Say that title three times fast. Okay. Now, say it three times slow. Which one messed you up worse?
Anyway, that's not the point at all. Why? Why do we write the things we write? What influences style?
I've been thinking about that lately, and I decided that some self-examination was in order, especially considering my latest story involves a dystopic future world where a talking mouse in leading a man beside a river that flows uphill. So you see, self examination was rightly in order.
What exactly has brought me to this point? I think most writers will tell you that they are influenced by their surroundings, their situations, and their life in general. I'm poor, therefore most of my characters are poor. Darby O'Hanlon drove a piece of crap car. I'm slightly crazy, and so most of my characters are slightly crazy. Poor old Darby thought the world was going to end, and technically he's still right, he was just off on the timing. I'm single, and I usually create characters that are single. It avoids clutter... I have a talking mouse in Historia, and I talk to animals all the time, although I know that no spoken response will come, it's the whole affection of the animal thing.
But is that all? What part does my religion play in my writing? Darby dealt with this in a very roundabout way. In one version of the story he's confronted by a homeless man who tells him about religions. Clifford, in the expanded version I'm currently working on, deals in some minor ways with religion, and there's a new character, the Right Reverend Squire.
What about music? I almost always write to music, and I'm writing to music as I type this. Ludovico Einaudi has become one of my favorites. But I also go back to the old days, and dig up some good old fashioned rock. But classical is my wheelhouse, especially on Historia. In fact, if you go an look at the soundtrack I posted in January, you'll see a lot of classical on there. There's also Avantasia, a project from Edguy leadman Tobias Sammet, which is a rock opera that I highly suggest. Powerful stuff.
So that's it. I think. Not really. I never really self examined, I more self explained. Maybe that's why they call it introspection. I need to rethink my purpose for this blog entry...
5/07/2009
Review #33: Dark Tower I: The Gunslinger
Stephen King's sweeping Dark Tower series begins with The Gunslinger. First published in increments starting in 1978, the actual first book came out in 1982 (the year I was born, I'm telling you, this series means a lot to me). King himself refers to this series as his magnum opus, and one can hardly blame him.The Gunslinger (subtitled RESUMPTION, more on that later) follows Roland as he crosses the Mohaine Desert, as he calls it, the apotheosis of all deserts, chasing the Man in Black. The book features one of the simplest, yet greatest, opening lines in literary history:
The man in black fled across the desert, and the Gunslinger followed.
Roland Deschain is a Gunslinger, a sort of knight-errant from the lost barony of Gilead. His quest is for the Dark Tower, the nexus of all time and space. Along the way in this book he meet Jake Chambers at a waystation. Jake had lived in New York in 1977 but had been pushed into the path of a car and killed. He awoke in the waystation where Roland found him, and he went with Roland afterward.
Roland takes a path through the mountain, but loses Jake along the way. (Jake's last words are "Go then, there are other worlds than these" and he falls.) Roland eventually catches the man in black, who reveals that he will draw three unto him, the PRISONER, the LADY OF SHADOWS, and DEATH (But not for you, Gunslinger.)
King's entry into the Dark Tower was revised in 2003 to streamline the original book, and thereby make it better fit the series. He removed certain aspects, and changed names, all to make the reader more comfortable. Having read both, I must say that the original was very good, but in terms of fitting the story, the revised copy makes more sense.
Final Grade: A
Re-readability: 9.0
5/01/2009
Review #32: Map of Bones
James Rollins is one of my favorite authors. His Sigma Force series is outstanding. Map of Bones, the second book in the series, could stand by itself and be good, but within the series it goes to the next level.The story follows the bones of the Magi, the wisemen who visited the infant Christ. Their bones are stored in cathedrals in Europe, but it turns out they aren't bones at all, but a white gold powder amalgam with deadly electro-magnetic properties.
The book rages through the Vatican, various cathedral, the lighthouse at Alexandria (where our adventurers find the tomb of Alexander the Great, and even to France, where the exiled Papacy sat for years before returning to the Vatican.
Sigma Force, an elite branch of "killer scientists" founded under the American group DARPA, does battle with the Guild and the Imperial Dragon Court, trying to master the properties of the amalgam and create a new world order.
The characters, Grayson Pierce, Monk Kokkalis, Kat Bryant, and many others, are easily likeable. For me, these characters reach the same status as Stephen King's characters in the Dark Tower series. Rollins mixes science with adventure, and has been called the modern day Indiana Jones of writing.
