by L. T. Hewitt
“I’ll have you know he’s an Egg, not an egg! And I care more about him than anything else in the universe. I threw him to the ground before I cared, before I knew anything. I thought he was useless, but it turns out I was mistaking him for myself. I was wrong; my Egg is important.” The Space Chicken stormed down the passage through the centre of the seats and opened the door at the back of the car. He stepped out into the bed of the pick-up. Then he turned around and spoke before he slammed the door. “And He has a name, you know!”
Chapter 36
The Space Chicken sat with the Egg in the cargo space provided at the back of the space-mobile. The Space Chicken now noticed what the earlier twang had been – there was a large dessert spoon erupting from the roof of the Speedvan. As the car drifted through the thin kenomazelesphere, this spoon scooped up some of the Space Jelly. The force of all this goo pummelling against it and being captured inside the bowl caused the spoon to bend over. At the end of this, the Space Chicken sat and sipped away at his necessary intake. He shivered: the Jelly was an essential craving.
“We’ll be here a while,” the Space Chicken said. “It will take the rest of them some time to work out that we are, in fact, progressing towards our destination. After that, it will be some Haca before we reach the Fez.” He stopped. There he was, shaking away and ranting on about what was to become of his life. Who was it for? An egg he was pretending was his son? Oh Quack, he thought, my life is empty. I really have gone crazy this time. I guess Quack goes through prophets quickly, and he’ll be replacing me soon. The Space Chicken pondered on this for some time, loathing himself for falling into Quack’s trap. Of course I’m not the first. Why the Sock would the god of Glix wait 1,001,500 years to get his first prophets? Was it so he had time to populate the Glix and let the people sin their worst before he sent someone in to correct their mistakes? Not likely. And here I am, old and loopy. Product number 3467 needs replacing. I’ve lasted well, I guess. Time to die, like most people. He’s done with me. He used me. Do old discarded beings get into the afterlife?
Quack can speak to the Egg.
That thought teased him more than any other. Was Quack playing some sort of cruel trick on him? Or did Quack have some powers of communication that the Space Chicken didn’t? Perhaps it just that he didn’t care enough…
The Space Chicken leant over slightly, towards the Egg. “Egg?” he whispered.
There was a quiet noise in the back of his head. The Space Chicken wanted to think that this was the Egg trying to communicate. He attempted again.
“Egg?”
There was a very short noise that went ‘hmm’ this time. It wasn’t much of a response, but the Space Chicken knew it was there.
“Egg! I can hear you!”
The innocent ‘hmm’ told the Space Chicken that his caring son still kept his calm, even after the excessive number of times of being asked.
“Oh, Egg!” shouted the Space Chicken, hugging the porcelain body. “Can you talk?”
‘Hmm.’ This high-pitched noise still spoke ‘yes’ to the Space Chicken.
“Can anyone else hear you?”
‘Hnn.’ This noise was much lower and slightly depressed. The Space Chicken could tell that this meant no.
“Really? I thought Quack could.”
‘Hmm, onnum.’
“Sorry?”
‘Hmm, ofcourn.’
“Pardon?”
‘Hmm, of course.’
That was it. The Space Chicken was getting to real words now. He had reached an ultimatum. He could speak to his son.
“Why didn’t you speak to me before?”
‘You never opened up,’ the Egg explained. ‘Now you have allowed yourself to believe in me, I have found your mental frequency.’
The Space Chicken began to cry.
“I’m so sorry I ever doubted you.”
‘That is perfectly okay. Most people do.’
“Oh Quack, I’m such an idiot. Why can’t anyone else hear you?”
‘They can; they just don’t listen.’
As the Space Chicken listened, he fully resented himself for having ignored the clever Egg he had been assigned to nurture. The Space Chicken noticed that his son had no voice. It was recognisable, but for no reason. The words appeared in the Space Chicken’s head, spoken in a voice that might have been his own, like his thoughts. But the Space Chicken knew he hadn’t thought it or said it himself. He’d had ideas thought into his own head that weren’t his own. There was so much knowledge that he didn’t know what to say. So he just said the obvious.
“It’s so good we can talk to each other.”
‘The feeling is mutual. I have been searching for you so we may talk. I need a paternal figure, and you left me,’ the Egg stated, ‘father.’
The Space Chicken was bleary-eyed by this time. His feathers were soaked with his large, blobby tears of self-disgust.
“I said you had a name,” the Space Chicken croaked beautifully pathetically. “I told Clint he should call you by your name.”
The Egg knew what was coming and so answered the question in advance. ‘Fred Jr.’
Chapter 37
Ah, the innocence of the elderly, thought Arthur. They still believe that listening to Quack is useful advice. In fact, everyone seems innocent in that way these days. Everybody believes that Quack is great, apart from the people who actually know Him. He’s far from all He’s cracked up to be.
You can’t blame them, though. For trying to inspire a younger generation to lead a good life by using the word of God. Only, that’s not really the way forward. People should be inspired to do good for good’s sake, for goodness sake. A moral life is never truly moral when people are being fooled into thinking there is a positive outcome for their own gain in the end. I should correct myself. It’s ‘god’, not ‘God’. Or something like that.
