Ravens and Writing Desks: A Metaphysical Fantasy

by Chris Meekings

  Sssshh, Conscience. I think I’m beginning to understand. It’s not supposed to make much sense it’s all literary allusion. Alice crushes the Red Queen, or Queen Redd in this case. It’s all from the book. The marching hare, the caterpillar. It’s all out of Alice in Wonderland. I still think this is a book or something like that, a story of some description, but something has gone wrong, and now I’ve got to put it right. They need me to fulfil this prophecy because I am important to it. It can’t just be anyone called Lucy Alice. For some reason it has to be me that puts it right.

  “I think I understand this better, but why does it have to be now?” Lucy asked.

  The cat grinned at her acceptance of her own place in history. “It has to be now because of what came next. After you crushed Queen Redd, and she fled to who knows where, the world began to decay. We used the magic to set up barriers, stopping other worlds encroaching, but with the magic weakened to almost non-existence the barriers failed. All the heroes faded into legend, and we were left with only rumour and a stagnant world.

  “It came on slowly at first, but our world began to merge with another one. We tried to stop it, but there just wasn’t enough magic left.”

  “You keep saying we. Who is “we?” Is it, you and Bechet?”

  “No, he’s referring to the other five Bestia Sancta. Remember? I told you he was one of the six,” said Talbot, trying to make amends for her horrific faux pas.

  “Are they all cats?” asked Lucy. She couldn’t think how this related to Alice in Wonderland.

  “No, they are not all cats. There are four for the land, one for the sky and one for the water,” corrected the faun again.

  “Well, who are they then?” Lucy pressed further.

  “There is the Lord of Plains, the horse named Bree,” said the cat. “Then there is the Lord of Cities and Towns, the unicorn named Jewel. Next is the Lord of Mountains, The Gump. There is me, the Lord of Forests, the cat named Cheshire. The Lord of Air is Nikko, the winged monkey. Finally, there is the Lord of Water, the walrus.”

  “Right,” she said, in the tone normally reserved for things that foam at the mouth. “And what are the Bestia Sancta? Gods?”

  The cat gave her the kind of stare that only cats can give. It made her feel like a piece of chewing gum stuck to the sole of a shoe.

  Talbot sighed and once again covered her enormous social faux pas.

  “Bestia Sancta are semi-deities. They are like gods here among us. They act as high priests, but they can do magic too.”

  “Sort of a cross between The Pope and Houdini?”

  They both stared at her as if she were an idiot.

  “We tried to stop the merging,” the cat carried on as if the last few comments hadn’t happened, “but with magic all but gone, we couldn’t stop it for long. So, the darkness came into our world, as did the Dimn.”

  The Dimn! said Conscience with alarm.

  “It is he who rules this world now with his mind of metal, wheels and logic. He came in from the mirror world and made himself the ruler of all this land. Men pay tribute to him, but everyone else are little better than his slaves. Even the men are no more than his minions.” The cat gave a disgusted sneer.

  “And here is where your quest comes in. If we can repair the amethyst crystal, then magic will flow back into this world. All the Bestia Sancta will be powerful once more rather than the cheap tricksters we currently are. With magic’s return, we can cast the Dimn out of this world forever.”

  “Okay, I think I understand,” said Lucy, trying to summarize, “take small crystal to Falls of Wanda, climb said falls and shove small crystal back into larger crystal, then I can go home?”

  “That’s about the size of it, yes,” purred the cat.

  “Well, why don’t you just magic me to these Falls of Wanda? I’ll put the crystal back, and we can all be home in time for tea,” she suggested, pretty sure there was going to be a reason why that couldn’t happen, but she had to ask anyway.

  “I am afraid that is impossible, for the moment,” said the Sancta, still wearing its sharp grin. “I have used up most of my reserves of magic. Whilst we spoke, I led the Ega away from you. He should be out of your life for a while. I also stopped you from dying—remember the giant cut in your throat?”

  “That was you?”

