Curator v. Custodian

...the corn spirit for example...
...and the flavor of the sagas...
...it is my heart's blood, Jeeves...

The Curator takes the South Pointing Marmot to Pepple, who sits smoking a pipe in the shade of his cabin. As the Curator approaches Pepple folds a piece of notepad paper - one with three fragments written atop - that he'd been pondering over, and gently tucks it in his shirt pocket.

Since delegating the grave digging duties to the Grave Digger, Pepple's appearance has improved noticeably. He's bathed, his hands washed, his hair combed (though still long over his ears), and his beard trimmed in a tidy, shapely manner. He wears relatively clean khaki slacks, leather shoes, and a white collared shirt - all store bought. He only lacks a hat.

Which may be why he eyes the Curator's panama hat with special interest.

Sir, the Curator opens, let me introduce myself.

He introduces himself, and hands Pepple the same card he handed the Cryptographer.

I hope you don't mind the slight mark of blood my thumb left on the bottom left, quivers the Curator apologetically. I would offer you a fresh one, but I'm afraid that was my last.

Pepple studies it closely.

I came, ventures the Curator, to pass along this charming compass. I thought it may be yours?

It's not, says Pepple.

Well take it, man! Take it into your care! Aged it isn't, but art is art is art. Take it, protect it. Keep it for yourself. It's a thrilling conversation piece if I've ever seen one.

Pepple regards the compass and, after considering the offer, agrees to the take the South Pointing Marmot. He sets it down beside him.

Ah good, good, sighs the Curator. He looks around, eyeing the cabin. Lovely little home. Quaint. With an arial to outside world we can't call you a true descendant of Thoreau, hmm? But - tell me, you must be a Judge of this small round of contest?

Pepple's looks up with a blank expression.

This... dueling match? No? Not in any way affiliated?

Pepple shrugs.

Well, in any event I was hoping sincerely whether I might be given permission - seeing that I have stayed for at least one round - postpone the other rounds to a future date.

I'm sorry, but that transgresses the Unspoken Rules.

The Curator readies an objection - but he sees before him, behind the open doorway of the cabin, a thing that throws him into a fit of excitement. By my grandmother's lace, he shouts, it's Eshu dance wand!

Without word from Pepple, he springs into the cabin and examines the dance wand with delight. Then with shock. And revulsion.

Oh sir, he says looking from within the cabin at Pepple, oh sir - this is stolen. This is a stolen relic. It caught me by surprise only because our museum had one exactly like this before the first wave of robberies by the African Nativist League. I see now, by the markings, that it's one in the same. Of course they said they planned to relocate all the items to their homelands. A shame when one comes across their true destination: into the hands of men with little understanding of their true value.

Pepple frowns.

Present company excluded, of course, adds the Curator quickly.

Please put down the totem and return to the oak, says Pepple flatly. He leans back in his chair, takes out the folded notebook paper, and begins studying it again.

The Curator puts down the totem and leaves without word.

The Custodian arrives the next day in haste. He twitches slightly. It takes less than a second for the Curator to decide he's not a man worth knowing. They prepare for the duel quickly.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Cryptographer v. Curator

The Cryptographer asks Pepple what he plans to broadcast. Pepple looks at him, then up at the antenna attached to his home.

That's not a broadcasting antenna, explains Pepple, it's to receive radio signals. It needs to be high to clear the walls of the valley.

Funny you mention radio, the Cryptographer says. I was just talking with... - he turns back to the grounds, where the Undertaker, waist-deep in a newly dug grave, is hard at work - I was recently talking about a signal I listen to on the AM band, between registered stations.

Pepple says he knows the one. It's the same station he listens to. It's why, he says, I asked the Undertaker to help me set up the antenna.

The Cryptographer, pleased to be together with a fellow aficionado, begins talking rapidly about his experience with the station (extensive), how he came across the station (by chance), and the time he spends trying to decipher the code (nights, weekends, when not at work for his corporation).

What do you do for the corporation?

That's classified, says the Cryptographer. Then he considers where he is and the slim likelihood of Pepple contacting his HR department. Well, he confides, try to crack the codes used by other corporations, mostly. I'm in a large department.

Have you found a pattern?

The Cryptographer grows very serious. The only patterns that I've noticed have to do with slight variations in the theme of the phrases spoken during the two equinox. It gets somewhat violent. I have theories on other events throughout the year, but it's too early to tell whether these are valid or not.

And you? the Cryptographer asks.

I listen to it because others listen to it.

Not many know about it.

People to the east do, says Pepple, and people to the west do: it's taken as religion in the east and entertainment in the west.

Pepple returns to his cabin to continue listening to the signal. The Cryptographer waves to him as he walks back to the grounds. Pepple nods through his small window.

The next day the Curator arrives. It's a sunny morning, very hot and humid. The Curator's a stout man. He sweats profusely, gasping for breath as he walks across the grounds. He pats himself down a handkerchief on reaching the oak, leaning back dramatically against the trunk.

My gracious, he sighs. What a journey that was.

After calming himself, he reaches in his pocket and hands the Cryptographer his card. It reads:

Head Curator
African Collection
Museum of ----------

The Cryptographer apologizes for a lack of card on his part.

It's fine, it's fine, young man, he says. I'm disappointed enough as it is to forget your very mild transgression. You see, I only recently heard a favorable ruling in favor of our museum, securing our possession of all items in our present collection - with the exception of one rather coarse jeweled crown. You would think I'd be jumping for joy. Until I received the telegraph demanding my attendance, I was! But now - what a shame, what a loss to be sequestered far from the museum.

He paused.

I don't suppose you're a person who believes that artifacts of historical importance belong in the hands of nations ill-equipped to safeguard them?

The Cryptographer says he hadn't given it much thought.

Well, if you were I'd challenge you to a duel even before the duel we are, by duty, bound to perform! Why, if I could count the times I met a man whose heart bled in ignorance for those countries. Not knowing as I do that half of all the historical treasures in their native land are either stolen or sold to poachers and smugglers, who resell them to private concerns god knows where! No, sir! Thomas Bruce was right in his relocation! And we're right in ours!

The Curator collapses back against the oak. It's several minutes before he's able to stand and select his weapon.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.