I like the mountain. That’s interesting. Do you think it’s volcanic?
I can’t see how else you’d get a ruddy big mountain like that in the middle of this plain. Moreover, you’ve got that ring of hills to the north, so I think it’s a massive caldera.
Do you think we should try to tell these people that the reason they can grow crops here is because the soil is rich with nutrients from the mountain going boom? And that it’s likely to go boom again at some point?
Not unless you want to try to explain volcanicity and plate-tectonic theory to a society that hasn’t learned not to drink the water without boiling it first. I bet this place is rife with cholera and typhoid. Hey, why do you care anyway? I thought an author imagined all these people. Let him worry about it.
Well, there’s always the chance I’m wrong, and if so, these people are in danger.
I wouldn’t worry about it. Black Crack Mountain doesn’t seem like it’s going to blow anytime soon. You never know it might have gone dormant. Where’s the goat gone?
Lucy turned and saw the faun at a stall.
He’s over there buying bits of leather.
Actually, that’s jerky. You’re probably going to be eating that on the days when you can’t catch a rabbit.
Lucy looked at the unappetising things, thick brown slabs, like cow tongues. She’d honestly thought they were for resoling shoes. Suddenly, she wanted to know an awful lot about catching her own food.
Come on let’s look around at some of these stalls. I’m bored.
Do you have any flints?
Nope, I’ve no money. I still don’t understand how a society can exist on flints.
It’s just a monetary system. You’d better tell the goat where we’re going, or he’ll be upset. He is supposed to be guiding you after all.
Lucy pushed her way through the crowd and up to her friend.
Talbot had several strips of jerky laid out in a cloth wrap and was now flicking a bell which hung from a wooden pole.
“Can I have a C# of rice please,” he asked the woman who ran the stall.
A C# of rice? she asked Conscience.
No, I don’t understand either, sighed Conscience. You’ll just have to ask him.
She tapped the faun, and he turned to her. His ruddy apple face broke into a smile of delight at seeing her.
“A C# of rice?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows at him, needing an extra explanation.
“It’s how we measure a quantity here. How do you do it in your world?”
“We do it by weights. You know? Kilograms, pounds, that sort of thing.”
“What’s a kilogram?” asked Talbot, with childlike innocence.
“It’s a weight. You put it on some scales, and you balance it against whatever it is you want to buy. See?”
She held her hands out in a scales gesture, showing the faun.
“I think I understand. So, it’s like a see-saw?”
Lucy nodded. She supposed you could think of it like a see-saw. She didn’t really want to go into the whole idea of weighing things just by putting them on electric scales. That was probably too complicated.
“And this Kilo-what’sit,” continued Talbot. “That is a sort of standard measure, is it?”
She nodded again.
“So what is it?” he pressed.
She knew the answer. She’d learned about the International Prototype Kilogram in the vault at the BIPM in Sèvres, France for a project in physics at school. The problem was she couldn’t explain to the faun what it was without using the words…
“It’s a lump, we use to measure things, and we keep it in a vault. It’s a lump of a particular alloy, and we just call it one. And every few years we have to reweigh it and that then becomes one again.”
“Right,” said the faun in a way that made Lucy feel about six inches tall. “In this world, we don’t measure things by lumps. We like to be more accurate than that. We measure by volume.”
“I thought you measured in C#? That’s a musical note; not a volume.”
“I think I’ll have to give a small lesson to explain it to you properly.”
Oh good a small lesson. Just what I’ve always wanted from a farmyard animal, said Conscience.
Shut up, you. This is interesting, even if it has got nothing to do with the quest. Besides, it’s information about this society. It might come in handy.
I bet it won’t.
“You agree,” said Talbot, “that to have a proper measuring system you have to have a standard. Otherwise an amount of rice would cost so much in one place, and the same amount might cost much more in another, and you would not be able to compare the two. Correct?”
She agreed.
“So, we had to find a thing that was standard irrespective of where in the world you are. The answer is music. A musical note is the same in Marsh, in Tomb, on the plains of Cantab, everywhere.” Talbot waved his arms to indicate the whole world. “So, a bell crafted to a standard, with a hallmark so that is the same thickness, will hold the same volume in Cantab, Marsh or even at the Falls of Wanda. Do you see?”
She did see. It was quite clever really.
“So, your society discovered a way of linking volume to music, and you use that to measure things. That’s really very impressive.”
“Thank you, we do our best.”
“The bells are all standard?”
“All forged from the same exact alloy. In, what was, the Royal forge. I suppose it’s now the Dimn’s forge? They’re all hallmarked with a crest; any merchant found to be using a bell without a crest gets severely punished.”
“Severely punished?” she asked.
Talbot nodded and then, as further explanation, drew his thumb across his neck.
She was beginning to think that, for someone described as brave but not particularly clever, the faun was unsettlingly smart.
His society may have found a neat and elegant way of measuring volume, but they still haven’t figured out plumbing, a drainage system or not to live in the shadow of a volcanic mountain, have they?
Don’t get jealous.
The stall keeper was back with the bell full of rice.
Talbot thanked her and then asked for a G of dried beans.