It seems like such a wondrous idea, in theory. Loving Quack, and following His every word with the result of having a perfect soul and an enriched heart. Life isn’t happy, Arthur reflected. Quack sends some people back in time, quite literally. And what are you supposed to do then? Follow the word of Quack? I would if I could. In this instance, all Quack has to say for himself is, “Oh Sock, do I really have to put up with you for that long?” A nice cheery thought. It really enriches your heart.
The majority of Arthur’s thoughts continued in this way so much so that Margery tapped into his mind and suggested he should try using irony and snark marks more frequently.
Chapter 38
After some time spent dealing with the idea of space travel and being what he would have called at home an ‘astronaut’, Dave began to deal with the issue of his own placement. After looking down and reviewing Britain, he noticed a great many things that set him way back in his contemplation. For one thing, Britain appeared to consist of four rectangles – three of which were connected – in place of his original Britain’s countries. It seemed that, from above, like on the Glix’n ground, everything was perfectly formed. This was not what he was used to. He liked it when things like this were shapeless, not when there was structure. He got scared when it meant something.
Another thing he observed was the fact that the crew of the Speedvan was actually moving, as was the Speedvan itself. They were both moving at exactly the same pace. This was possibly something to do with the fact that the former was – for the most part – contained within the latter. The human-prophet-vehicle hybrid was moving, anyhow. And quite quickly at that. It seemed that they were rapidly approaching BongVe Bong – if that was what they were moving towards and it wasn’t another mistake. The car itself wasn’t putting much power into movement and they were hardly accelerating. But the reason they could progress to such an extent was that there was very little air resistance. All this thinking on Dave’s part took up a lot of time and bored the other astronauts.
“So,” said Dave, pointing out of the windscreen. “We are headed over there. That (touch wood) shouldn’t take u
s too long.”
“Unless, of course, we crash,” suggested Clein.
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because we want to get there as soon as possible, preferably without crashing too much.”
“How could my saying that we could crash affect that?” asked Clein.
“You’ll jinx it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Dave tried to calm down. “Look, we’re going to get to BongVe Bong just fine, in perfect time. Then we will land near the Border, so we know where in the country the Fez is, and we won’t be too far away from it. We will return to driving or flying to our new destination, completing the final leg of our journey.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll jinx it.”
Dave failed to keep calm this time. “I’m not jinxing it, you are.”
“How can I be jinxing it? You’re the one saying everything will go perfectly. I was saying things wouldn’t go to plan.”
“Okay, let’s settle this by saying that we were both jinxing it: you were, by saying things wouldn’t work; I was, by saying things would work.”
“How can two opposites mean the same thing?”
“What about flammable and inflammable?” asked Crazy Dave.
“Don’t be stupid,” said Clint. “They don’t mean the same thing.”
“Do any of you think it’s healthy that the Space Chicken is sitting out there, shivering and talking to himself?”
“He’s nuts!” said Crazy Dave.
“I don’t think it’s very healthy at all,” said Clein. “I mean, he could hurt himself when we run out of fuel and crash.”
“Will you stop saying things like that‽” shouted Dave.
“Are you superstitious, Dave?” asked Clein.
“No, not really. But I don’t want you to say things that put me on edge.”
“Right. You see, the thing is, you’ve spent this whole journey rapidly alternating between speeds that have all been multiples of eleven.”
Dave contemplated this to the fullest extent he could. He still remained blank. “And the relevance of this is…?”
“Eleven is an unlucky number,” said Clein. “You’re really not from around here, are you?”
Dave’s face went a horrible, alien shade of red, which acted as a warning light informing anyone around him of his immigration from a parasitic culture.
“While we’re on the matter, how much fuel have we got?” Clint asked.
“Actually, we are quite low on… Hang on, what’s that?”
“What?”
“By the fuel gauge. Oh Quack. No wonder Oprah didn’t want this stupid van,” Dave said hysterically. “It runs on onions!”
“Onions‽” they all said, both annoying and exhilarating Margery by using up several interrobangs.
“And, as a matter of fact, we will soon have run out of them!”
“What do you reckon they’re talking about, Fred Jr?”
‘I do not have a clue.’
“I guess it can’t be too important to us. We’re just happy back here, chatting away, minding our own— argh!” the Space Chicken screamed as he fell down, along with the rest of the car. At the back of his mind, he felt he could hear Fred Jr screaming along with him, although he may have just been wishing for someone to share his trauma.
Either way, it was a long journey down.
Chapter 39
Arthur left the House and headed to the oak tree, as Quack had suggested to him. It seemed that the merging of technology and botany created a universal connection to worlds beyond. Or – more simply put – trees get good reception. Particularly oak and apple trees. As soon as Arthur sat down on the springy, lime moss, the same rock he had spoken to Quack on earlier rang just like a phone-mobile.
“I seemed to get a perfect signal in the House. As well as around trees, apparently.”
“Yeah. There are some benefits to going to places of worship,” Quack said impatiently, as if he were keen to move on to a different topic.
