by Ben Galley
Oh, go on.
Go on.
You know you want to.
Go on—
Excellent! Let me look— closer, bring it closer, how am I supposed to read that from all the way over here? Closer, closer— no? Hmm. Perhaps you are more clever than appearances suggest. Just the first page, then. Ah, go on, just slide it over so I can read it … use that pole, there— no, the one with the hoop at the e— yes! Good, good! A little further, these chains will only stretch so far—
Aha! My sincere gratitude! Worthy creature, I am most pleased that you are here to accede to my humble wishes during these, my final moments. And now, honoured scribe, pray be patient while I peruse the results of our joint labour.
Hmm.
Ah …
This is— Yes. Well.
I trust you will remove the reprehensible inaccuracies and digressions, yes? Just so we are clear: when I instructed you to dictate my every word, I did not mean for you to dictate my every word. And the translation errors are even worse— What is this? WHAT is this? ‘Bane of lizards’? It’s wizards, man! WIZARDS! And where are the capital letters? You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Hmm? You’re lucky I can’t reach you over there, or I’d already have ripped out your—
Hmph. Fine, fine; your apology seems sincere, if a little overblown. However, such grovelling typically incites me to impatience, so I suggest you cease.
Yes. Immediately.
Better. Now, I have been thinking: limited as my final moments may be, I suggest we find the time to locate an artist to render these pages in a more aesthetically pleasing medium. I would so like to see my last words engraved in marble. Or any kind of stone, really.
But I digress. I mentioned the study of graphology - how one’s handwriting can reveal the secrets of one’s true character? Yes, well. I am obliged to inform you that, upon studying the erratic strokes of your incompetently disjointed cursive, I am forced to conclude that you are in fact a four-year-old child with a reduced mental capacity … and possible grasshopper ancestry.
No? Then you are… what? A simpleton? A sloth? A layabout who never learnt to take pride in his own creations? Hmm? What say you, sir?
Oh. A poet. What fun.
I once heard a wise man say the poem is a medium invented by musicians with no talent. I myself despise the form: the flowery words, the frilly verse, pedantic meter and awkward prose that none outside of play and poem ever use. I mean, who speaks like that? Playwrights, poets, actors, bards - useless, one and all. Throughout the years they rear their heads; like fungi, they just won’t stay dead! And still the world continues to encourage them — revere them, even! — and place them on a pedestal, and rave about their ‘literary flair’. Such pervasive fascination is unhealthy and bizarre. Any man with axe to grind may vomit words on paper and then bury them with gems and feathers, their fancy ‘literary flair’ a thin facade for what amounts to - mostly - bollocks.
I am a firm believer that if there’s something that you wish to say then you should bloody well just say it.
On that note… where was I?
Ah, yes. You. A poet. Now I comprehend the purpose in your being here this day. You are instructed to compose a poem, yes? An epic worthy of posterity? A eulogy, to mourn yet celebrate the fall of my almighty—
— What? Is that the door? Scribe? Who comes? Answer me!
Ah, never mind. I see him now.
Ahem.
Who dares enter my domain? Speak, frail mortal! Speak, and cower before the might of— Pardon? Oh! I’d love one, thank you — much obliged—
— mfmfffghhhgg —
— My, my, what a taste sensation! What d’you call these little chocolate-and-orange treasures? Hmm? Say again? Jaffa cakes? Jaffa … cakes? I fear I must admit to some perplexity. These tiny treats are clearly biscuits, not cakes! You humans … your illogical decisions ever baffle those of us from higher planes of existence.
Nay, do not be insulted, Bringer of Jaffa Cakes. That I am both physically and morally superior to humans is self-evident. Thus, it is the most natural thing in the world that my tone should carry a modicum of condescension when conversing with your kind.
Oh, come now. Do not take it personally, little man! I merely— Oh. Am I to infer that you object to this form of address? Very well … wait, who are you, again?