  The deity nodded.

  I was wondering why you hadn’t bled to death. Conscience said.

  “Those two acts have,” it rolled its eyes searching for the word, “depleted my reserves. I can now only offer advice.”

  “Wait a minute. Wouldn’t it have been better to have just transported me to the Falls of Wanda straight away?”

  The cat, once again, looked at her as if she were stupid. “No, it would not. A quest is about the journey. Besides, my prophecy said nothing about transporting you anywhere.”

  “Your prophecy?”

  “Oops.” The cat retreated as she advanced in fury.

  This had all happened because of prophecy. Someone, somewhere had said something, and suddenly Lucy Gayle was conscripted. And here she was, confronted by the very someone who had said that something.

  “This is all your fault. You sent that crazy wizard Bechet after me. You announced that I was to have this key. It’s all you!” She pointed an accusatory finger at the cat. “Do you know I’ve been shot at, ripped in two, been on my own, been nearly eaten by a desert, watched people die, relived some of the worst parts of my life, been thoroughly confused, and it’s all because of you?”

  “Ripped in two?” asked the cat, changing the conversation’s direction. It turned its head to one side questioningly.

  “Yes, ripped in two. I didn’t make it all the way from the mirror world into this one,” she said, the anger dying. “The Dimn caught me, or something like that happened. Both Conscience and I were left half in this world and half somewhere else. Then, when I first met Talbot and the desert tried to eat me, I woke up in a hospital back in my world without Conscience. What do you have to say about that?”

  The cat approached her and looked deep into her eyes. For Lucy, it was like gazing into two large bowls of gone off custard. Then it breathed deeply and sat back on its haunches.

  “Hmm,” it sighed. “We appear to have a problem. You are not all here. That must be why you are fighting your memories so much. I think the Dimn has part of you. You say you woke up, and you were back in your world in some kind of horse-pytal? What is that?”

  “It’s a place where you go to get better when you’re ill.”

  “Ahhh,” said the cat nodding, “an apothecary’s. I do not believe you were where you thought you were. I think the Dimn has part of you trapped, part of your soul. He will try to use it against you. It might be torture, or, more specifically, psychological torture. Be careful of what you believe. What you see may not be true.

  “This is bad. If part of you is with the Dimn, then he may have a way of tracking you, and that would mean that the Ega will be able to find you faster. I do not have the power left to help you.” The cat spun and faced the faun. “Talbot. When you leave here, go towards the market town of Marsh. There you will find The Walrus, seek him out, and he will give her a great gift.”

  “Do I get a say in this?” asked Lucy.

  “No, you do not. The Walrus will help you to unlock yourself. You will need your inner strength to protect you from the Ega and the world’s other dangers. That is all the advice I can give you; the prophecy will allow no more.”

  “Will you at least remove this coercion spell from me?”

  “I think that should stay there for the time being. It will help guide you. And besides, if I removed it, you’d probably run off.”

  She had to admit the cat was right about that.

  “Lucy, we beg you, I beg you, take the key to the Falls of Wanda and place it in the crystal,” said the Sancta.

  It bowed, bringing its face close to the earth and sticking its behind straight up in the air, as if stretching. “Pl
ease, bring the magic back to this world.”

  “I’m not going to get a choice, am I?” she asked, knowing full well she wasn’t. She was sure it was all a story, and if it was, then she must complete it. There would be, could be, no choice.

  “No choice at all,” said the cat, looking up at her with his head still bowed. “It’s prophecy.”

  Chapter 12 The Idleness of Nonsense

  “You can never be sure of anything. It’s all sensory input conducted from your sense organs to your brain; there is no other independent source of information. You just have to trust in yourself.”

  Franches Verns, Year after Ice 19450

  Inner space is the penultimate frontier.

  From the verse “How it was Done”

  By the Wizard Bechet,

  Year After Ice 21045

  The fire bathed the inside of the fallen tree with the kind of light reserved for witchcraft. Hulking shadows danced up and down, first wheeling and then gavotting over the knotted parts.