“So it’s religious places that get a good reception.”
“Yes. Now—”
“As a little reminder that you’re still there and that people are doing good.”
“Yep, but—”
“I can understand the House, but what is there that’s pious about a tree?”
“Well, Arthur—”
“In fact, why did you even tell me to come to this tree, anyway?”
“Arthur! Stop and think for a moment, will you? What can you tell me about oak trees?”
Arthur pondered for a short while, gazing into the lofty branches that tinted the watery skies emerald. “Um... they have acorns?” he suggested, plucking several of the brown parcels from the soft, green hands that offered them above his head.
“Acorns!” exclaimed Quack, causing Arthur’s serenity and peace to smoothly shatter; the shout unnerved him, and when he searched for the calm he had held a few seconds earlier, he found it melting rapidly away.
“Acorns?”
“Acorns,” Quack stated.
“What’s the significance of acorns?”
“Mighty oaks from little acorns grow.”
“Your grammar is muddled; what you mean to say is ‘Mighty oaks grow from little acorns’, which is, in itself, a rather stupid point to make.”
“You’re missing my true meaning. What I’m trying to tell you is that a small seed – which may be very detailed on the inside – appears rather simple. Do you understand?”
“Are acorns defined as seeds? I thought they were nuts.”
“Are they? I don’t know. The definitions must have changed since I made acorns.”
“No, I thought the seed was inside the nut. Oh, it doesn’t matter. Carry on with what you were saying about the layout of your amazing acorns.”
“Thank you. As I was saying, its intricate design means that it’s hiding its true potential. If it only opens up and nourishes itself in the world around it, this acorn may go on, in time, to become something much greater, much larger and more powerful. It will be a thing with the ability to rule the world around it, and hopefully give something back in return.”
“Is that a metaphor for me?”
“No.”
Arthur adjusted his neck to every extent he could, in an attempt to see the full tree surrounding him. “It doesn’t look that big.”
“That’s because you’re sitting down. Arthur, stand up, take a few steps back and have a better look at the tree.”
He did so. It was pretty big. “How high does an oak tree grow?” Arthur asked.
“Well that’s precisely the thing,” said Quack. “Trees are the closest we have to immortals.”
There was a long and thoughtful pause. “I thought prophets were immortal?” asked Arthur.
Quack went red. Being a blue Duck naturally (or unnaturally, depending on how one looks at it), he went a rather offensive shade of magenta.
“That’s not important,” Quack said. “Acorns are important. One acorn in particular (or maybe it should be an Acorn) will guide the world in times of trouble.”
“An Acorn?” Arthur asked in disbelief and puzzlement, wondering if divine beings could get drunk and, if so, how often.
“It’s not the Acorn itself that’s important, but what comes from it.”
“Knowledge?”
“Are you listening to me?” asked Quack. “Mighty oaks from little acorns grow. And, indeed, mighty Oaks from little Acorns grow also.”
“Are You listening to me: Your usage of the English language is atrocious.”
“That may it be,” Quack replied, causing Arthur to groan. “But it is vitally important that the Acorn is protected and planted by the right people so it may grow into a mighty Oak.”
“Who do You mean by ‘the right people’?” asked Arthur.
“Well,” said Quack, “I’ll make sure you’re
there.” Arthur smiled. “In at least one of your timelines. I also need to gather up a couple of prophets for the planting ritual and get some people to say a few words.”
“Sounds like a funeral.”
“I don’t know what kind of funerals you host, but to me it sounds more like a wedding.”
“Isn’t there usually more... what do you call it? Fun, I think it’s known as. Isn’t there usually some fun at a wedding?”
“Shut it, you.”
“Will any of this help the Acorn?” asked Arthur, returning to the original topic at hand and at feather.
“I don’t know,” said Quack. “If I round up the wisest possible people, one of them’ll be sure to point out if I’m doing anything wrong. I’m sure it will make for a great party, though.”
“If gardening is your idea of pleasure...”
“Of course it is. I’m a god, and I therefore acknowledge and appreciate the beauty of nature,” Quack said. Arthur looked skeptical. “That, and there’ll likely be lots of booze there.”
“You’re a god, so surely You can get as much free alcohol as You want, whenever You want?”
“I can, but drinking on your own is no fun. When I was younger,” Quack said, “I used to be such a social-climber. My friends didn’t find it quite so cool when They discovered I still lived at My parents’ house. Lady Whoosh told Me ‘I wasn’t doing the honourable thing’, of course,” Quack said mockingly.
“Holding house parties while Your family is away?” Arthur said disapprovingly. “Tut, tut.”
“You try living with god-parents until the age of thirty million Glix’n years.”
“Lady Whoosh is Your godmother? I thought You two were biologically related. Closely biologically related, I mean.”
“Sorry, I misspoke. I didn’t mean to say ‘godparents’; I meant ‘god-parents’.”
“I’m afraid I can’t notice a difference there.”
“You’ll learn to find one.”
“I’ll learn a good deal more if You stay on track. Teach me.”
“How dare you? I am on track... You wanted to know about celestial house parties, didn’t you?”
