sell his ideas to someone else, or even claim them as my own; with my memory that would not be difficult. He needn’t have worried. My ambition – and indeed my skills – could never have reached so far. It’s a quite different talent to know something and being able to do something. Still, there were times when I was denied access to the back room, and once or twice I glimpsed an unfamiliar journal, like the ones we kept notes in, that he would whisk unobtrusively out of sight.

And he did all this while carrying on his regular business. Mr. Franklin had a talent for juggling: science, diplomacy, publishing and the social round … including more rendezvous with the ladies than you would credit for a man of his age. I often wondered when I saw him bent over the hand of some grand dame what she would think if she knew what his own hand had been doing scant hours before. Perhaps she would not have minded; he could be that charming.

It was a gloomy evening in late September of that year that things finally came to a head. I remember everything, as I told you, but that day stays highlighted in my memory, as if painted in peculiarly lurid colors and lit harshly in a phosphorous glare.

I was resting in my little cubby when suddenly the service bell rang. I leaped up immediately. As late as it was, I was still awake; insomnia plagued me then already, as it still does. I do not know why, but I think reading takes the place of dreaming in my head, so that I can look up refreshed from reading a book for hours and go on another ten without feeling the need for sleep.

I rushed down as quietly as I could, ignoring the dark door of Dr. Franklin’s room and passing silently through the halls to the staircase. A summons at this hour could only mean one thing: work in the basement room. 

Cold as the night air was, there was an even chillier blast when I opened the basement. My hair stood on end. As used as I had become to the gruesome work of anatomy, with its smells and its sounds, there was something even more acrid in the close atmosphere, neither quite a smell nor a sound, but something almost felt on the skin or tasted on the tongue.

“Mr. Franklin?” I asked, mouth dry. I wanted to swallow but feared taking that air into my body.

The old man looked up. He always looked somewhat inscrutable, but usually with a little smile, which you could either take as mockery or good humor, whatever you thought of him. But his look was dead serious, perhaps even grim. He gestured me over to the table.

“Ah, Hackett,” he said. “Come here. I want you to witness something for me.”

I walked up obediently, although the air in front of me seemed uncommonly thicker than usual. There was a sheet covered form on the table. Franklin put his hand on the sheet, then hesitated, looking me in the eye.

“Lad,” he said. “You know what I’ve been working up to here, and I think it’s ready. I think. It may not work. Then we shall have to try again, and again if necessary. But if it succeeds … and I have high hopes that it will … I want there to be another witness to the most momentous advancement of the human race since Prometheus stole fire from the gods. Are you ready?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Is there anything you need me do to help?”

“No, everything is set. Let’s begin.”

With a flourish he pulled to sheet away and tossed it to floor. I stood there aghast at what was revealed.

I had seen most of the pieces, of course, some when I had brought them in, others as we had worked on them. On their own and individually they looked fine, some of them even beautiful in their own right. But put together they were a mismatched sight to behold.

The figure on the whole was dwarfish. Mr. Franklin had come to the conclusion that a smaller body would be easier to handle, save on materials, and perhaps a smaller anatomy would take the power of the process more effortlessly than struggling through a larger corpus. The chest and torso were still broad and sturdy, but the arms and legs were only just what might be called functional. The head was of a grown size, but looked almost unborn, as there wasn’t a hair on it, and its skin somewhat wizened and loose to boot. Each foot was from a different source, and the hands, which might have been drawn by Michelangelo for all their sturdiness, hung like shovels at the end of the arms.

I stared at it a moment in disbelief. I had not quite imagined this as the end of our labors.

“Uh, Dr. Franklin.” I hesitated. “Are you sure this is quite what you want?”

“What?” The old man looked at me and then at the thing on the table. “Oh, well, I’m sure it’s not going to win any beauty contests, but then that’s not the point, is it? However he looks, he’ll be the most famous person in the world, and what’s more to the point, he’ll be alive. I don’t know if the brain we used will retain any of its old memories, or if it will be wiped clean like a slate, but whichever happens, he will surely appreciate that it’s better to be a live donkey than a dead lion.”

