by Scott Taylor
‘Excuse me?’ the prince said, unable to follow.
The ambassador had forgotten for only a moment that Mundor was a place of magic, not science. This sudden lapse of memory caused him to laugh inwardly at himself. Quickly the ambassador removed a strange cube-like object from his coat pocket. It was small and metallic. It had a curious sheen to it also. It was like burnished obsidian.
‘It is a holographic projection cube’ he stated, showing the outlandish item to his host.
The prince looked at the article in the other’s hand, regarding it like a child that had never seen a piece of tech before.
‘A hollo what?’ he blurted out, unable to grasp the technical side of it.
The ambassador beamed as he activated the tiny device. On his world this gadget, “the cube”, as it was called, was as popular and as widely used as the mobile phone, or the iPod. People utilised it to take 3D movies and such, and could recreate moments, the sounds, even smells, and sensations merely with the press of a button.
‘You may want to close your eyes for a second’ the ambassador warned.
Fabian was reluctant at first.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Because this cube emits a bright light which might be disorientating if you look. Now close your eyes.’
Not certain if this was some frivolous deception or hoax, Fabian was still reluctant to play along. Then he noted the miniature metal circle on top of the cube. It was like a key on a music box rotating fast at first, counter clockwise, and then slowing, visibly winding down. And in spite of Fabian's absence of insight into such matters, he began to recognise a level of discretion. He closed his eyes as he was told.
As the ambassador had warned, the holographic cube emitted a blinding light that bathed the space around them, fusing darkness with a strange and palpable luminosity, a glow that began to take a different shape, becoming something solid, or at least giving the appearance of solidity.
‘You may open them now’ requested the ambassador.
The moment Fabian opened his eyes he was astonished to glimpse that his surroundings had altered dramatically. The arboretum was no longer in sight. The trees, the flowers, and the bushes, all with their strange and alluring topiary, had been replaced by rooms, dark rooms, with windows, and art, and strange architecture.
‘Where are we?’
Fabian was understandably unsettled.
‘We are still in the arboretum’ the ambassador assured him.
This did not assuage any of Fabian's fears or make him any less startled at this noticeable marvel.
‘It is an enchantment!’ he cried ‘This holo-whatever you call it is witchcraft! I demand you take me back to the grounds immediately!’
The ambassador thought his host’s ingenuousness somewhat humorous, though had the good decency not to show it.
‘Please, do not be afraid. This is no witchcraft, and it is definitely not magic. It is merely an illusion, and you are clearly not in any danger. This place’ he continued, casting his eyes along the long and lonely corridor ‘is where I grew up.’
Fabian was visibly in awed at the sight of this strange, alien environment. It looked so clean and clinical, and uniform, a sight so far removed from the environs he had always known.
‘Then if this is not magic, then what is it?’ the prince asked.
‘It would take far too long to explain.’
Fabian felt that the ambassador was indeed making sport of him. He cast Tør a look that implied that he was not in the least bit impressed.
‘Are you telling me that it’s beyond my comprehension?’
‘For now, yes’ Tør answered, ‘though I do not share these marvels with you merely to show off. I did so because I sensed that you were an adventurous spirit. Perhaps you were in need of a revelation. You see, the Sinistrom want nothing more than to share what we know, to contribute, and to conquer, not with weapons, or with words, but with ideas, and sensations.
‘On my world-this world you see around you-my father was a member of a movement that had no name. He and many others of our kind believed in a future world, a fair and sustainable world, a society based on wisdom rather than greed, injustice and negativity. We were not yet gods, and we were not yet fully aware of the sheer scope of our deeds and actions. We had spawned the most prevalent social interest group in human history. Though we did not realise the outcome of our goals, we strived nonetheless in changing human perceptions and making a better world for everyone. There had been many revolutions on our world, some had inevitably taken mankind in the wrong direction. And we, that is my forbears, had decided to put the course of human history back on the right track. But we could not save our world which had spun completely out of control. We, the last remaining of our world, now fade into the textbooks of history. You may look at us and think that we’re gods, or devils, or powerful subjugators…But we are truly none of these things. Look at me. I am simply flesh and blood—like you. And like you we just want to coexist, to learn, and to teach. Trust me, Fabian; all I want is to share these memories with you now. These thoughts and feelings I have are meant to be shared. When you get to know us better you will find out that the Sinistrom only want to extend the knowledge, knowledge we can both teach each other.
‘When I first saw you I noticed at once that you were inquisitive, full of a fire that seeks answers.’
The prince felt his guard slowly weaken. He was starting to listen as impressionable minds often did.
‘I came from this very world. This was my home’ the ambassador went on to explain. ‘Beautiful though it was, and full of marvels, it was also troubled. People, children lived in abject poverty, starving without precious food and water to sustain them, while fat cats high in their glass towers stole money from the hard working people. It was a world where immigrants fled the tyranny of their home lands only to be met with hate and prejudice, and where the media controlled the thought processes and attitudes of billions of people, people so blind and so fatuous to believe they had the ability to think their own thoughts…’
Fabian looked like a child in a huge candy store. He gazed up at the ceiling. Even the tiny fire sprinklers and the long florescent lights were like wonders to him. He had never seen such modern marvels.