Final Grade: A
Re-readability: 9.1
Note: Hopefully these book reviews will be making a bit of a comeback here on Novel Idea. I want to get around to the other books of the Sigma Force series ( 1. Sandstorm, 3. Black Order, 4. The Judas Strain, 5. The Last Oracle, and 6. The Doomsday Key (due out Summer 2009)) and the Dark Tower series (The Gunslinger, Drawing of the Three, The Waste Lands, Wizard and Glass, Wolves of the Calla, Song of Susannah, The Dark Tower). Hopefully.
4/07/2009
Fiction on the Fly #2
James rolled down the window as his beat-up Ford sputtered to a stop beside the McDonald's drive-thru speaker.
"Can I help you?"
"Yeah, I'd like a sausage biscuit and a sweet tea."
"Okay, that's a egg and cheese biscuit and a small coke."
"No. I said a sausage biscuit and a sweet tea."
"Sorry. So, you've got a sausage biscuit and a large coffee., right?"
"No, a sweet tea."
"Mountain Dew?"
"Sweet tea."
"Small coffee, two creams?"
"Forget it!"
"Alright, that's thirty-seven fifty, drive around please. Oh, would you like an apple pie with that?"
James tried to speed away from the drive-thru, but his truck stalled. He walked away.
"Can I help you?"
"Yeah, I'd like a sausage biscuit and a sweet tea."
"Okay, that's a egg and cheese biscuit and a small coke."
"No. I said a sausage biscuit and a sweet tea."
"Sorry. So, you've got a sausage biscuit and a large coffee., right?"
"No, a sweet tea."
"Mountain Dew?"
"Sweet tea."
"Small coffee, two creams?"
"Forget it!"
"Alright, that's thirty-seven fifty, drive around please. Oh, would you like an apple pie with that?"
James tried to speed away from the drive-thru, but his truck stalled. He walked away.
3/31/2009
Historia, Part XXVIII
Perhaps believing that he could think away his problems was a premature notion. He’d slept in relative warmth through the night, but when he awoke the following morning the snowstorm had intensified and had blown into the fallen statue. His pathway up was now more precarious than ever.
Far below him, at the top of the statue, he heard a knocking sound. Immediately, though, he dismissed it as a most likely a dog seeking shelter from the storm.
He brushed the light amounts of snow from the steps and began climbing once more. As he neared the bottom of the statue, the top of his climb, the snow grew thicker. Each cleared step was wasted energy.
The eight-story climb was proving to be easy in much the same way moving the moon closer to earth is easy. Clifford was tiring out very quickly, such was the effort of moving the piled snow on each stair. By the time he had cleared off four of the eight remaining flights of stairs he was physically exhausted and mentally he had checked out three flights of stairs ago. His mind had occupied itself with creating new song combinations. He’d thought of playing “I Can See for Miles” while sings “Imagine” but he’d given up that game when he realized the lunacy of it all.
After what felt like days of climbing, but was truthfully only little more than an hour, Clifford Jenkins emerged from the top of the bottom of the statue. The snow continued to fall in the early morning light. The knocking sound in the statue seemed closer. He could actually feel it reverberate through the metal walls.
The statue had broken at its base and had fallen over face-first. Clifford emerged from what looked to have once been a big toe. The ragged edges of the statue base and the statue itself were truly one enormous jigsaw puzzle with only two pieces, something it would take a god or at least something bigger than Clifford to reassemble.
Clifford stepped out onto the top of the pyramid, ignoring the knock that grew closer. If it was a wild dog it could probably smell the food he carried. He toyed with the notion of tossing a single piece of dried meat back down the upside-down stairwell. And then he looked around. The whole of Historia stretched out in all directions from him. He could see all the things he’d passed on his journey, and he could even make out the path that he and Jamie Conner had taken coming off the mountain in the East.
Away to the north stood the gold-domed Vat-a-Can, while to the South was the cathedral-building of the wild dogs. The black marble wall with the engraved names and the seated-clown statue glistened in the scant flashes of morning sun. Clifford breathed a massive sigh of relief.
One day he’d been sitting in Timey’s bar in Nostalgia when the urge had feel on him to go to Historia. He had never been able to place why he’d knew that he had to go, but he had gone. His mission, especially since the flood in Lithe, had been to reach the pyramid. And now, not only had he reached the pyramid, but he stood atop it, victorious. He had conquered Historia.
