Emperor of Gondwanaland

by Paul Di Filippo

  The stranger took a step down the path that led back to the village, and the majority of the transfixed tribesmen fell in obediently behind him. All, in fact, except the chief. The village leader stood fuming for a moment, his bearded face flushing clay-red, before bellowing out, “No! No go!”

  Everyone stopped. The headman bulled through his compatriots, coming right up to the stranger, brandishing his spear and thrusting his face nearly against the black hyperocular visage.

  “Who you to say? Who you? I boss here! Only me! I say time to hunt!”

  The stranger was unintimidated by the blustering man. “Well, friend, I’m glad you asked for my handle. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m the one and only Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man.”

  With these words, the stranger’s throbbing bad eye seemed to swell a little and even to swirl. The weaker of the villagers held their heads and tottered. To his credit, the chief was mostly unswayed.

  “I say you no good! I say you die!”

  Preparing to thrust, the chief was stymied by the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man’s raising the wheel like a shield. Into the wheel thunked the flint point, and the stranger’s eye flared like the sun on the sea, freezing the chief where he stood.

  “Chief, I think you need a little demonstration of this here wheel’s cosmic potency!”

  After easily dislodging the spear, with both hands the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man raised the wheel above the stunned chief so that it hung like a flat stone above the frozen leader. Then the stranger began to bring it down. When the wheel touched the chief’s head, a very strange thing happened. The man began to disappear, as if being consumed by the center hole.

  Within moments, the wheel lay flat on the ground. The remaining villagers stood hushed and stunned. As they watched, a tiny figure pulled itself out of the center hole. It was the chief, big as a mouse. The miniature leader capered and squeaked, waving a doll-proportioned bow. The mannikin shot a splinter-sized arrow at the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man, causing him to laugh heartily.

  Recovering his wheel, the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man turned away from the minuscule man. “Okay, friends, back home!”

  Bending slightly, the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man tossed his magic wheel before him. Seemingly of its own volition, like a live thing it rolled all the way back to the encampment, negotiating every twist and turn of the path.

  The women were startled to see the hunters returning so soon, without their chief and led by a stranger. Soon, however, every mother, wife, and sister, as well as all the children, were shyly clustered around the magnificent newcomer, who seemed to have earned the approval of their men.

  “Okay, ladies! Break out the food and drink. We are gonna have us a par-tay!”

  Within a short time, the entire village was on a festival footing. Meat crackled over fires, skin pouches of fermented fruit drink were circulating, and children were running and screaming delightedly in games of tag. After everyone had gorged themselves—the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man taking first honors—the promised lecture and demonstration began. Moving from the simplest applications of the marvelous new wheel to others that would not be realized for millennia, the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man decanted through the force of his speech and his mean ol’ pulsating eye all the pure knowledge of the innate masterful powers of human mind over brute matter that the villagers could handle. After many hours, his audience lay stupefied, their brains plainly stuffed with fecundly breeding ideas.

  At this point the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man held up the wheel and stuck a finger illustratively through its hole, waggling and poking it to make his meaning clear. His eel-like eye began to protrude and waggle also. The effect on the villagers was instant invigoration and concupiscence.

  “Time for a little sen-shoe-uhl fun, folks!”

  Dropping the wheel, scooping up seven of the prettiest women, four in one arm and three in the other, leaving the rest of the clan to shed their clothes and begin to rut in the dirt, the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man made a beeline toward the headman’s hut.

  “Damn! I am gonna hate to leave this place! But—duty calls!”

  2. 2000 b.c.

  The madam of the most exclusive whorehouse in Thebes came to the door of her establishment, summoned thence by an incoherent message passed down a chain of babbling servants who had made no sense at all.

  “The giant Ethiop—his eye—flames—the glare—a wheel that knows time—”

  Absolute blather, all of it. Probably some deformed beggar or soothsayer, even a harmless tradesman, dull of intellect, who had mistaken the customer’s entrance for the delivery door. What good were slaves if they couldn’t exercise a little intelligence? Perhaps she would have them all whipped.

  In her slippered feet, skirted and bare-breasted, braceleted and kohl-eyed, the madam padded past the erotic wall paintings and into the front antechamber, harsh words ready to spring from her lips.

  Framed in the doorway in an insouciant attitude was an alarming man who robbed the speech from her. Some kind of huge black barbarian, he wore an outré costume that escaped attention thanks only to the wrenching weirdness of his great goggling left eye, so vibrant it seemed an entity in its own right.

  “Shake that moneymaker, girl,” the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man called out upon spotting the madam. “Time is money, and money is time, and I’ve got plenty of both to share with you. If you’re interested, of course.”

  The madam understood a business proposition, however unconventionally phrased. “What could one of your uncouth mien and savage cast have to offer a citizen of mighty Thebes, fount of all wisdom and material goods?”

  “Just this little gizmo, sister.” From beneath his upper garment, the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man whipped out a queer device. A flat disc with numerals running around its edge, and in its middle a slanted flange of bronze.

  The madam snorted. “I prefer my sculpture to be representational. The least you could have done, considering my profession, is shape that pointer into a phallus.”