‘You said you used to live here. I still don’t get what you mean by this. What exactly is “here”? This, whatever it is, is a world that did not exist until you activated that strange cube object. It makes no sense.’
The ambassador started to rack his brains for some kind of example or the closest, basic analogy to illustrate what was unquestionably a failure to perceive a concept.
‘Think of this as a tapestry’ he said finally. ‘Like a tapestry woven by someone wishing to capture a moment in history—like a great battle! This you see all around you is nothing more than a refined tapestry that was woven to tell a story. Its many threads tell of a saga that once occurred on my own world a long, long time ago. I lived here, that is to say, I lived in a place that looked like this, in rooms just like these very rooms you see before you. But make no mistake, this you perceive is but a facsimile, a reproduction…a copy.’
‘I think I see’ Fabian admitted a little hesitantly.
‘This is the best way I can explain it to you. Some tapestries live on even after the original field of battle which they portrayed no longer exists. The same could be said for my home. This tapestry if you will is the only living proof that my home existed. It lives on in the memory of my people and in this recording device.’
‘You keep speaking of your world in the past tense, does your home no longer exist?’
‘You are quite correct’ answered the ambassador. ‘My home was destroyed. It was destroyed, oh, a long time ago.’
‘What destroyed it?’ asked the prince.
‘Our mindset. Our attitude destroyed it. It was what I was trying to explain to you a moment ago. We fed the fires that ignited our world’s eventual annihilation, and we did so out of our o
wn mistrust, greed, anarchy, and neglect. It was a world that simply fell to economic disparity under the weight of political ignorance, and it was a world where prejudice and hatred was fuelled by the media, the same media where any average citizen could air their views and opinions without any truth or wisdom, or research to back up their communications and claims. Social lies went viral like pathogens running amok. But this was only part of the problem. If you really want to know the truth, the history books would probably explain things better. But then which viewpoint, which angle, and who would offer the broadest, most legitimate picture…the Marxist perhaps, or maybe the anarchist, the casual philosopher of human follies, who can say?
‘Come on’ he gestured as he began to move away. ‘I have something else to show you.’
Fabian followed. Or rather, he was finding it difficult to follow, but he was eager to learn more of the intricacies of Tør’s world. He wanted to hear everything, know everything. He was being what he always dreamed of being. At last he was an explorer discovering many wondrous facets of other places. It was safe to say he was hooked, and the ambassador, despite his youth, understood a lot about life, and was surprisingly intelligent and well cultured for a man of his years.
‘There’ Tør said, pointing, ‘across the hallway there…you will discover another lesson in life, and perhaps the most pernicious lesson of all: regret.’
The ambassador pushed open another door. Here was a room, small and empty, dim and gloomy. The only piece of furniture was an old wooden rocking chair with a small woven blanket draped over the seat, and an old TV that stood next to a divider where a thin slither of wallpaper had come away, and continued to hang there loosely. Cobwebs dangled suspended from the ceiling like wisps of paper and moved lazily as the door emitted a draft as the two entered.
‘My grandfather’s room’ Tør explained rather solemnly.
‘Your grandfather lived here, in this great big building?’
‘No. My grandfather died in a shabby tenement somewhere outside this city.’
Instantly, an elderly man appeared in the chair, materializing as a ghost, an apparition of a man whom had long remained dead. The facsimile rocked in that chair and coughed and spluttered like a man who was clearly not long for this world.
The ambassador brazenly entered the room. The holographic ghost in the chair didn’t seem to notice the two intruders.
‘Damn liars!’ they both heard the old man curse.
‘Fools…liars!’
A woman in her mid thirties with short mousy hair and a look of calm authority appeared as if suddenly conjured into existence, and spoke to him.
‘You whinging again?’
The two young men almost jumped up in surprise as the woman barged passed them. Fabian placed his hand over his heart swearing blind that if anymore of these ghosts appeared his heart would probably stop.
The woman indicated to the old man to bend forwards so that she could place a fresh pillow behind his head. The old man rasped and coughed again. The television next to the wall broadcasted some political debate.
‘Yes, of course I’m whinging!’ the old man snapped.
‘You’re always whinging’ she smiled in that annoying, superior fashion which he hated and distrusted above all else.
‘And what is wrong with that?’ he asked. ‘If people didn’t whinge all the time nothing would ever get righted in this world, because lazy people like you would just go blithely by and just let things carry on unchallenged. I mean, just listen to this idiot.’
He turned the volume up on the television.
‘Listen to him. What a moron! Idiot apologist!!! He has no idea! So out of touch! And that’s what’s wrong with this country today—no intelligence, no back bone!’
The old man pounded his walking stick on the floor.
‘Now now, Mr. Vallor’ the woman who was obviously the man’s carer began to wag her finger at her client. ‘I won’t hear any more of it!’
‘Just look at this monstrosity!’ he coughed, picking up the remote control and aiming it at the television. ‘Two-hundred channels and nothing but talent shows and reality television!’
