Songs of Time - Chapter One, Enthusiasm

TENDRILS FROM HEAVEN (PA11166).
SONGS OF TIME [A wizard’s deadly plight; a single Arcanite] ‘Arcanite Treachery’- Chy-Ru-Gu (PA10723)
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SONGS OF TIME
Enthusiasm

The howling wind threatens to blow Belan off the cliff. He skirts boulders, remnants from the last landslip; not that landslips worry him, for he knows this path's landslide patterns as well as he knows his ongen* (original nominated gene). Ongens have a hereditary connection to surnames, replacing them with database lists in the brain.

He protects his eyes from the wind as he passes the huge mirror screen. Underwater laser light measures clearance depth below boats and sends it to the screen; valuable information for the helmsmen. Today no boats sail this bight. The screen just sends his squinted eyelids back to him as a glint of hazel in high-resolution set within his buffeted, half-shaved, chiselled face. He clenches his teeth. I must hurry past it, so I don’t have my image displayed too long.

A movement startles him. He spins round before releasing a sharp breath and whistling with relief. It’s just a crow. The hungry bird picks at bloodied, matted fodder above the precipice. Caught by a sudden squall, Belan sidesteps from the cliff-face path and plants his feet against the gust before he loses balance. Breaking waves, way below, batter everything they meet apart from a stony beach dotted with boats. The South Yard, my workplace. Why did I get stuck there?

The screen drifts from the cliff behind Belan on strings of colour to float above the sea and keep the path safe from the pounding waves. A voice in his head disturbs him.

You're stuck in South Yard because of Mauree. You should never have married her.

“I don’t want to know!” His voice rips through the air. Work colleagues crossing the yard’s field barrier can't hear him. The non-verbal voice has disturbed his balance, but he bows his head to concentrate. Once stable, he looks round and smiles to see circling sea birds picking their moment to dive into a man-made inlet of calm. Fish, crustaceans and peoples’ leftovers abound in there. He watches and admires them. Feed up my beauties.

A low howl nearby wipes the smile from his face. Don’t look, ignore it. It's the wind playing tricks on my imagination. Despite this decision, he can’t resist turning his head, ‘eyes on stalks'. He reaches for his absent sword when a huge canine comes into view, but his elbow snags against a jutting rock. What am I doing? I don’t take swords to work. He grabs a stone and hurls it at his drooling attacker, dead on target. The stone soars towards the sea before it drops. The dog is just a dust devil whipped up from soft sand. It’s come to something when I see things from my imagination.

At breakfast, the canine shadow had prowled his lane; a black phantom on four legs. Even Mauree was nervous, and she had never feared a dog in her life. They kept their silence, for they seldom speak together these days. What a wretched creature. He ploughs on shaking his head. That imaginary dog is plaguing my mind. I can’t wait to reach the boatyard and grab a hot cup of beverum*.

You hate the boatyard, Belan, and it was Mauree who sent you there.

“She didn’t send me to The South Yard. I could have chosen ‘Hurley’ and its lucrative partnership with Sailess Sails, my favourite firm as a boy.”

But you feared Hurley, didn’t you? Sailess Sails might have remembered your antics in their yards as a youngster.

Belan quickens his stride to purge this alien thought, but another gust catches him. Blown sideways, he loses his footing on loose stones. He stumbles but leans back to wedge his shoulder under an overhang. Stable now, he confronts the chill wind with a deep breath of salt-scented air.

A shadow catches the corner of his eye—Canine, large. It disappears when he turns to it. Beyond and below, the beach comes into view. Many boats line its shingle bank top, and his work project is amongst them—a white open cutter. The boat stands between two huddles of untidy buildings. He grimaces, rolls his eyes, and marches towards it, forcing his legs against the gale’s intensity. The voice in his head chatters again.

You pretend you hate this yard, but you need it. You have no other release from Mauree.

He ignores the intrusive voice and tries to calculate the high winds. Each gust feeds currents of air over the waters before ascending the cliff to batter him.

The whole channel churns in frothy wild circles around pinnacles of tall, sharp-pointed rocks that protrude from the water—either by the cliff or out to sea, where violent eddies form. This treacherous channel, called The Strait of Lamprey, funnels such turbulence between two islands. The storm-prone Crystal Sea feeds its rage, except on ‘crystal days'. These are rare days when high pressure dominates, and a sea of ‘glass’ inspires such a deceptive name.