And that’s when the floor gave way beneath him.
He tumbled into the dark, reaching out for anything to grab hold of and slow his descent. During the mad flailing for safety Clifford noted that the surface he slid along was smooth, which meant that either God or nature was smiling on him and giving him a comfortable death, or he’d been standing on a trapdoor on the roof. Of course, that last option seemed far too deus ex machina-ish for him, and with that thought it hit him that he had no idea what a deus ex machina was, and it would’ve surprised him beyond measure to learn that, essentially, his entire life was one big slaphappy deus ex machina playing out in the heart of old Nostalgia.
He pondered this as he slid, and he slid until he plopped unceremoniously down onto a very plush bed. He fought the urge to go back to sleep and forced himself to sit up and take in his surroundings.
The room was huge, but the ceiling had a rather large hole in it. The hole, Clifford surmised without much doubt, was the trapdoor he’d fallen through. The bed was huge, easily four times larger in all dimensions (including the fifth) than any bed Clifford had ever seen, much less slept in. And after the grueling exercise of sweeping snow off of upside-down steps that tilted at a better than twenty degree angle, Clifford’s body really wanted to sleep.
He continued to survey the room. It was decorated much like Clifford thought a king’s room would look. And slowly it dawned on him that he was in Father Time’s bed room.
To his right was a large purple chair near a window. The window was broken out, and Clifford realized that it was the window he’d seen smoking pouring from when he’d stood on the mountain to the East of Historia as Jamie Conner deserted him. At least now he knew what direction was East.
On the thickly carpeted floor near the chair was a pile of ashes and Clifford would say that the first thought to cross his mind was that Father Time had spontaneously combusted. It was quickly realized, though, that the pile of ash was just that. Apparently someone had decided on building a bon fire in Father Time’s bedroom. Possibly Father Time himself.
To Clifford’s left was a large cabinet, and through the open door of this cabinet Clifford could see a recklessly compiled wardrobe and more than a few empty bottle of alcohol. The floor in front of the cabinet was littered with paper and dirty clothes. Clifford listened, but he heard nothing. The room was empty, save for him. The knocking in the statue hadn’t followed him.
He rolled off the bed, and for the first time thought of his guitar. It was broken. Scratched, smashed, dented, dinged, ripped, torn, beaten. It was gone. All that remained was a broken wooden body and neck and six loose strings. He laid the guitar on the bed gently, almost as if it were a fallen comrade. He closed his eyes and rested his hand on the scratched neck one last time.
When he opened his eyes and turned around he was met by a man dressed in khaki slacks and a white T-shirt, with mussed up brown hair and a wild look in his eye. Father Time.
Clifford vocalized that thought. The Father Time part, not the physical description part.
“Right! I am! Name’s Ted.”
Clifford swore that Schrodinger had mentioned that at some point, that Father Time was named Ted. And that he was dying, but no one knew why. Also he was only a year or two older than Clifford, although Clifford would bet that, even though Father Ted Time looked like crap and death warmed over had had a love child, he probably looked far worse for wear.
Clifford cleared his throat, “I’m Clifford Jenkins, from Nostalgia.”
Father Ted Time grabbed him by the shoulders, “I know you are!”
Clifford leaned back. Ted’s breath reeked of whiskey, or vodka, or most likely both. He blinked for a moment as Father Time released his grip, “So...”
Father Time grabbed him by the shoulders again, “I only have one question for you, Cliff!”
“Okay, go ahead.” Clifford suddenly felt like something bad was about to happen.
“It’s the only question I got, and then we’ll talk for a while.”
Clifford nodded, “I’ll try my best to answer.”
“Okay, here goes. Golly, I’ve been waiting a while to ask this.”
Clifford shrugged Father Time’s hands off his shoulders and stepped back, “Will you just ask already!”
Father Time smiled, “Did you bring Granpappy’s will?”
Far below him, at the top of the statue, he heard a knocking sound. Immediately, though, he dismissed it as a most likely a dog seeking shelter from the storm.
He brushed the light amounts of snow from the steps and began climbing once more. As he neared the bottom of the statue, the top of his climb, the snow grew thicker. Each cleared step was wasted energy.