He pressed the button again. There was a tabloid talk show hosting a morbidly overweight woman with short cropped black hair. She was a sneering creature with jowls, stencilled-in eyebrows and sporting more cosmetic makeup than ASOS and AVON put together. With her accent she appeared to be an Essex girl. Apparently her argument was listened to by some well known presenter who was obviously acting as both chat show host and referee to the many unsavoury types, and like most she was trying to air her dirty washing before an audience of jeering ghouls.
‘What is she saying?’ the old man began to rant as he watched the jamboree unfold on the screen. ‘It’s all text speak! She has such a miniscule diction. And the language she uses! I mean, seriously! She’s an imbecile! And people enjoy watching this inane twaddle, really? It’s monstrous! Monstrous I tell you!’
The carer placed a cup of water in front of the elderly man, opening the palm of her hand to reveal two tiny round blue pills.
‘Swallow!’ she ordered.
‘Oh, switch it off!’ he shouted, stabbing at the remote’s buttons.
He looked up at the carer with an expression of true indignation and proclaimed,
‘The world’s gone mad! Seriously, this country and its entire population is sleepwalking to its own ruin! And I have to conform to this? Well, of course I do. It’s the only sane thing to prove one’s sanity by conforming. Well, fine! So be it! I’ll take my medication!’
The old man snatched the glass and the two pills from the woman’s hands and took his medicine.
‘Nobody listens anyway! Burn the books! Burn Rabelais! Destroy Byron! Kill off Victor Hugo and that young rascal Rimbaud! Nobody wants to read the truth anymore! Not when lies are more palatable, and less of a bother! We’ll go merrily on our way. The blind will lead the blind. I tell you, it’s not money this country needs right now. Its common sense! It’s a dose of indignation. A bloody backbone!!!’
Fabian looked at Tør, and then glanced back at the old man and his good lady ward. He asked if the two ghosts were actually aware of their apparent presence. Tør answered that it wasn’t possible at all, and reminded his host that the two other people were merely holographic recordings, ghosts, and not actually real. They were not real therefore they were not aware of either Fabian’s or Tør’s existence.
‘Holograms?’ asked the prince, only grasping a microscopic amount of information which Tør was imparting.
‘Holograms’ the ambassador confirmed with an acknowledging smile.
‘He’s a bit of a crabby old devil, isn’t he?’ Fabian acknowledged.
Tør smiled, recognising the humour in Fabian’s innocence and timing.
‘That was his dementia’ he explained. ‘He wasn’t always this abusive, or narrow minded. I remember my father telling me that his father was happy and very sincere, and was loved and adored by most everyone. My Grandfather was a brilliant visual artist. His paintings were probably the most unique I had ever seen. Though that was before his illness set in. Of cause, he always suffered a series of mental illnesses throughout his life, struggling with thoughts, with living, as well as his failing physical health. He ended with arthritis in his hands, which I believe more than anything brought on his dysphoria. Once his faith would have derived solely from art and creativity…when he lost his abilities to enjoy these things he simply turned into the man you see now. Almost having grappled with emotions all his adult life he simply didn’t have the capacity to cope. I think he was unhappy because he felt invisible, and for most of his life sensed that he wasn’t allowed the chance to contribute in a way that was beneficial to him. He died a confused and divested old man.’
How sad, Fabian thought to himself.
Tør carried on speaking: ‘was he right in his opinions? Could one accuse him of being egotistical? Perhaps, but he helped my father see not only
the waste and profligacy of our modern times, but, more importantly, he made him discover that beauty was something that mankind had overlooked. The individual nature and purpose of man is to live, and to live one must be cheerfully aware of the present. To right the current wrongs in our world seemed pointless to my father, a waste of effort. He realised this upon the day of my grandfather’s death.
‘That is not to say he did not try to awaken his generation with ideas. To change the present world, that is to say, to try and improve on it, my father realised was a pointless gesture. What my father tried to do and what he believed in wholeheartedly was the simple act of kindness, nothing more, kindness towards his fellow man, by the act of reawakening in them motivation, to see the world for what it truly was, not what it had become. I said earlier that he became part of a nameless movement, a movement that believed in opening the floodgates of human capacity. My father realised that our full potentials, our imaginations were probably the most underdeveloped. Backed with some capital, my father started a non-profit organisation which he called the Mythkey Initiative, to create a haven for those with great vision and abilities, offering them a home, a sanctuary if you will where they received the freedom and funds to create and be inspired. It was his legacy to so many. My family were rich beyond measure, and he used his vast fortune to help others finally unlock their buried potentials, knowing full well that society did not give a shit enough to unlock it. ’
‘So what did your father gain from this act of altruism?’
‘Nothing, nothing other than peace of mind and the acceptance, the understanding that man’s greatest purpose on earth is to offer kindness to others. He gave the artist a sanctuary, as well as free time and purpose, and in the end they rewarded him with works, fine works that even to this day remain in his vast collection.’
Finally, the old man, this hologram that had remained unaware in his modest little coffin, sat back in his chair. His hard features were beginning to soften, though his eyes told a poignant story. He glanced over to the window, the same window that every now and then revealed a tiny smile, and a vigorous little wave. The absence of a child, a grandchild, pained and tormented the old man.