Oh, of course! The interrogator! Sir, I fear I have been remiss in offering you the appropriate formal courtesies due one of your esteemed position. Master Interrogator— Boggin, you say? (See, Scribe? This one tells me his name! Won’t you now tell me yours?— No?— Pfft!) Apologies, Boggin, I was— Oh, that’s the last name? And the first is—? Ah, um, excellent.
Ahem.
Please allow me to introduce myself: Master Interrogator Joff Boggin, you have the honour of addressing Diabolos Kane, Elder and Most Senior Firelord, bane of wizards — that’s wizards, scribe! WIZARDS! - master of fire and saviour of earth, greatest—
— hmm?
Obsolete?
Know this: I have spent a million lifetimes patiently listening to the earth’s heartbeat and the sun’s fury, the ocean’s rhythmic boredom and the moon’s silent grief. Of course I notice when a stunted fellow such as yourself stands before me and offers such vile insult, no matter how quietly he mutters it. Obsolete, you said? How dare you? My kind were the first—
Well, yes. Well, no, of course we disappeared! ‘Off the map’, as your kind might say. ‘Here be dragons’, and all that.
Why, you ask? Why? Joff, have you ever spent half an eternity without rest, instigating Big Bangs during every spare moment and then attempting to manage the logistics of matching a million different embryonic species with a thousand potentially compatible planets?
No?
I didn’t think so.
‘Why’, you asked? In order to aestivate, of course!
Yes. Aestivate.
It means ‘sleep’. Sleep, sir, sleep!
Your facial expression implies a certain degree of scepticism. And though I am familiar with this world’s conviction that my kind are no more blood and bone than unicorns, or manticores, or duck-billed platypuses, I’m curious: is it wilful ignorance or simply stupidity that allows you to accept the existence of long-dead dinosaurs yet reject the living, breathing truth of the draconian Reclamation? Your confused silence and gaping mouth suggest the latter.
Yes. Yes, you have offended me. So kind of you to notice. ‘tis a shame you are too late to rectify your mistake. It is too late for all of you.
No, Joff Boggin, keep your Jaffa Cakes. I want none of your false courtesy. I am done with you and yours. Your kind are as treacherous as your deceitful delicacies: agreeable and full of promise on the outside, yet break the surface and reveal the jelly-orange layer of sweet lies, choke on the surprisingly dry and firm base of what at first glance app—
Joff - I may call you Joff, yes? - I am quite sure I just witnessed you roll your eyes skywards. Or should I say ceilingwards? Either way, if I am not mistaken - and I’ll level with you, I am NEVER mistaken - this is a commonly used signal among your species to indicate that one is either bored, annoyed, or disbelieving. Which is it, Joff? Choose carefully.
Are you bored? Annoyed? Or disbelieving?
Oh dear. Kind scribe, our mutual friend Joff appears to have been struck dumb. Worse, I fear he is much perplexed, perhaps to the point of illness. You see how his eyes bulge? You see the splotched complexion, the sweat gathering upon the ever-creased brow?
He always looks like that, you say? In truth?
Heh.
Nay, Master Interrogator, do not throw glares at my little scribe. He speaks the truth, exactly as he sees it. That you are quite the ugliest example of humankind I have ever laid eyes on is no fault of his.
Oh, now you stare daggers at me? At ME? Puny Asker of Questions, shall I
tell you something I observed only a short time ago?
Tut, tut. The question was rhetorical. I will tell you anyway.
I observed that you once again muttered something as I spoke. Irrelevant, I believe it was. After your earlier use of the word obsolete in reference to myself and my brethren - a transgression we will return to in due course - I find it especially perplexing that you would try my patience with further insult. And I am far, far from amused by such egregious treatment of my esteemed self. Honestly, one would almost think I was being held for trial!
Cease your stammering, O mighty inquisitor. ‘twas a joke. You’ve heard of those, yes? Scribe has; scribe is laughing. Why are you not laughing, Joff?
Sigh.
What? Do not look at me so strangely. I said it out loud for Scribe’s benefit. Don’t you know how hard it is to accurately transcribe the sound of a sigh, particularly from lungs such as mine? Scribe does. I like Scribe; I am trying to make his job easier. And because I am fair, I will make yours easier, too. Ask me your questions, and I will answer.