The woman flicked a larger bell, which donged happily.
The faun pulled out a set of tuning pipes and blew a note which matched the bell’s dong. He smiled and nodded at her.
“I’m going for a wander,” said Lucy, looking in with longing at some of the stalls with the prettier items on them.
“All right,” he replied, realising that shopping for supplies was probably not much fun for an inquisitive girl of thirteen. “Don’t go too far. It still might be dangerous around here, even with the Walrus in town. The Dimn’s men are still in charge of this place, so stay clear of any guards.”
She agreed and wandered off into the market, spotting several other merchants all donging bells as people bought wares from the various stalls. To measure length people seemed to ask for a musical note too. The note was played on a large harp and then the length measured off against the harp string.
It’s ingenious really, she thought. From one simple premise of using music you get length and volume measurements.
Don’t go all gushy. I hate it when you go all gushy for that goat.
Oh, come on Conscience. Can’t you appreciate the system’s elegance?
I agree the system is nice and pretty. But I still don’t like you fawning over the faun.
What is it with you and Talbot? Why are you so hostile to him? It’s not like he’s said anything about you. As I remember, he thought you were really neat.
That’s part of it. To him, I’m just a thing, a bit of magic. I’m not a person. And I get worried that when you and him are doing your walking and talking you sometimes forget that I’m a real thing too. I may not be walking and talking, but I’m still here. I’m your friend.
/> Of course you are, you silly old thing. You know me better than anyone ever has. You know my thoughts, my moods, my everything.
So, I’m your best friend?
Lucy sighed. That was what it was really all about. He didn’t have anyone else, and he needed her to want him as much as he wanted her. He was afraid of needing her more than she needed him. He was a coward at heart.
Sure. You are my best friend, Conscience. Through thick and thin we’ll sort this whole mess out, save this world, and then we’ll see what happens after.
There’s something else I should point out to you.
Yes? she said as she perambulated through the marketplace.
From my analysis, we appear to be… But it’s stupid. It can’t be like this.
What is it?
Well, from the frequency of events prior to this, and a flight to talk ratio I’ve conducted. We appear to be stalling.
Stalling?
Yes, you know, stalling for time. Nothing is happening. If we take the rationale that this is a story, and I’m not convinced about that, then at the minute, we’re in some sort of holding pattern.
I still don’t understand.
If this were a book, then this would be a dodgy middle chapter where nothing much occurs. The author is stalling for time, either trying to make the book longer than it should be, suffering under the erroneous belief that a book’s length is a measure of its quality, or he’s searching his brain for more ideas to complete the misjudged Promethean masterwork in a twisting mire of irrelevant details and long drawn-out sentences of perplexing structure, unlikely length and prolix verbiage in the quixotic notion that he has enough willpower to actually complete such a protean novel. Think about it. Since we got to Marsh, we haven’t actually done anything, or learned anything. We met the Walrus, but what actually happened? Nothing.
Lucy was going to protest, but Conscience didn’t even pause for breath.
Yes, we got that new spell, but you don’t know what it is or how to use it. That’s for a later bit. It’s foreshadowing, and now? Well, we’re shopping. The Ega is on our tail, this city is full of people loyal to the Dimn, and we’re shopping for food and what not. It doesn’t make any sense.
You think we should be running?
I think we got what we came for in this city. We got the spell from the Walrus, so now what are we still doing here?
You’ve certainly changed your tune on whether this is a novel or not.
Don’t be so sure, this could just as easily be something the Dimn is doing. He could be causing us to be this relaxed so the Ega can catch up with us. Either way, I think we need to get the faun and get the heck out of Dodge, so to speak.
There was a slight, almost imperceptible, tickle on Lucy’s neck, it was like a small leaf falling up her spine and to the base of her skull.
Hey, what was that?
What was what?
“Hello, little girl,” said a voice right by her shoulder.
She spun around to face the voice, forgetting about the weird sensation on her neck. The voice’s owner was a man behind one of the stalls. His skin was almond coloured.
Like a lighter shade of Ravi’s, she thought.
Who’s Ravi?
Not now.
The man had a pencil thin, ink-black goatee. He was dressed in a long flowing robe of midnight blue silk, gilded with trim. On his head was a bone white turban, coiled like a snake about to strike. There was the sweet smell about him like rose petals and honey, a Turkish delight kind of smell.
He winked at her and smiled, exposing honey-coloured teeth. His hand extended towards her and a long, spider finger crooked, beckoning her towards his stall.
Ummm, I don’t think you should go over there.
Why not? Do I always have to do everything you say? she said petulantly.
Lucy, your serotonin levels are dropping rapidly.
So? I’m going over there to see what’s on his stall.
This is weird as if something’s draining all the serotonin out of your body. Do you really think it’s the wisest move to go over there?
Shut up, will you?
The stall was small and jammed between two other decorative tables filled with a painter’s pallet of different coloured exotic spices. The man’s stall was covered with boxes and trinkets of all descriptions and sizes laid out on a cloth of such a deep rich red it looked like spilt blood.