He turned to the apparatus he had set near at hand.

“Now let’s have no more stalling. History awaits, my lad. Give me a hand.”

There were a few wires to be attached, and some unguents to apply, and I handled the body while the Doctor performed the operations. I opened the barrel in the corner. Inside was a chemical bath that had been simmering all week. As gently as we could we dumped the body in, wires and all. Then standing well-away from it all, Franklin turned the crank and activated the Voltaic pile.

There was the briefest but brightest of flashes, like lightning, then a dull boom almost immediately as the barrel exploded in a hail of slats and splattering goo. The electrical apparatus shorted out with a belch of smoke. Luckily the table sheltered us from the worst of the effects, and I had ducked down at the last instant. Franklin, being closest to the machine, was momentarily stunned by the percussion and reeled back, sheltering his face with an upthrust arm. The lamps were blown out in the wake of the blast.

When the smoke cleared, I roused myself cautiously, and more by feel than sight I sought out a candle, scratched a match, and lit it. The Doctor was there, leaning on the table, looking bruised and winded. He stared up at me as the light flared.

“Hackett,” he said. “Bring that light over here. We must have a look at our patient!”

“Hold a minute,” I replied, as I sought out one of the lamps and held the quivering flame to the wick. A clear, steady light filled the underground room. I took it over to the Doctor, who took it impatiently and rushed over to the remains of the barrel.

The body lay still in the midst of the shattered splinters and twisted hoops and spilled fluid, that was still bubbling weakly as if just going off the boil. We examined it in suspense. It was seemingly as lifeless as before, but I swear to you my hair stood up on end. There was something about it that was different than before. You might have seen someone so deeply asleep that they seemed to be dead. There was the same ambiguity in that tumble of limbs and silent torso.

“Pick him up and straighten him out,” Franklin ordered after staring at it intently for a moment. “Let’s get him on the table and take a look. It can’t be comfortable or easy to lie that way.”

“Aye, sir,” says I, and laid my hands on the thing, still slippery with goo. After I finally got a grip under its shoulders, I hauled it upright, the arms and legs falling into place. The head flopped loosely back and forth. I thought I might have felt a tremor go through it, but I was trembling a bit myself, so it was hard to say. I wasn’t scared of no dead body, you understand, but if it was alive … well that was another thing altogether.

As I tried to haul it up onto the table, my arms squeezed around the chest, compressing it, and suddenly there came a spew of vile liquid out of the mouth, spattering to the floor in an unexpected cascade. And with that the thing coughed, drew a shuddering breath, and was alive.”

 

Mr. Hackett looked up at me. I had cried out in wonder.

“But that … that’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever heard!” I said. “How come … how come I’ve never heard of it before? What happened? Why doesn’t the whole world know about it?”

“Cause that’s the way Dr. Franklin wanted it. ‘Twas only him and me knew the rights of it, and after what happened, neither of us really wanted it to get out. Not that we needed to make any promises.” Hackett chuckled. “No reason I can’t tell you about it now, though. There ain’t no evidence left anymore, except up in here.” He tapped his graying skull. “Besides, who’d ever believe you if you did tell ’em?”

“But what did happen?” I asked. “Why aren’t there any of these … these synthetic men walking around nowadays? Didn’t it work out alright?”

“Well, for the first few days, yes. I still don’t know what went wrong, exactly. But there seemed to be the mischief in that creature, from the very start.

“Dr. Franklin dubbed him Primus, since he was the first of his kind. He even came to respond to it, though I’m not sure he truly realized that it was his name and not just a sound to grab his attention, because from the first to the last he never uttered a word himself. Don’t know why about that either. He seemed healthy and clever enough.