The eight-story climb was proving to be easy in much the same way moving the moon closer to earth is easy. Clifford was tiring out very quickly, such was the effort of moving the piled snow on each stair. By the time he had cleared off four of the eight remaining flights of stairs he was physically exhausted and mentally he had checked out three flights of stairs ago. His mind had occupied itself with creating new song combinations. He’d thought of playing “I Can See for Miles” while sings “Imagine” but he’d given up that game when he realized the lunacy of it all.
After what felt like days of climbing, but was truthfully only little more than an hour, Clifford Jenkins emerged from the top of the bottom of the statue. The snow continued to fall in the early morning light. The knocking sound in the statue seemed closer. He could actually feel it reverberate through the metal walls.
The statue had broken at its base and had fallen over face-first. Clifford emerged from what looked to have once been a big toe. The ragged edges of the statue base and the statue itself were truly one enormous jigsaw puzzle with only two pieces, something it would take a god or at least something bigger than Clifford to reassemble.
Clifford stepped out onto the top of the pyramid, ignoring the knock that grew closer. If it was a wild dog it could probably smell the food he carried. He toyed with the notion of tossing a single piece of dried meat back down the upside-down stairwell. And then he looked around. The whole of Historia stretched out in all directions from him. He could see all the things he’d passed on his journey, and he could even make out the path that he and Jamie Conner had taken coming off the mountain in the East.
Away to the north stood the gold-domed Vat-a-Can, while to the South was the cathedral-building of the wild dogs. The black marble wall with the engraved names and the seated-clown statue glistened in the scant flashes of morning sun. Clifford breathed a massive sigh of relief.
One day he’d been sitting in Timey’s bar in Nostalgia when the urge had feel on him to go to Historia. He had never been able to place why he’d knew that he had to go, but he had gone. His mission, especially since the flood in Lithe, had been to reach the pyramid. And now, not only had he reached the pyramid, but he stood atop it, victorious. He had conquered Historia.
And that’s when the floor gave way beneath him.
He tumbled into the dark, reaching out for anything to grab hold of and slow his descent. During the mad flailing for safety Clifford noted that the surface he slid along was smooth, which meant that either God or nature was smiling on him and giving him a comfortable death, or he’d been standing on a trapdoor on the roof. Of course, that last option seemed far too deus ex machina-ish for him, and with that thought it hit him that he had no idea what a deus ex machina was, and it would’ve surprised him beyond measure to learn that, essentially, his entire life was one big slaphappy deus ex machina playing out in the heart of old Nostalgia.
He pondered this as he slid, and he slid until he plopped unceremoniously down onto a very plush bed. He fought the urge to go back to sleep and forced himself to sit up and take in his surroundings.
The room was huge, but the ceiling had a rather large hole in it. The hole, Clifford surmised without much doubt, was the trapdoor he’d fallen through. The bed was huge, easily four times larger in all dimensions (including the fifth) than any bed Clifford had ever seen, much less slept in. And after the grueling exercise of sweeping snow off of upside-down steps that tilted at a better than twenty degree angle, Clifford’s body really wanted to sleep.
He continued to survey the room. It was decorated much like Clifford thought a king’s room would look. And slowly it dawned on him that he was in Father Time’s bed room.
To his right was a large purple chair near a window. The window was broken out, and Clifford realized that it was the window he’d seen smoking pouring from when he’d stood on the mountain to the East of Historia as Jamie Conner deserted him. At least now he knew what direction was East.
On the thickly carpeted floor near the chair was a pile of ashes and Clifford would say that the first thought to cross his mind was that Father Time had spontaneously combusted. It was quickly realized, though, that the pile of ash was just that. Apparently someone had decided on building a bon fire in Father Time’s bedroom. Possibly Father Time himself.
To Clifford’s left was a large cabinet, and through the open door of this cabinet Clifford could see a recklessly compiled wardrobe and more than a few empty bottle of alcohol. The floor in front of the cabinet was littered with paper and dirty clothes. Clifford listened, but he heard nothing. The room was empty, save for him. The knocking in the statue hadn’t followed him.
He rolled off the bed, and for the first time thought of his guitar. It was broken. Scratched, smashed, dented, dinged, ripped, torn, beaten. It was gone. All that remained was a broken wooden body and neck and six loose strings. He laid the guitar on the bed gently, almost as if it were a fallen comrade. He closed his eyes and rested his hand on the scratched neck one last time.
