It's early morning when the Cyberathlete wakes to the sound of a diesel engine sputter to life in the distance. He looks up from the grass and locates the direction of the sound. It comes from the north, just past the caretaker's cabin. When he stands he looks but the corn - now three feet high - prevents him from seeing the machine. Pepple stands nearby the well, watching.
Several minutes later Pepple turns it off the motor. Then, after a careful turn at the base of the well, he disappears. The Cyberathlete walks onto the mound to the northwest of the field, curious to see if Pepple's merely stooping. Atop the mound he sees the top of the engine - connected to a pump, or similar mechanism - but no caretaker. He returns to the oak.
The Deputy arrives in uniform. The topic of conversation quickly turns to the riots in the streets of the city.
If I were Mayor I'd let the militia fire right into the crowd, says the Deputy.
They do that already.
And they should all the time. Its only until they see blood in the streets, you take my word, right like a river down the storm drains what'll make wise to rights. There's a thing as called public order. It needs to be put back square in place.
They arrested over a hundred just the other day, recalls the Cyberathlete, in the slums.
A hundred from a crowd's not much. Just like a ritual they do that always every mass lawbreaking.
It's not long before the Cyberathlete discovers the Deputy to be the wholly irrepressible fool he is. The Cyberathlete turns. The Deputy continues talking.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
Cyberathlete v. Dancer
Clouds drift unceremoniously across the swollen sky. The Cyberathlete, sitting in the sun just out of the oak's shadow, watches them with unfathomable boredom. He's a young man, very young, whose contest winnings have over the course of several years put him into a higher tax bracket than his father. He wears a t-shirt with the picture of a highly pixilated penguin on the front and the word GUN!!! printed underneath. He's never understood the charm of nature. Given that he's not the type to explore the potential for life outside an air-conditioned enclosure, he probably never will.
At night he falls asleep under the oak. He wakes to rain that only lasts a few minutes. He sits leans against the oak and falls back to sleep.
The next day the Dancer arrives. She seems dressed for the beach.
Wait, says the Cyberathlete, weren't you on Dance Dance Dance Party Dance Off?
The Dancer was. She came in third.
When the Cyberathlete begins discussing his profession - very earnestly - the Dancer grows bored and distracted. When it's clear that she wants nothing to do with him, he suggests they begin preparing for the duel.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
At night he falls asleep under the oak. He wakes to rain that only lasts a few minutes. He sits leans against the oak and falls back to sleep.
The next day the Dancer arrives. She seems dressed for the beach.
Wait, says the Cyberathlete, weren't you on Dance Dance Dance Party Dance Off?
The Dancer was. She came in third.
When the Cyberathlete begins discussing his profession - very earnestly - the Dancer grows bored and distracted. When it's clear that she wants nothing to do with him, he suggests they begin preparing for the duel.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Customs Officer v. Cyberathlete
Exposure to the country brings about a change in the Customs Officer. Her home is the city port, a labyrinthine tangle of alleys and catwalks, between warehouses and stock exchanges, all leading to and from the long planked piers of the waterfront. Her home is in the garret of the customs house, where she lives with her husband (Fishmonger) and child (feckless). She's a necessarily hardened woman. But take her from under the overhang of the customs wharf and out to the sweet-smelling idyl of the grounds she now inhabits and a change comes over her: whereas before she was an officious, stubborn bureaucrat, she's now a slightly less officious, stubborn bureaucrat -- and an enthusiastic proponent of all things natural.
This new-found love acts as hard work does: keeping her from thinking of the one regret in her life.
The Cyberathlete arrives. They talk briefly. Something about the weather and the setting turns the Customs Officer reflective and confessional. She airs her secret:
Though I'm about as honest an officer as you'd ever come across, my one regret is a slip that happened a few years ago. There was a strange young man who came in off a tramp freighter with a crate of tribal objects. Now I don't need to tell you that I was ready to stamp the whole thing as immoral and potentially riotous - that's my job when I come across foreign objects that don't belong here except under the careful supervision of a university or museum. But the man gave me something and that something was enough to move my family into the garret we live in now, just above the customs office.
The Cyberathlete asks what she was given.
An ingot of gold, she whispers with a guilty voice, in a mold shaped like a young woman's finger.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Customer Service Representative v. Customs Officer
After the burial of the dog-masked boy and the duel between the Customer Service Representative and the Custodian, the dueling ground grows quiet. The day's warm, a breeze wafts through the valley. It cools the CS Rep, who lies in the grass under the oak, napping. He falls in and out of sleep until dark.
He'd heard the Custodian jabber about a swarm of maniacs who shot from the forest and nearly killed him. Though he doubts what he'd heard--with good reason, given the Custodian's bizarre continence--because he can't explain the death of the dog-masked boy, he feels a growing dread as the sun falls behind the peak to the west, and night falls.
Throughout the night he hears sounds from the forest. He makes out the distant, barely audible throb of drums.
And from the west, too, he hears sounds: not drumming but the mild tones of a far-off waltz, carried by the breeze.
They issue hours apart from one another, the waltz coming decidedly after the drumming, and continuing throughout most of the night.
The Customs Officer arrives the next morning with a satchel full of bureaucratic stamps.
I bring my own stamps, she says brusquely, from home. I don't make them, I buy them from a catalogue. Government issued stamps are generally substandard is the reason.