“The first thing we established was that the brain didn’t seem to retain any sort of personal memory at all, like it had been wiped clean of whoever it had been before. The next thing we established was that there seemed to be some kind of physical memory. It didn’t have to learn to stand or to walk, like a baby does. From the very first it was quick, and strong, and I suppose you would say coordinated. I know that, because one of the first things it did was punch me in the eye when I tried to clothe him.

“That was quite a struggle, I can tell you, and in the end even Mr. Franklin had to help me. We finally got it into a sort of loose gown, and after a bit of persuasion combined of blows and a reward of a bit of bread and cheese, we got Primus to resign himself to being dressed.

Dr. Franklin by now was weary and needed to rest himself from the night’s labors. He yawned mightily. As excited as he was, he had been working for almost two days and looked ready to drop.

“Hackett, I leave Primus in your care. Treat him well, feed him if he wants it, and if he gets tired, tuck him into bed. Anything goes wrong, get me right away. Pamper him, Hackett, coddle him, lad. After all, today is his birthday!” He chuckled and yawned again. “Observe him closely. When I get up, I want to know everything he did. Keep him away from the rest of the house if you can. I don’t want anyone else to meet my little man just yet.”

With that he was out of the room, and I was left alone with that little beast. He watched Dr. Franklin leave, then turned to observe me with great cunning.

I cautiously began cleaning up the workroom, gathering the burst bits of barrel, sweeping the spilled fluids into the drain in the middle, and putting the apparatus away. Primus watched every move I made, sometimes moving those shovel hands of his as if mimicking my movements, but in the main just crouching where he stood, gazing intently. When I was done cleaning up, I slowly went over to the shelves and picked out a jar of peach jam.

“Now then, old fellow,” I said, like I was talking to a dog. “How would you like something sweet?”

I took off the muslin lid and picked out the wax that sealed the fruit inside. Never taking my eyes off of him, I dug in two fingers and scooped out a generous glob.

“Mmm,” I said, mimicking great satisfaction as I ate a few bites. I held out the jar and offered it for his consideration.

After a moment’s hesitation he took the jam, sniffed it suspiciously, took a tiny taste, then began wolfing it down greedily in as large portions as his questing fingers could.

As I watched him, I came to some conclusions that later experience only confirmed for me. I think Primus was learning and reacting, not like a newborn baby would with uncertainties and experimentations, but rather as a clever ape would. It was as if his muscles had memories, even if his brain did not. He finished off the jam, and when he could fit his enormous hand into the jar any further, stuck his tongue down to see if it would reach.

“Very well, Primus, my lad, that’ll do.” I reached for the container.

He snapped at my outstretched hand and I drew back in alarm. I continued to watch his baffled attempts to reach the last of the jam until finally he smashed the jar to the ground and knelt to lap up the remains from the shattered glass.

I watched as he picked up shards of broken glass to lick the sweet stuff up. And that was how things went on with him as the days went on.

He seemed clever enough, but with no restraint. He seemed to learn things quickly, as if remembering them, but he had no judgement, no feeling for others, as if his fellow beings were just another object in the universe to him. Dr. Franklin tried to teach him, or at least train him, but he was too often busy with his diplomatic duties, and I didn’t have much success, never having raised anyone up before or even tried to teach anyone anything. Maybe Primus would have done better with someone with a more instinctive nurturing soul. But he had to make do with me and Dr. Franklin when he could spare the time.

After a few days we concluded that we were inadequate to the job and that Mistress Lydia would have to be let into the secret circle. Franklin concocted a tale that the creature had been placed into his care from a relative of his in America, a poor soul whose condition he hoped would improve under gentle care. Mistress Lydia, a rather dour Englishwoman, looked dubious and declared he was better placed in an asylum, but reluctantly agreed to do what she could. My own burdens were eased when Primus was moved into a secure room in the back of the house.   

 Notes

And there I paused, for almost five years now. I think the problem was it was growing unweildy, more like a book and less like a chapter. I think in the end it would have been Primus who took off Hackett's hand and was somehow destroyed.