When he opened his eyes and turned around he was met by a man dressed in khaki slacks and a white T-shirt, with mussed up brown hair and a wild look in his eye. Father Time.
Clifford vocalized that thought. The Father Time part, not the physical description part.
“Right! I am! Name’s Ted.”
Clifford swore that Schrodinger had mentioned that at some point, that Father Time was named Ted. And that he was dying, but no one knew why. Also he was only a year or two older than Clifford, although Clifford would bet that, even though Father Ted Time looked like crap and death warmed over had had a love child, he probably looked far worse for wear.
Clifford cleared his throat, “I’m Clifford Jenkins, from Nostalgia.”
Father Ted Time grabbed him by the shoulders, “I know you are!”
Clifford leaned back. Ted’s breath reeked of whiskey, or vodka, or most likely both. He blinked for a moment as Father Time released his grip, “So...”
Father Time grabbed him by the shoulders again, “I only have one question for you, Cliff!”
“Okay, go ahead.” Clifford suddenly felt like something bad was about to happen.
“It’s the only question I got, and then we’ll talk for a while.”
Clifford nodded, “I’ll try my best to answer.”
“Okay, here goes. Golly, I’ve been waiting a while to ask this.”
Clifford shrugged Father Time’s hands off his shoulders and stepped back, “Will you just ask already!”
Father Time smiled, “Did you bring Granpappy’s will?”
3/27/2009
Great Quotes
"I'm so tired that I can't take anymore. Well, I probably could take more, but by the time I did I'd be so tired that it just wouldn't do."
-the greatest person in the world (not me)
-the greatest person in the world (not me)
3/23/2009
Historia, Part XXVII
Clifford’s laughter, though, was short-lived. As he looked around the depth of carnage unleashed by the collapsing statue-cannon became readily apparent. The ground was scorched black, turning a light gray in the rain/snow that was falling. The broken statue lay against the side of the pyramid, its greenish metal twisted and blackened. Some areas of it still smoked, as though the fire from the cannon still raged.
The black helmeted head of the statue had rolled off and now lay over to the side against a row of trees. Part of the faceplate was gone, likely blown away in the resulting fire, and underneath where it had once been was a genteel face sculpted of the same greenish metal as the rest of the statue.
Clifford, who had been standing in a bit of a ditch, stepped up to the same level as the pyramid and was greeted with a horrifying sight. The ground was covered with burned skeletons, many twisted in agony, some curled into fetal positions, some scattered over large areas. None alive.
The statue’s fall had done considerable damage, and had cost many lives. As Clifford surveyed the damage, he realized just how badly the pyramid itself had been compromised. The golden surface was dented and torn in many places, including the top, where Clifford knew he had to go.
He thought for a moment about looking for an entrance to the pyramid, but his attention kept returning to the downed statue. He walked toward it, careful not to disturb the remains scattered about. Once he had reached the statue, he quickly appreciated both its size, and the overall size of the pyramid. They were huge.
He stepped inside the now ripped open neck and saw stairs leading up. He knew immediately that he would actually be walking on the under-side of the stairs, but they accomplished his goal just the same. That is, if they were strong enough to take his weight. The fall might very well have jarred them loose.
He took the first tentative steps onto the upside down staircase and found them sturdy. He began to move with more speed, and since there was no give to cause him to hesitate, he began to take the stairs two at a time, and sometimes three at a time. The stairs zigzagged throughout the body of the immense statue, passing floors that now served as ceiling and ceilings that now served as floors, all running at about a 20-degree angle.
Every so often he would happen across a window that looked out on Historia. The higher he climbed the more expansive his view became, and when he was near the top he noticed something. The sentry station, the black wall with the names, and the fountain where he’d seen the body crash down were in perfect zyzygy, even though he knew, for a fact, that he’d taken many turns along the street going from one to the next.
The top of the statue... well, what was now the top, once the bottom, if that makes sense, was near. With it, Clifford knew, he would once more be exposed to the weather, which from the windows looked to be all snow now. And nightfall was nearing as well. He thought about the fire he had seen smoldering within the statue’s body, some eight stair-flights back. It would keep him warm and sheltered until the next day, and he would be able to get some sleep.
He had all he needed. Guitar, gun (guns, actually. He still carried the M-1 Garand as well as the sidearm he’d lifted off the dead soldier when he’d first reached Historia), food (there was still some dried meat in his bundle, along with the cheese-block in the leafy paper), and coat. He worked his way back down the stairs, which for some reason seemed a far more dangerous proposition than going up. The fire that was smoldering proved to be the remains of a desk, meaning that he was near what had been the bottom of the statue, where office would’ve been.