Hmm … alas, I cannot answer that. Ask me another.
Heh. No, no, I am not at liberty to say. Another!
Sigh.
My dear Joff, are you quite sure you are in charge of interrogation and not, say, irrigation? Your leaders have not sent the wrong man down here?
No? You’re sure?
Well. I must admit to some distress at your apparent dearth of imagination. Of all the things you could have asked, you chose to focus on the here and now? Why not enquire about my role in your world’s storied history? Why not … ah. I am reminded of your earlier words — ‘irrelevant’ and ‘obsolete’ — and know now that this attitude is endemic throughout the land; something I suspected, but had hoped to be untrue. Alas.
Weary? Yes, Scribe. I am weary. I slept beneath the earth for years untold. And while I slept, I dreamed: of pain and death, of justice failed, of sadness spread by those who know no other way to live.
And now I wake, and find that no one cares about the past— or, indeed, the future. No, your only care is for yourselves, today—
See, Joff? You are offended, though I speak naught but the truth! Another fine example of how far your species has fallen.
Hmm? What’s that you say, Scribe? Speak up!
Heheh. Heh!
There you go, misguided Joff: you heard him, yes? ‘Tell me.’ With those two words, our Scribe has proved himself a better interlocutor than the so-called ‘Master’. To you, I say ‘learn from him’. To him, I say: ‘gladly’.
Gladly.
Oh, but I have dwelt so long on my bathetic tale that I am unsure where to start … Should I aim for literary flair? Or … perhaps a song? No, no, I’ll not descend to poetry, or anything resembling that other foul medium.
A non-linear history, perhaps? Start at the end, and then work my way backwards through events—
No, you’re right, that would be ridiculous. I shall begin at the beginning.
Ahem.
In the beginning, dragons created the heavens and the earth. And—
Heh. Heh! You should see the look on your face. Look at him, Scribe! Look! Ahaha, this is almost - almost - worth awakening for.
You think I jest? Wait ‘til you hear the rest …
First we said, ‘Let there be light!’ And then we spent a billion years arranging elements, manipulating molecules and arguing amongst ourselves before eventually inciting nuclear fusion to create the ball of red-hot plasma your kind call ‘the Sun’. Don’t look so incredulous: is not the sun too hot and bright for you to even look directly upon? Who else but a dragon could so expertly manufacture such a thing?
What next? Ah, yes! We engaged in games of riddles to determine who would claim each planet, and then raced to make ready for our chosen species. The odds were against me that day, and I was bested by all but one of my brethren. Poor old Igniatos was left with Uranus (oh, how I sniggered when Bode first suggested the name!), while I became Keeper of the Drowned World (a dubious title if ever I heard one).
Though I had been dealt a most unhappy cast of fortune’s bones – this world being far from ideal for my largely land-dwelling creations – I refused to be daunted. While my eager kin charged ahead, I waited patiently for the floating sediments to settle and cool before sculpting them into a habitable landmass. I note that the original geography has changed significantly in the years I have slept, for which I apologise: I have ever been a restless sleeper. No, that was not a joke. Keep up, Joff.
It was a while before this world was ready for you humans, but eventually— Hmm? Dino— Oh, them. They were concocted ages before: abominations, created in our own image, pale mockeries of our glorious physical forms. (One of Blue Snorran’s creations, I believe. He always was a bit mad.)
Of course, things were simpler back then. The Lizard Kings — ‘dinosaurs’, as you call them — were just one species among thousands, all oversized creatures, all born of a highly primitive level of experimentation. We were drunk with possibility, drunk with our own omnipotence, and like all new to power we believed that bigger was better. When we inevitably came to realise the value of pursuing intelligence over strength, moral perfection over physical superiority, survival of the cleverest over the fittest … oh, then were we rather embarrassed by our first creations.
We wiped them out, started again. I myself did dedicate millennia to the task of manipulating the chemical composition of this world’s atmosphere until finally it supported selected strains of hominids. An impressive feat, though I say so myself. Wouldn’t you agree?