He grabs a stunted tree to steady himself and survey the tempest. Round the coast, just out of sight, Hurley endures the same weather—with so much ease, for Hurley boatyard has a proper force field, not a mere field barrier. They can afford it. Ever since their merger, boats built at Hurley dominate the Sailess Sail boat fairs.

At double speed, he battles the wind amid screeching seagulls as a shadow solidifies alongside him. The dog takes form again! He shivers. I must get inside the yard to safety.

----

O’Fanor the elf strains to see from his incarceration. He has no form, but the hope of release alerts him to every move his abductor, Derba, makes to avoid the beast connected to this man's imprisoning globe.

For an old wizard, the elf’s captor has an ‘eagle’s’ penetrating eyes fixed in rigid concentration. He sits on a rock above a wind-blown path wearing a full-length dark green smock. Under his determined gaze, a bamboo stake materialises to ‘shout’ its presence in silent colours—Pick me up. Pick me up. The elf and wizard watch a passing younger man who descends towards a line of boats. The young man misses the stake, despite its lure. He's torn between the path behind him and windblown seabirds. As this man passes, the bamboo and its colourful filaments fade away.

The elf's captor grunts with inaudible displeasure and points a crooked finger towards a glass orb suspended above a fissure of intense black. O’Fanor 'holds his breath'. The beast connected to the orb stirs, and its eye glints red. O’Fanor and the old man freeze. Moments pass before the terrible apparition averts its baneful eye. Not this time, Moolbol. Not this time. The dangerous game my master plays to use your power succeeds—today. Nervous and excited, O’Fanor waits with anticipation. I think Derba needs me outside with him.
The elf senses Moolbol’s dark light controlling the globe to bring O’Fanor’s body to the windy cliff, as a nasty, long-eared sprite. His trapped soul stretches and pulls, insides first, through a vortex to join this body.

The wizard’s greyed teeth draw near to him, and an acrid whisper escapes them. “Ah, O’Fanor, good to meet thee again; can thou see Belan?” Derba points towards the man on the path. “I want thou to draw him to my knife.”

“Shall I kill him?”

“No. Just do as I ask. I will decide what to do next.”

Caught in the glare of daylight, O’Fanor shrinks back.

His cloaked companion’s satisfied grin unveils those unpleasant teeth again. “Fear not the brightness, my friend. I’ll leave my knife here for thou. With it, thy can conjure a cave for thy comfort. To move by day, thee must summon my dog’s ghost. Inside his shroud, thee’ll have mobile protection from sunlight. At night, thee has thine own invisibility powers to use. Rodsorg is wayward. Thee must control the canine shroud round him. He has phantom teeth able to bite, even kill the fearful. Stay him. A straightforward task for thee. No ghost can defy an elf.”
O’Fanor overcomes his distaste for the shadow dog and merges with it as ordered. The uncomfortable elf stops the ghost hound at the boatyard’s outer edge. He can go no farther, not past the powerful magnetic core in the yard’s field barrier. Very few elves indeed have the prowess to defy magnetism.

The dog must go alone. He retreats to a cave that materialises for him, leaving behind the old man’s knife. It will attract victims—as a sundew plant attracts insects. He wastes no time climbing from the dog and slipping into the opening’s welcome darkness.

----

Belan enters the barrier and waits for the air pressure to adjust. The dog’s here again. No, the dog doesn’t exist. I’m alone! After the barrier, he sees his workmate, Creel. A short, stocky, inoffensive man; useless as a Boatwright. Belan, himself no boat artiste, has accepted Creel. Their boat has a sturdy hull of knitted fibres, hardened to a glossy finish, then painted white. To save space, a steering wheel with awkward wires and pulleys replaces a tiller. Every pulley has seized and needs renewing.

Belan surveys his job list. I’ll start by replacing the keel band so the painters to scrape and paint the hull. Whilst planning the day’s work, he sees the seat he’d fitted yesterday but forgotten to fasten. It still rests against the hull, ready to secure.

He goes to the mess hut and pours a mug of beverum. Here he finds Hairline Creel talking to Grong, their main storeman. Hairline Creel has a brand-new bobbed quiff set in a rough but effeminate style.

Hidden from view, Belan listens to them talk, but one brief sentence from Hairline Creel is enough for him. “The razor cut angles the hair.” Grong gives Creel a polite nod.