She shows him several stamps of hers without him having asked. A list of some of the stamps shown:
- Rejected Foodstuffs
- Unsanitary Packaging
- Potentially Riotous
- Of Questionable Moral Composition
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
He'd heard the Custodian jabber about a swarm of maniacs who shot from the forest and nearly killed him. Though he doubts what he'd heard--with good reason, given the Custodian's bizarre continence--because he can't explain the death of the dog-masked boy, he feels a growing dread as the sun falls behind the peak to the west, and night falls.
Throughout the night he hears sounds from the forest. He makes out the distant, barely audible throb of drums.
And from the west, too, he hears sounds: not drumming but the mild tones of a far-off waltz, carried by the breeze.
They issue hours apart from one another, the waltz coming decidedly after the drumming, and continuing throughout most of the night.
The Customs Officer arrives the next morning with a satchel full of bureaucratic stamps.
I bring my own stamps, she says brusquely, from home. I don't make them, I buy them from a catalogue. Government issued stamps are generally substandard is the reason.
She shows him several stamps of hers without him having asked. A list of some of the stamps shown:
- Rejected Foodstuffs
- Unsanitary Packaging
- Potentially Riotous
- Of Questionable Moral Composition
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Custodian v. Customer Service Representative
It's unclear when they emerge from the forest.
Less clear is how many emerge.
Even with the full moon dimly illuminating the swarm, men flying in hideous file from the black recess, the Custodian, too terrified to scream, can't determine rightly if five, ten, or fifty are in the mass. He only sees costume, or fragments of many costumes: animals, some - crow, stag, beaver, wolf - others of more decadent design, abstractions of face in terrifying deformation, formed of twisted corn husk, straw, bark, bone, long shocks of twisted hair. Most horrifying is their silence - the speed and silence of their movements. The whisk of a corn husk cape, the flutter of leaves from the loincloth, the inaudible whistle of a feathered mask. The Custodian, petrified, watches as the party rolls forward - seemingly over itself, impossibly, like the undulating segments of a bristling caterpillar. They round the oak, snake to the graves, then to the northern border, where - all men in constant movement, shying and crowding, the mass of them shivering in a roiling boil of bodies - they stop, as if regarding. From the group one man emerges in a crouch and stands apart. From the cabin there's the spark - and a shot.
The man who stands apart falls.
The men of the party, previously silent, begins baying like beasts, and together - in tightly knit chaos - return to the east, to the forest.
Pepple, Mauser under his arm, walks from the cabin and regards the body. In the moonlight he removes the mask - the mask of a dog - and sees the face of the teenage boy, tan, with matted dirty blond haired and blue eyes. A ribbon of blood runs from his mouth. His eyes widen slightly - then dim.
The Custodian shuffles frantically to Pepple's side, both dueling pistols in each hand, his entire body shaking in fright.
My God mister... who were they?
Pepple covers the boy's face with the dog mask.
This is their apology, says Pepple, looking down at the dead body. It's ceremony.
W-what..., stammers the Custodian. But h-how did you know?
The yarrow stalks, he replies simply. And the signal.
They part without burying the boy.
The next morning the Custodian and Customer Service Representative watche as the Undertaker drags the boy's body from the ground to the dead land by the red rock, next to Pepple's cabin, and buries him under the shadow of the red rock.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Less clear is how many emerge.
Even with the full moon dimly illuminating the swarm, men flying in hideous file from the black recess, the Custodian, too terrified to scream, can't determine rightly if five, ten, or fifty are in the mass. He only sees costume, or fragments of many costumes: animals, some - crow, stag, beaver, wolf - others of more decadent design, abstractions of face in terrifying deformation, formed of twisted corn husk, straw, bark, bone, long shocks of twisted hair. Most horrifying is their silence - the speed and silence of their movements. The whisk of a corn husk cape, the flutter of leaves from the loincloth, the inaudible whistle of a feathered mask. The Custodian, petrified, watches as the party rolls forward - seemingly over itself, impossibly, like the undulating segments of a bristling caterpillar. They round the oak, snake to the graves, then to the northern border, where - all men in constant movement, shying and crowding, the mass of them shivering in a roiling boil of bodies - they stop, as if regarding. From the group one man emerges in a crouch and stands apart. From the cabin there's the spark - and a shot.
The man who stands apart falls.
The men of the party, previously silent, begins baying like beasts, and together - in tightly knit chaos - return to the east, to the forest.
Pepple, Mauser under his arm, walks from the cabin and regards the body. In the moonlight he removes the mask - the mask of a dog - and sees the face of the teenage boy, tan, with matted dirty blond haired and blue eyes. A ribbon of blood runs from his mouth. His eyes widen slightly - then dim.
The Custodian shuffles frantically to Pepple's side, both dueling pistols in each hand, his entire body shaking in fright.
My God mister... who were they?
Pepple covers the boy's face with the dog mask.
This is their apology, says Pepple, looking down at the dead body. It's ceremony.
W-what..., stammers the Custodian. But h-how did you know?
The yarrow stalks, he replies simply. And the signal.
They part without burying the boy.
The next morning the Custodian and Customer Service Representative watche as the Undertaker drags the boy's body from the ground to the dead land by the red rock, next to Pepple's cabin, and buries him under the shadow of the red rock.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Monday, June 16, 2008
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.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
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.
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.
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