  Stepping inside, the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man seemed unabashed. “You don’t know what you’re looking at, girl. This handy gadget is gonna double and triple your profits. And my fee is nothing but chicken feed—nothing you haven’t given out before.”

  Here the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man winked, closing his normal eye. The effect of his lone monstrous orb shining fulsomely without counterbalance sent the madame staggering. Moving quickly, the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man steadied her, with big hands on waist and elbow.

  “Let’s go into the courtyard, honey, and I’ll show you the elephant. Oh, and let’s have us some drinks. This is one dusty burg.”

  Dazedly, the madam signaled to the servants to bring beer. Half leading, half led, she accompanied the stranger to the atrium. Sunlight poured in, falling onto a stone bench. There they sat, and the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man laid the odd device between them.

  “How long your customers take with the gals, honey? No hard data, just a guess about the average fuck duration. You can’t say? Of course you can’t say! You got no good way of marking the hours! You know that if you tried to enforce a limit without solid proof, you’d get into endless hassles with the johns. ‘Shit, I only been here half an hour, whose ass you trying to burn!’ Am I right, or am I right?”

  The madam could only sip at her beer and mutely nod. The enormous eye had her in its thrall.

  “Well, that’s no way to maximize your merchandise, honey. Your fillies could probably pull twice as many tricks as they do. They’re slackin’ and your purse is hurtin’. But you can thank your natal stars, I’m here to introduce some pure efficiency into this operation.”

  The beer lubricated the madam’s tongue somewhat. “Huh—how?”

  “With this here sundial. Just watch this magic baby for a few minutes.”

  The madam gazed upon the instrument. The projection caused a slim shadow to fall upon the face where the numbers were. As the sun moved across the sky, so did the shadow, tracing out the hours.

  Fascinated, the madam sa
id, “Very intriguing. But what of my busy nighted hours?”

  Winking briefly, the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man said, “Can’t put one over on you.” He pulled another device from his clothes: a thing of bowls and floats and a measured bar. “I call this one a clepsydra. You’re gonna love it.”

  Calculations roiled in the madam’s had. If what this odd fellow promised was true, then she would soon be the richest woman in Thebes. “And your price?”

  “Can’t even rightly call it a fee,” said the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man.

  The madam suddenly noticed that somehow her skirt had disappeared. Overhead, the always present yet generally unseen maculations on the sun seemed to float and coalesce in the solar center, turning the celestial orb into a giant eye. The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man was pressed up against her now, his breath hot in her ear.

  “You see, honey chile, I’m just interested in a little widespread dissemination.”

  3. a.d. 1150

  The captain of the Spanish caravel stood on the bridge, which was shrouded in fog as thick as wool on a sheep’s back. He knew the Canaries were out there somewhere. But navigation had become impossible in this witch’s broth.

  Looking hopefully over the rail for signs of floating vegetal wrack that might hint at the nearness of land, the captain was startled to see a pale swath of luminescence far below the sea’s surface. As he watched, transfixed, the glowing area grew larger and better defined. Soon its nature was plain: a cyclopean eye the size of a kitchen garden. Bulking around and beyond the eye was the creature it belonged to, some kind of kraken or enormous grampus.

  The captain began to pray, aloud and with fervency. He was certain his ship was about to be swamped, that he and his crew were downward bound, their new home the hoary nighted seabed that had claimed so many in the past.

  But to the captain’s immense surprise and tentative relief, the underwater monster stopped while still some distance beneath the surface. Movement below seemed to indicate the presence and action of a gigantic tentacle. Then the actual limb broke the surface, swept through the air, and deposited something wetly on the deck. Within seconds the kraken was gone.

  Hesitantly, the captain advanced toward the object left on his ship. It appeared to be the clothed corpse of a blackamoor. With trepidation, the captain poked the sodden corpse with a finger.

  “Boo!”

  The captain shrieked as if the gates of hell had opened in his face, and he fell back. When his mind resumed functioning, he saw that the blackamoor, now standing, was alive and laughing. His only hurt—echoing the monster which had delivered him—seemed to be that his vein-threaded, fluid-packed left eye bulged like a hanged man’s.

  When his guffaws ceased, the stranger said, “Sorry, man, I just couldn’t resist!”

  The captain’s cry and the blackamoor’s laughter had brought sailors armed with belaying pins and swords. Now the captain’s fear turned abruptly to rage. “Seize this caitiff jester! We’ll see if he laughs so heartily after being clapped in irons and given a sound drubbing!”

  The sailors began cautiously to move forward. The stranger appeared untroubled, merely raising a hand of caution.

  “Now hold on, boys, you don’t want to come across the wrong side of the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man, do you?”

  The men halted. The name stirred vague ancestral memories, evoked fireside whispers and the obscure tales told by gimlet-eyed grannies.

  “Besides, I’m here to offer you and Cappy the neatest piece of maritime science since the invention of the astrolabe. We call it the compass.”

  From nowhere the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man whipped out a shallow bowl with markings around the lip. Held out for their inspection, the bowl proved to contain only water and a cork with a needle laid in a groove. One end of the needle was painted red.