Before he’s spotted, Belan edges to the door. He forgoes the beverum for a quick exit and heads to the box shed to pick up yesterday’s bag of tools. These he tips into his main toolbox. After this ‘delicate’ action, he refills the bag, ready for today’s workload. He thinks of how faith led back to manual work. Machines had done this crap in the old days, whilst people searched for immortality. That had been before the Prophet Mosac revised Quell’s religion, along with countless ancient crafts. The old prophet even made death fashionable—somehow?

He heads for the retail store to replenish his supplies—and to insult Grong the Younger, known as Combat Man. This young store assistant shares overenthusiastic banter with Belan—an act of anger, filled with good humour. The Store’s shabby red brick building now stands alone. Once it was one amongst many smart shops from a time before the boatyard, and in its day a renowned fishing tackle centre, although you’d never guess that.

At the boat, Belan finds his workmate ruining a brand-new pulley. He smiles and puts a plank of wood under the boat to lie on and replace the keel band.

A sound startles him. Something’s sniffing. Is the dog here? Think, man, think. The dog doesn’t exist. Now, ah yes, the keel band. Shit! I can’t find the screws. How the bloody hell can you lose a box of poxy screws? He slides along the floor to get out for a better view, unable to turn due to space restrictions. His hair brushes against the sealant and he bangs his head. The plank slips and off-balance, he squashes the sealant tube, face first. The momentum gouges a short channel through reluctant stones before the beach stops progress. With a curse, he hits the offending screw with a hammer and hears Creel fumble with the ruined pulley in response. Belan rolls free to experience an unwelcome micro-moment, where the pulley hurtles past his head to shatter a large pebble. He ignores it, death by pulley far from his thoughts—instead, he searches for the dog, without success.

When he gets up, he sees the screws scattered everywhere: the plank had obscured them. “Shit job!” He trudges to the toilet, fingering his head but finding no blood there.

Pebbles crunching underfoot remind him of pleasurable fishing expeditions from his childhood. This calms him, and he seeks advice from Hairline Creel or his workmate, on the ‘big boat'. Interrupted by Belan, Hairline Creel uses the distraction to align his new quiff with a darkened window as a mirror. Work moves at a pace on the big boat. Creel, with the haircut, bobs to find the perfect angle; it amuses Belan, despite its repetition, so he dives straight in with light-hearted sarcasm. “Busy then, are we?”

“Yes, my good man. We are always busy here,” Creel answers, patting his head.

Belan hides a snigger. “How can I clean this stuff from my hair?”

“See Grong. He’ll know.”

“Combat man, you mean?”

“You are a 'silly billy'. I mean the leading storeman; Grong!”

Belan finds it hard to resist a full smile. Yes, poor old Grong, subjected to a camp talk on hairstyles in the mess hut.
Hairline Creel leans over the boat and whispers. “Be careful Duggan doesn’t catch you.”

“Catch me doing what?”

“Bringing pets into the yard.”

“Pets?”

“Your dog, my good man.”

This shocks Belan. The dog’s not real. Not real! For comfort, he takes a lock of his wife’s brown hair from his pocket and holds it to his cheek. Things have changed since she cut this off to droop over his chin. He remembers her cute, quick laughter, but then recalls her affair with Ullit.

They rowed long over Ullit. He may have gone now, but Belan still hears worrying rumours of others. I can’t reach her these days. I had been an ace with the sword before we married, renowned for killing that piece of dirt called a pirate. Since then, I’ve allowed us to drift apart.

The voice in his head chimes again. No, you haven’t. You’ve sacrificed for Mauree. You’ve changed for her, but she appreciates none of this.

“How did you get into my head?”

She took a lover; not you and I didn’t make her do it.

“If I could speak with her, we could open vital breathing space.”

I doubt it. Why did she seek another? You blame yourself for something she did.

“Get out of my head. I’m no longer listening.” What is this thing inside me? He sinks his head into his hands.

Ullit debased and robbed Mauree in her distress. That useless article called himself a swordsman. I’ll give him swordsman if I find him. I've heard rumours of my Mauree seeking any man with a sword. Oh, Quell. If you exist, make it not true!

A glint hints at darkness and attracts his attention to the path outside the barrier where he glimpses a tempting flash of diabolical light. He moves towards it and enters two high-voltage magnet rows; the barrier’s powerhouse. A crackle to his left distracts him. Sparks fly from a magnetic terminal. It breaks his connection to that foreboding glint outside, and its impure glow vanishes. I’m too near the lightning points. They’ll kill me.