He stoked the fire back up a little bit so he could get warm. Nestling close to it he put his bundle and guitar over to the side. It was odd carrying the bundle and not have Schrodinger in it, but Clifford didn’t mind anymore. Not since Schrodinger’s deception had been revealed.
But why had Schrodinger acted the way he had? It struck Clifford as odd that the mouse would lie so blatantly just to keep him in the dark. The book had been blank all along, and Clifford doubted if he had ever had any sort of gift. Most likely the mouse had merely found him useful as a means of getting to Historia quicker.
But that didn’t explain what had happened in the King’s Valley. Or at the Farm of Pepperidge for that matter. For the first time, truly the first time, Clifford’s mind found itself occupied by what had actually happened at those places.
Maybe this world was just that different. Maybe, he thought, once you crossed the Mountains of Antiquity and entered the valley that is Historia, everything changed. The laws of nature seemed different. Clifford’s time-sense was definitely suffering some adverse effects. He had wondered a few times how his hair had grown so much during his first night away from Nostalgia, and yet he hadn’t grown a beard. Perhaps he did have some kind of gift, some power that was new to the world. Perhaps he had adapted to the world instead of making it adapt to him.
Schrodinger had once told him, just before they had bedded down for the night (along the road to the Farm of Pepperidge, just after the encounter with Israel Putnam), and again in the sentry station, that humans made the environment change to their needs. Clifford hadn’t thought much of the statement at the time, but now he understood it better. Human stupidity was, in essence, the mother of innovation and invention. If the climate was too cold, humans would make better coats, or build thicker walls instead of move to a warmer, more temperate area.
Maybe, just maybe, Clifford Jenkins was the first human in ages to adapt to the world, and his adaptation was a gift that allowed him to survive. He was able to avoid problems by thinking them away. He could remember the teacher at the University in Nostalgia telling the students once that they could not simply think their problems away; that they had to solve them. And now Clifford Jenkins sat on an un-numbered ceiling-floor in an upside down statue. And now Clifford Jenkins understood that he could actually think away his problems.
The black helmeted head of the statue had rolled off and now lay over to the side against a row of trees. Part of the faceplate was gone, likely blown away in the resulting fire, and underneath where it had once been was a genteel face sculpted of the same greenish metal as the rest of the statue.
Clifford, who had been standing in a bit of a ditch, stepped up to the same level as the pyramid and was greeted with a horrifying sight. The ground was covered with burned skeletons, many twisted in agony, some curled into fetal positions, some scattered over large areas. None alive.
The statue’s fall had done considerable damage, and had cost many lives. As Clifford surveyed the damage, he realized just how badly the pyramid itself had been compromised. The golden surface was dented and torn in many places, including the top, where Clifford knew he had to go.
He thought for a moment about looking for an entrance to the pyramid, but his attention kept returning to the downed statue. He walked toward it, careful not to disturb the remains scattered about. Once he had reached the statue, he quickly appreciated both its size, and the overall size of the pyramid. They were huge.
He stepped inside the now ripped open neck and saw stairs leading up. He knew immediately that he would actually be walking on the under-side of the stairs, but they accomplished his goal just the same. That is, if they were strong enough to take his weight. The fall might very well have jarred them loose.
He took the first tentative steps onto the upside down staircase and found them sturdy. He began to move with more speed, and since there was no give to cause him to hesitate, he began to take the stairs two at a time, and sometimes three at a time. The stairs zigzagged throughout the body of the immense statue, passing floors that now served as ceiling and ceilings that now served as floors, all running at about a 20-degree angle.
Every so often he would happen across a window that looked out on Historia. The higher he climbed the more expansive his view became, and when he was near the top he noticed something. The sentry station, the black wall with the names, and the fountain where he’d seen the body crash down were in perfect zyzygy, even though he knew, for a fact, that he’d taken many turns along the street going from one to the next.
The top of the statue... well, what was now the top, once the bottom, if that makes sense, was near. With it, Clifford knew, he would once more be exposed to the weather, which from the windows looked to be all snow now. And nightfall was nearing as well. He thought about the fire he had seen smoldering within the statue’s body, some eight stair-flights back. It would keep him warm and sheltered until the next day, and he would be able to get some sleep.