 

The Lord of the Rings: Minas Tirith (Part Three)

The Tale

Pippin gazes in wonder at the great stone city, greater than anything he ever imagined, bigger and more beautiful than Isengard. But the truth is it is a dying city; it holds only half the people it once did, and they pass many empty and silent houses.

At last they reach the seventh gate (‘as Frodo walked in the glades of Ithilien’), the great arch carved with a keystone like a crowned and kingly head. Gandalf and Pippin dismount, as no horses are allowed in the Citadel, and Shadowfax ‘suffers’ himself to be led away.

The guards at the gate are robed in black, with tall helmets made of mithril, ‘heirlooms from the glory of old days,’ and fitted with the white wings of a sea-bird. On their black surcoats is embroidered a white tree under a silver crown and many stars. This is the livery of the heirs of Elendil, that none wear anymore in all of Gondor, except these Guards of the Citadel before the Court of the Fountain.

It seems they are expected, as doors open for them silently and without question. They pass over a white-paved court where a ‘sweet fountain’ is playing, surrounded by a sward of bright green grass. But drooping over the pool is a dead tree, the drops of water dripping from its barren branches. Pippin wonders why the sad, dead thing is left there, when Gandalf’s murmured words pass through his mind: ‘Seven stars and seven stones and one white tree.’ And then they are at the doors of the great hall beneath the white tower.

They pass the guards there and down a long empty passage. As they walk, Gandalf gives Pippin some quiet advice. He tells him to be careful how he speaks to Denethor. ‘Theoden is a kindly old man. Denethor is of another sort, proud and subtle, a man of far greater lineage and power, though he is not called a king.’ He loved Boromir, perhaps too much. Gandalf guesses that he will talk most to Pippin. To find out what happened to his son Boromir, of course, but also to find out things Gandalf would be too canny to reveal. He counsels Pippin not to speak of Frodo’s errand, and not about Aragorn either.

Why not Strider? Pippin asks. Wasn’t he coming here himself? Maybe, Gandalf concedes. But he shouldn’t come heralded by us. ‘It is scarcely wise when bringing news of the death of his heir to a mighty lord to speak overmuch of the coming of one who will, if he comes, claim the kingship.’

Pippin is amazed. Gandalf tells him, ‘If you have walked all these days with closed eyes and mind asleep, wake up now!’

Bits and Bobs

We are once more told where Frodo is at this point of the timeline: ‘in Ithilien.’ This not only tells us where we are in the plot now, but shows that he is not forgotten.

The White Tree of Gondor has a long and storied history. It ultimately comes from Telperion, one of the Two Trees destroyed by Morgoth and Ungoliant. It seedlings spread from the Elves in Galathilion to the tree Nimloth in Numenor. “The first White Tree [of Gondor] came from a fruit that Isildur, at great personal risk, managed to steal from Nimloth the Fair, the White Tree of Númenor, before that one was destroyed at Sauron's insistence. He suffered many wounds during this mission, and he came near death, but when the first leaf opened in the spring, Isildur was healed.” – Tolkien Gateway.  Sauron burned this tree in a sudden surprise attack in Second Age 3429.

Isildur planted a sapling in Minas Anor in memory of his brother Anorien. This second White Tree died in the Great Plague in the Third Age 1636. The third White Tree was planted by King Tarondor in Third Age 1640 and withered in Third Age 2872 under the Ruling Steward Belecthor II. This tree is the one we see here, ‘left until the King should come again’ since no new sapling was found.

Since there are no more (known) Heirs of Elendil, only the Citadel’s honor guard bear his arms. Mithril is of course the most precious metal in the world. The wings of sea-birds attached to the helms recall the fact that the Numenoreans are ‘sea-kings’, coming from over the waves to rule.

Gandalf’s little heads-up to Pippin not only brings him up to speed, but also wises up any readers who may have forgotten (or never put together) Aragorn’s storyline. The line of the Tree reflects the circumstances of the Heirs of Elendil, honored but in abeyance.