Shaking his head, he backs away to find solace in a well-known red stone building.

Belan slaps the counter to startle Grong the Younger. part of Combat Control, an élite task force. He cleans their shoes for them. It’s time I had quality abuse from Firecracker brain in here. The young storeman flinches, and then his eyes roll. “What do you want, dipstick?”

“That’s no way to talk to important customers, sweetness.”

Grong snorts, grabs a mug of beverum, swigs it and gasps before spraying the whole mouthful over the counter.

“Watch it. You dirty bastard!”

“Urrg! It’s gone cold.” Young Grong’s lips stretch. He dashes to the door and swings the mug’s contents away without due care and attention.

“Hey!” A passing worker steps back to avoid the soaking.

“Sorry, mate.”

Belan pulls a face of exaggerated impatience ready for the store assistant’s return.

His customer’s derision ignored, young Grong puts his mug into a bowl of unwholesome brown water and wipes the counter with a soiled rag.
“Well, what have you forgotten this time?”

“I’ll have a small packet of enthusiasm, please.”

“Got none.”

“What’d you mean? Got none? They don’t pay me to stand round whilst you cause havoc with a crap drink. You’d better get yourself in gear, mate.”

Grong the Younger turns his head and yells. “Grong. Grongolian. Gronng!”

An agitated reply comes from a littered desk in the office. “What’s up now?”

“Come here and sort this twat.”

Grong comes in and glances at Belan. “Oh, you again.”

“Can you give me something to get this out of my hair?”

Grong the Younger has his say. “What have we here? Is your head doused with seagull shit today, then? Not content with just watching the ‘shit hawks’ now, eh?”

“Piss off!”

“Try this,” says the other Grong, handing Belan a bottle.

“Thank you. Now, my enthusiasm? I’ll just have a pinch, please.”

“Sorry, Belan. I can’t help you there.”

“It’ll be in your files. Try ‘v’ for verve or ‘n’ for nerve, a match for the rest of your service.”

The storeman’s wily head man leans over the counter. “You haven’t tucked your enthusiasm in that overall pocket, have you? Popped it away to use at home.”

“Try putting the seagull shit with it. You might start a compost bin. I doubt anyone will notice the change in the smell,” Grong the Younger suggests.

“I’m not getting my enthusiasm then?”

“Nope, ’fraid not, we don’t go for enthusiasm. Think yourself lucky I found something to remove the sealant.”

Belan nods a quick thank you. A hound’s shadow sends a cold thrill to his spine. Grong the Younger gasps. “Wh... What’s that?”

“A dog,” his older compatriot answers. “Close the door.”

Belan is too late. The creature pads in with purpose.

Grong the Younger grabs a pointed spade to drive it away and leaps over the counter. The young man edges forward to face an oversized black hound. A low growl sounds a warning. Grong holds his ground to force the hound out of there.

Duggan, the foreman, steps into the store. He stares at Belan’s head, unaware of the drama there. “What have you got in your hair?”

No one answers him, but he spots the unwelcome canine.

“Which one of you has brought a dog here?”

“None of us, Duggan. Why drive our dog away with a spade?”

By now, Grong the Younger has edged close enough to urge the dog backwards. He probes with insistence. The creature bars its teeth. Grong raises his stature and lifts the spade higher; still no good. The dog lunges right through the spade to grab the luckless man’s arm. Grong staggers away with the dog clenched to his bloodied forearm. “Get it off me! Help me, please!”

Duggan takes a silver disc from his pocket. It has the well-known ‘grove of tree’ etchings on its flat faces. This is Quell’s symbol. He tosses the shining coin into the corner where it clatters to the floor beside this fearful spectre. The dog takes notice. It backs up, turns round and runs away.

With the dog outside, Belan slams the door. I must leave. I brought that dog, and it has enough reality to injure Grong. Look at the gash on his arm. I can’t stay here frightening my friends any longer.

Belan checks outside for the spectre. “I must go. That thing was after me. I think it’s gone, for now.”

Grong takes a first aid box over to attend to his junior assistant. “What do you mean, after you? Why you in particular?”

“I don’t know, but it’s followed my ‘tail’ today. Believe me, I have to go.”