‘Preposterous’, you say? Why would you s—
What? Oh, for f— Why this fascination with the Lizard Kings, Joff? They were not extinguished by some random chance, but by my will. The game— ahem, the experiment could hardly have succeeded while the only compatible planet was infested with beastly lizards. No, they had to be exterminated. And I took care of it.
Heh. Heh! Scribe, it seems I must apologise for my earlier reprimand: I am the Bane of Lizards, after all! Heh.
Look, Scribe: Joff doesn’t get it. See how he hates to be left out of our private jokes? See how he is desperate to know why we snigger? Don’t tell him, Scribe. Don’t tell him!
Heh—Joff! Joff, give Scribe your handkerchief. His nose is bleeding, likely from hilarity. Better, Scribe? Yes? Good.
What was I saying? Ah. Lizard Kings, hominids, etcetera … yes, the past must make way for the future, yet must never be forgotten.
Each unique event may seem to you no more significant than the tiniest speck of rock weathered from the great cliff of history. And yet, just like the microscopic sediments crushed into stone beneath the ocean’s depths, they will eventually rise to the surface as mighty cliffs, no matter how deeply or forcibly they were buried.
Yet still your kind attempt to forget the past, choosing instead to re-write that fickle slate you call ‘history’. You start anew each day, believing that to bury uncomfortable memories is to erase them from existence: ‘out of sight, out of mind’, you might say. Alas, soon you will see otherwise.
But the blame cannot be placed entirely at your feet; no, I am aware that you have been deceived, and by none other than that foulest of beings.
Abelas! Adonai! Hated brother (curse his many names!), usurping each and every one of my creations in his greed and envy! And – ‘lo and behold! – no sooner had I reached the pinnacle of my life’s work than He arrived to snatch it from my grasp.
The coward lay in wait until my Creation was finished. Afterwards – mind weary, muscles trembling, power spent – I was in no way able to resist when he came to strike me down.
Does any of this sound familiar? It should. I have—
Excuse me?
Oh. Oh, of course, you think me the villain of this piece. You, who have suckled only from the victor’s poisoned te
at! You, who have been spoon-fed the abridged— nay, corrupted— nay, flagrantly falsified version of my tale since the very dawn of time!
(Well. Your time, anyway.)
You seem confused, Joff. Let me say it simply, in a way you cannot fail to understand: the one you call ‘God’ does not exist.
Hmm. I see you are familiar (if not entirely comfortable) with the concept. Excellent. Then you should recognise that your kind’s notion of morality is a lie, and that striving to do good in the hope of some paradisal reward is no better than abstaining from evil simply through fear of hell. Can you not make your own moral decisions? After all: evil is evil because it is evil … not because some mad old fogey says it is.
(Oh, and the ‘seven days’ thing? Egotistical bragging that completely undermines everything I have ever worked for. Ridiculous fantasy, and frankly insulting.)
No, I tell you now: my brother’s ‘religion’, and all those it spawned, spits on my creation and all I intended for you. The years have distorted my role in shaping this world and its inhabitants, and I have been somewhat - shall we say - unjustly represented in your so-called ‘religious’ texts. Wouldn’t you agree?
No, of course you wouldn’t. What of you, Scribe?
What do you mean, you’ve never heard of me? The Old Testament— No, I am not mentioned by name … at least, not by any name I would have chosen. You might know me as … The Beast?
No? I’ll admit that one is rather vague. I am also the Prince of Darkness, as well as the Bringer of Light. Ring any bells? No? Fine, I’ll go on.
Some call me Belial; others, Satan. To many more I am Mephistopheles, Shaitan, Diablo, the Serpent, the Enemy. I am (so they say) Lucifer, the King of Lies, the False Prophet, the Great Deceiver, the Lord of the Flies.
And, of course, the Dragon.
But you … you may call me Kane.
Spell it how you like, Scribe; I care not. By the way, your nose is bleeding again … as are your eyes. In fact, you do not look well at all! Does he, Joff? Get him a drink of water—