  Lucy lay awake.

  Talbot snored noisily off to her right forming which was one reason she lay awake. The other reason was she was thinking and thinking very hard.

  The cat had slunk off a few hours ago to skulk at the mouth of the tree. It sat with its back to Lucy, glowing slightly with an inner radiance. One of its legs stuck out in the air like a ballerina on point, as it cleaned itself in what, considering it was a deity, must have been a sacrilegious way.

  She was all alone. All alone except for…

  Okay, I’m really confused, said Conscience.

  Join the club, she thought back. I’ve been confused for ages. What are you puzzled about?

  There are several things, but I’ll start with the big one. This is a story?

  It must be a story. It’s the only logical explanation for what’s going on. It’s all Alice in Wonderland and The Chronicles of Narnia.

  I still don’t follow.

  Okay, I’ll give you an example: Talbot. He’s a faun, yes?

  So it would seem, said Conscience, not quite sure where this would lead.

  Fauns do not exist, she declared.

  You know, just asserting stuff is not a very good argument.

  No matter how magical a place is, a faun cannot exist.

  Why not? asked Conscience.

  The genetics of it don’t work. You can’t have something, which is half man and half goat—not stuck together like he is. That’s not how biology works. Even if a goat had the same number of chromosomes as a human, the foetus wouldn’t look like Talbot. It would be some weird thing, a chimera—not a half man half goat.

  I told you this place’s biology was screwy.

  There are other things, she continued, apart from the biology indicating this is a story.

  Like?

  The cat. She looked at the feline deity silhouetted in the moonlight. He’s definitely out of a book. He’s the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland.

  I meant to ask you about that. He doesn’t look like your images of the Cheshire Cat from the book. Wasn’t that cat big and fluffy? Why is this one all mangy, skinny and sinister looking?

  Maybe it’s the fact that magic has gone from this world. Perhaps it’s a symbol of the corruption… Oh flip-it, I just don’t know. Literature was never a strong point for me.

  You really think this is a book?

  Maybe not a book as such, but I think this is a story. Take the other Bestia Sancta. The horse called Bree. He’s from The Chronicles of Narnia. The Gump is out of the Oz books for god’s sake!

  What about the others?

  Winged Monkeys and Unicorns? They’re all from books.

  You know, this might be real, Conscience said after a slight pause.

  Lucy thought for a moment. How could it be real? There are characters from books all over the place, fauns, dragons, The Walrus and the Cat. I hate cats, she sighed.

  Really? Why have one in your house then?

  What? Lucy asked, confused. I don’t have a cat. I don’t like cats. Can’t stand them.

  Then what was the cat you said hello to on your landing before we came into this world? asked Conscience.

  She reached back into the foggy pool of her own memory. The world, her world, on the other side of the mirror seemed so long ago—a distant illusion, dusty like an old attic.

  All she had ever known seemed to be this new realm. This place of dragons, fauns and talking cats. Cats, she must focus on cats. There was a cat, her cat. He was named Gus. The old tabby at the top of the stairs, but that couldn’t be right. She didn’t have a cat. She hated the creatures. They destroyed wildlife, and when they weren’t molesting furry things, they were asleep.

  She grabbed at the memory of the cat, her cat. She grabbed it and held on, pulling it to her mind’s forefront. It slipped and slithered trying to get away, to submerge back into the swamp of her mind, but she held tight.

  He was named Gus, she thought at Conscience.

  Yes, that’s right, he said, coaxing and teasing her memories from her. Asparagus, but you usually call him Gus.

  Asparagus? I know that name.

  You should do. It’s the name of your cat.

  No, it’s not. I don’t have a cat. Asparagus is a cat’s name from a book. I just can’t remember which.

  Err. Lucy? he said, trepidation creeping into his voice.

  Not now. Help me remember what book it is, Conscience.