Duggan picks up his silver disc. “Head for Casley’s store then, Belan. He has many religious bits and pieces. If my disc can drive this thing away, Casley’s store will too.” This suggestion doesn’t impress Belan. Casley’s lay-by store is somewhere I tend not to go. ‘Lay-by Casley’ has too much religious belief for my taste. Still, at least I can clean this gunk from my hair in front of Casley’s mirror.

Belan slips out and edges past several boats, imagining dogs round every corner, but doesn’t make for the lay-by store for long. The same tinge of light turns his feet to the exit—until he sees the dog ahead. It hasn’t seen me yet. He dodges behind a boat. When I can, I’ll head for Casley again. This way isn’t safe.

After a stagger across loose shale, he stumbles into the flimsy lay-by store. It’s little more than a large shed of leftover clutter. Once inside, he collects a few paper towels and wipes his face and hair, using the mirror to dab the liquid from the bottle in the right places. It doesn’t take long for this stuff to remove the sealant.

Casley stands to rub breadcrumbs from his lap and steps from an alcove containing a small table and chair. His white hair and the lines on his face show his age, but his eyes have lost none of their vigour. “How can I help you, Belan?”

“Any enthusiasm to spare?” I’m here now, so I’d better try, I suppose.

“Of course I have,” the sanguine store worker replies. “There are boxes of enthusiastic shackles and rows of our keen drop-nose pins. We brim with enthusiasm.

Belan gives a weak smile. The store worker continues. “Why do you need enthusiasm? You have everything to live for at your age. Read the Progues, my boy; read the Progues and you’ll never want for such zeal again.”

“Oh yeah, right, religious myths of gigantic ships travelling vast seas. I don’t think so, mister.”

Casley smiles. “You’ll find more to the Progues than ships, my boy, but it's true the Progues tell of a fishing dearth long ago. Days when huge fishing boats trawled the mighty oceans without regard for fish stocks and in a plethora of plastic waste.”

“Fairy stories, Casley; stories from credulous people following Mosac. Can you imagine commercial fishing without using Pelicans, flying and diving for fish? Even as we speak, they work the deep seas. I’ve seen people connect those sub-aqua beak-traps to the bows of these marvellous crafts. With their beak-traps attached, Pelicans mimic a fish-eating bird. The sheer size of each Pelican and their resistance to storms take them one step further. Instead of chasing fish, the beak-traps draw them in, so why believe ridiculous Progue fables when we have such marvels in the actual world?”

“Ah, the actual world; you need the Progues more than you realise, Belan.” He stops and stares at Belan’s face. “Yes, you do too. Your face has far too much grievance, my boy.”

“Never mind the bullshit. I’ll take a few scoops of loose enthusiasm instead. You can weigh it for me on Mosac’s hairy-fairy scales.”

The store person chuckles, but then his eyes narrow. Belan turns to a huge canine shadow at the door.

Casley strides towards it. “What in Quell’s world? In the name of Mosac, go, vile creature.”

Belan stares in amazement. The shadow of this huge dog retreats, as ordered.

“That dog came from someone with evil intent, Belan.”

With a weak nod, Belan grabs a wooden beam for support.

“Sit a moment, my boy. Don’t let the dog worry you. I’ve driven it away from the yard with a Progue blessing. It cannot defy The Progues. Our boatyard is hallowed ground now, but you need Progue protection more than I imagined. Head for Mosac’s Temple. Your need will help you find it.” Casley hands Belan a religious trinket, a small bronze square on a fine chain. “Give this to a priest there. They will recognise it as mine. Be careful; this beast is dangerous.”

“Th, thank you. I think I’ve seen that dog before, but I can’t remember where.” He stumbles through the door with high regard for Casley—just now, at least.

Back at work, he stares at his workmate fitting the seat Belan crafted yesterday. The stupid man turns it upside-down and for an unfathomable reason saws and hammers, even jumps on it to force a miss-match. At last, twisted and battered, the fitment squeaks into place with terrible gaps. Creel fills these with sealant, but then forgets what he’s done, sits on his work and plasters everywhere else he sits. Belan stares with listless eyes, despite the comedy act.

From the cliff, the same glow catches his attention. He heads there from the boat. Soon, a pointed rock obscures the persistent twinkle. He sees the dog and turns to retrace his steps. His eyes fix upon a red flame. He stares at it. It isn’t a flame; has no light, just bright red feathers—caught in the wind, they flutter from a bamboo stick. He reaches for it.