“Come worldly traveller. Come and see all the wonders of the six points of the world. It is all here in Ak’San’s stall.” The merchant’s voice dripped like a stick dipped in treacle. “Here, I have bottles of hive honey from the insect colonies of the mountains.” Ak’San, indicated some vials of glowing, green liquid.
“There, are sugared dragon eggs from the heavens and here are carved oaken boxes from the forests. This is a wooden Topee stick from the plains people. See the intricate music-woven finery on it? These are the finest, metal-work brooches from the towns and villages. And finally, from the water, hand sewn, fish-scale purses encrusted with pearls from the very heart of the ocean. All these wonders and more can be seen in this stall. So tell me, little princess, what is it you seek?”
Don’t tell him what we’re doing here, where we’re going or what we’re doing, instructed Conscience.
Of course, I wasn’t going to do that. Stop telling me what to do!
“I’m not looking for anything, thank you. I’m just browsing,” she answered the merchant.
“Everyone searches for something, little princess. Perhaps you seek the answers to unasked questions. Questions you have not even thought of yet.”
His spider fingers twinkled, and suddenly there was a vial of bluish liquid spinning around them. It jumped and jolted like a grasshopper on a hot skillet, bounding across the fingers of his left hand. Her eyes were drawn towards its twinkling colour.
Lucy, your serotonin levels are dropping really rapidly. This is crazy. Where is it all going?
“What is that?” she asked, in a dreamy voice. Her whole world was the small vial of blue liquid as it skipped over the knuckles of Ak’San’s left hand.
It looks like blue dye in a tube, said Conscience, but Lucy didn’t respond.
The rocking sapphire liquid was everything, and her friend’s voice was a little buzz in the background, like a tiny lost bee.
“This,” dripped Ak’San, “is the Elixir of Ptegy.”
“The Elixir of Ptegy, wow,” she said, hanging on to the final word like the last drops of a dream.
“This is the very same elixir that the princess of Ptegy took when she needed to decide which prince of the east she was to marry.”
Hey! That’s out of a musical. It’s from Oklahoma! Your Grandpa Will used to listen to it. Lucy? Lucy? Can you hear me? Miss Pride, what’s happening? I know the serotonin levels are dropping. What does it mean?
“Is this what you seek? You seek to know which boy should take you to the Corn Dance?” said the merchant.
She giggled her response, “No.”
She’s giggling, Miss Pride. We have to sort this out.
“I won’t be here for any dance,” Lucy said, quite oblivious to Conscience.
“So what is it, you seek? What is it, you need?”
“I need…”
“Yes?”
We have to do something and now.
“I need…”
We don’t need anything, tried Conscience.
“What is it? What do you desire?” Ak’San asked, his eyes blazing with the wild fire of a salesman.
We have to do something Miss Pride, before Lucy does something stupid.
“I desire somewhere to put the key, somewhere to keep it safe. It is such a burden, and now I can’t wear it. I’m afraid of losing it.”
Oh blast. She’s just done something stupid. Miss Pride, get me in communication with her now. I don’t care what you break to make it happen—just do it.
“You require a keep-sake box?” smiled Ak’San, his yel
low teeth glowing like infected pus.
“Yes,” she sighed.
No. No we don’t. Lucy, can you hear me now?
“Ah. I have one such item here,” said Ak’San, indicating an ornate box—the stall’s centre piece. “You have very good eyes, wanderer. This is a most precious item, most precious indeed.”
“Most precious…” repeated Lucy.
“Indeed,” smiled Ak’San, showing his honey teeth again. “Most…”
“Most…” she breathed the word in.
“Precious.”
“Precious,” she breathed the word out.
Lucy’s hand reached out for the box. She wanted it, needed it. It would help with the quest—a safe place for the key. Her other hand closed on the amethyst key in her pocket. The shard of purple crystal was cool and sharp as it sat in her palm.
No! screamed Conscience.
“No,” she repeated, in the flat, dreamy voice.
It is too expensive, continued Conscience, having finally broken through.
“It is too expensive,” she repeated, although her eyes never left the box.
We’ll be going about our business.
“We’ll be going about our business.”
Move along.
“Move along.”
She reluctantly turned away from the stall.
Ak’San’s hand shot out, viper fast, and catching hold of her wrist, he spun her back around to face him.
“Do not go yet, worldly traveller. Let us first see how your key would look inside.”
The box lay open on the merchant’s palm. The interior was inviting—red and plush—like the inner flesh of an oyster.
Her hand floated out from her pocket. The key, on its leather thong, dripped between her fingers.
Lucy, don’t, but it was too late. With a flick of his spidery fingers, the amethyst key was inside the box. There was a defiant click as the lid closed.
What have you done?
“Lucy!”
Talbot’s voice was a million miles away. She turned dreamily. The faun pushed his way through the crowd towards her. He shoved and jostled his way through the massed throngs, the concern growing on his face like clouds before the break of a storm.
“Let me see the back of your neck,” said the faun, as he pulled up alongside Lucy. He was almost incandescent with rage. He grabbed her chin and shoved her face rudely to one side. She could feel his fingers questing at the base of her skull. There was a slight ripping pain, like a sticking plaster being removed.
Ravens and Writing Desks: A Metaphysical Fantasy Page 17