  Lucy, your brain is lighting up again in that weird way. It’s like New Years in here.

  Come on, come on, she bashed the inside of her brain trying hard to remember the book. Conscience, help me. What was it I said, exactly?

  You said, “His real name’s Asparagus, but that’s such a fuss to pronounce that we usually call him just Gus.” Then, you offered him a toothful of gin to get out of your way.

  Why would I offer a cat gin? But, it does seem to ring true with Gus. Hmmm? A toothful of gin?

  She could almost remember. She felt the edge of the memory just out of her grasp.

  Lucy, whatever you’re doing stop it. Your brain is all the wrong colour!

  She couldn’t stop, even if she’d wanted to. There was something at the back of her mind, like an unreachable itch. It was something about her grandfather, her grandfather reading to her. Something about cats, and possums? Then, like a shoe coming free in mud, she had it.

  Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, she thought at Conscience. It’s some poems written by T. S. Elliot. And one of them is about Gus. Now, how did it go again?

  It went “Gus is the cat at the theatre door. His name as I ought to have told you before, is really Asparagus but that’s such a fuss to pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus,” he quoted.

  How did you know that?

  It’s here in your brain, right at the back. It’s by the bit that says the only insect that can turn its own head 360 degrees is the Praying Mantis.

  I didn’t know that.

  Yes, you did. You just didn’t know you knew.

  So what was it? Gus is the cat at the theatre door? Is that a literary allusion to the world of make believe, this world?

  I see what you’re driving at, but that’s a bit vague and there are some other problems with it. If this is all a book, then who is the author?

  Lucy thought for a moment.

  I don’t know, she finally admitted.

  I have to say, he doesn’t seem very good, if all he does is steal other people’s characters and mash them together.

  I wouldn’t say things like that. If you insult him, he might kill you off in a later chapter.

  There are other problems with your story theory, continued Conscience. Gus was outside here and so was the wizard. If outside is also part of a book, then is your whole world a story? Is your entire life just made up by someone?

  That’s the bit I get confused about.

  The fire popped and fizzed as a knot of wood exploded. The tiny sparks danced in the darkness like blazing b
allerinas burning to give their all in front of an indifferent audience.

  Lucy sat and reflected. She simply couldn’t believe her world was fictional. There was, however, no way to prove otherwise, especially given the evidence for this place being made up.

  So, what’s the other option then? she asked Conscience.

  The other option, is that this world is real. Everything is really happening.

  Well, that’s easier to believe in some respects, but what about the characters from fiction?

  They are real, it’s all a coincidence. When we were in the mirror realm how many places could we have gone? It was almost an infinity. It went as far as you could see in every direction. If reality is infinite, then somewhere there must be a place where everything occurs. It all happens somewhere.

  So you’re saying an infinite amount of realities means that fictional characters must exist somewhere? Every possibility gets played out—no matter how daft they are? What about the magic? No matter how infinite the possibilities, magic does not exist.

  Maybe it’s some physics you don’t know about or understand.

  You’re stretching aren’t you? Lucy could hear it in his voice. He didn’t believe it either.

  That doesn’t discount the idea.

  I need sleep.

  Her eyelids felt heavy as if someone had attached weights to them. She could barely keep them open. She snuggled down wrapping her waterproof coat around her. The fire sang it’s squeaking song, popping and clicking to itself.

  Talbot snored, and the cat padded back from the mouth of the tree. It turned, examining her with its yellow eyes before curling up into a small ball by the fire.

  Lucy slept, then her mind went “plip”, like the sound of a ball bearing hitting a copper can, and she fell out of the world again leaving Conscience utterly alone.

  ~

  Lucy?

  No reply.

  Lucy? he tried again. There was still no response, just a rattling echo as his voice bounced off the inside of her vacated brain.

  All right, he said to no one, don’t panic, Conscience. That’s the first thing you must do, not panic. She’s done this before, and everything seemed to run correctly on its own. But, I’m going to need a better interface.