  The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man strode briskly up to the captain. “Which way you figure is north, Sinbad?”

  The captain paused thoughtfully, then pointed in a certain direction. The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man made an offensive buzzing noise, then exclaimed, “Wrong! Look how we align the magic north-loving needle, like so—” The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man rotated the bowl so that the floating needle lined up with the marking on the bowl’s rim representing north. The Captain regarded the bowl thoughtfully before speaking.

  “This is always accurate?”

  “Always. Lessen you go near certain geomantic bad spots—but they’re rarer than feet on a snake. Plus, this gadget’s so easy to make. The magic’s contagious to regular iron, by the way—all’s you need is a source of lodestone for the needles. And it just so happens I got this here handy map of lodestone deposits.”

  Narrowing his eyes, the captain said, “What do you ask for this miraculous device and information?”

  “Not one red cent, cuz. Only that you use my little gift to haul your Euro-asses around the whole globe. Go forth and multiply. Sub-ju-gate and dom-in-nate, that’s all I’m asking. Just what your nature is set up for anyhow. You see, for what I got in mind, I gotta build me up a critical mass of tech-no-logical civ-i-lie-zay-shun!”

  The captain stuck out his hand. “Done!”

  Instead of shaking in the normal fashion, the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man slapped palms. “Now you’re talking! This calls for a little celebration!”

  Putting fingers between his lips, the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man emitted a piercing whistle. Instantly, the sounds of many medium-sized creatures breaking the water were heard. Everyone rushed to the ship’s rails. In the sea floated dozens of beauteous mermaids, their naked bosoms exposed as they rode high on their tails.

  “Get your nets, boys!” called the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man. “It ain’t every day you make a catch like this’un!”

  4. a.d. 1878

  Illuminated by a crazily flickering, sharp-nippled prototype of his as-yet unperfected “electric light,” Thomas Alva Edison lay on his workbench, napping. It was midnight on Easter Sunday, and his lab was empty of coworkers. Only the dedicated Great Man remained behind, ever diligent, ready after this short restorative to resume his inspired creation. All was quiet and peaceful, until the door to the lab was violendy hurled open.

  In strode the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man, all dancing flash and prancing sass.

  “Wake up, T.A.! Time’s a-wastin’! We’re almost there! End of the millennium’s right around the corner, but there’s still a shitload of work to be done! Chop-chop!”

  Edison came awake quickly. He swung his legs around to dangle off the bench and sat up. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man don’t want nothing, Eddie. He causes to be! Now, rumor has it you’re looking to perfect a device for the recording of sound. ’Zat true?”

  “Yes, that is one of the many projects I am working on. What is it to you?”

  “I really need you to finish this one quick, Eddie. Move it up to the top of the queue. Lotta important voices and music we gotta get down on wax. It’s all crucial to the plan. Now, I got a few mechanical suggestions involving cylinders and disks and such—”

  Edison levered himself off the counter. “Forget it. I don’t take advice or outside help—mercenary pressure least of all. Being steered removes all my intellectual pleasure. If you’re any kind of inventor yourself, you should understand that.”

  The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man cupped his chin with one hand and his elbow with the other. His outsized eye throbbed as if in anticipation of being put to work, then subsided. “Hmmm, you got a point, T.A. I could coerce you, of course—bathe you in the slosh of my optojism—but that might skew the results of your undisturbed creativity somehow, throw all my schemes off. Let me see now—is there any bribe I could offer you to accelerate the phonograph work?”

  Edison waved a hand dismissively. “I am confident that my patents will soon bring me all the wealth and power I could use. What else is there?”

  “Well, Eddie, I’m talking about your Faustian dee-lights, stuff no amount of regular worldly influence c
ould ever get you. Interviews with ghosts, assignations with famous women—”

  Now it was Edison’s turn to ruminate. “Women, you say?”

  “You name the babe, and she’s yours.”

  “Now that my mind moves in that direction, well, I—”

  “Spit it out, son. Don’t be shy. We’re all bull moose here.”

  Edison took the plunge. “I have always wished to witness Madame Blavatsky engaged in a catfight with Jenny Lind, culminating in Sapphic sex.”

  “Is that all? I thought you were gonna give me a challenge.” The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man snapped his thick fingers, and the two denominated women appeared, blinking and confused. “In this corner, wearing red knickers and a whalebone corset, the Swedish Nightingale. And her opponent, the lama-robed author of Isis Unveiled. Okay, girls, show us what you got.”

  Instantly the women dashed at each other and began tussling. Clothes were rent, and hair pulled. The women tumbled to the floor and rolled back and forth in violent struggle. A stool went down with a crash, followed by a rack of test-tubes jostied off a bench.

  Fascinated, Edison resumed his seat. The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man joined him. Reaching beneath his jacket, the monocularly magnanimous mojo man took out a large paper tub.

  “Popcorn, Eddie?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  5. The Present

  You sit behind the wheel of your speeding car, which is encapsulated as if in a featureless golden cloud.