He had all he needed. Guitar, gun (guns, actually. He still carried the M-1 Garand as well as the sidearm he’d lifted off the dead soldier when he’d first reached Historia), food (there was still some dried meat in his bundle, along with the cheese-block in the leafy paper), and coat. He worked his way back down the stairs, which for some reason seemed a far more dangerous proposition than going up. The fire that was smoldering proved to be the remains of a desk, meaning that he was near what had been the bottom of the statue, where office would’ve been.
He stoked the fire back up a little bit so he could get warm. Nestling close to it he put his bundle and guitar over to the side. It was odd carrying the bundle and not have Schrodinger in it, but Clifford didn’t mind anymore. Not since Schrodinger’s deception had been revealed.
But why had Schrodinger acted the way he had? It struck Clifford as odd that the mouse would lie so blatantly just to keep him in the dark. The book had been blank all along, and Clifford doubted if he had ever had any sort of gift. Most likely the mouse had merely found him useful as a means of getting to Historia quicker.
But that didn’t explain what had happened in the King’s Valley. Or at the Farm of Pepperidge for that matter. For the first time, truly the first time, Clifford’s mind found itself occupied by what had actually happened at those places.
Maybe this world was just that different. Maybe, he thought, once you crossed the Mountains of Antiquity and entered the valley that is Historia, everything changed. The laws of nature seemed different. Clifford’s time-sense was definitely suffering some adverse effects. He had wondered a few times how his hair had grown so much during his first night away from Nostalgia, and yet he hadn’t grown a beard. Perhaps he did have some kind of gift, some power that was new to the world. Perhaps he had adapted to the world instead of making it adapt to him.
Schrodinger had once told him, just before they had bedded down for the night (along the road to the Farm of Pepperidge, just after the encounter with Israel Putnam), and again in the sentry station, that humans made the environment change to their needs. Clifford hadn’t thought much of the statement at the time, but now he understood it better. Human stupidity was, in essence, the mother of innovation and invention. If the climate was too cold, humans would make better coats, or build thicker walls instead of move to a warmer, more temperate area.
Maybe, just maybe, Clifford Jenkins was the first human in ages to adapt to the world, and his adaptation was a gift that allowed him to survive. He was able to avoid problems by thinking them away. He could remember the teacher at the University in Nostalgia telling the students once that they could not simply think their problems away; that they had to solve them. And now Clifford Jenkins sat on an un-numbered ceiling-floor in an upside down statue. And now Clifford Jenkins understood that he could actually think away his problems.
3/19/2009
Historia, Part XXVI
Clifford stared at the book for a long moment, each second that ticked by seeming to grow even more anger on his face. And then, at that precise moment, it hit him. He realized that he’d let a mouse get the better of him because he’d wanted to think of himself as special. And with that near-epiphany, he realized that he no longer needed Schrodinger.
He tossed the book lightly onto the cot and began walking toward the exit. The mouse was shouting something to him, but it no longer mattered. Only the pyramid remained before him.
“Clifford, you can’t leave us.” Schrodinger yelled, running behind him to keep up.
With a wave of his hand Clifford dismissed him, but then he stopped, “Oh wait. I need my stuff.”
“What stuff?” the mouse asked.
“You told me that you found my bundle and my guitar. I’d like them back.”
Schrodinger motioned for the cats to retrieve the items. As they brought them forward Clifford inspected each one, making sure that everything was in place. The bundle still contained a bit a cheese wrapped in leafy-paper and the extra guitar strings, as well as the Swedish Navy Knife. The envelope was still there as well.
Schrodinger sighed (hilarious) and asked, “Can you at least tell me what is in the envelope? You’ve carried it with you as long as I’ve known you.”
“Why not? It’s my granpappy’s last will and testament.”
Schrodinger leaned back a bit. For some reason, he seemed troubled by that news. But he let it pass and watched as Clifford Jenkins walked away. Clifford stopped long enough to gather up a hooded-coat that one of the Historians had worn and wrapped it around himself. The rain shower from earlier seemed to have brought winter’s chill with it.
Clifford left the Sentry station and walked in a general north-west direction. He could see the smoking top to the pyramid over some faraway buildings, and he knew that he could reach it with relative ease.
The rain shower that had passed returned moments later, bringing with it a fierce wind. Clifford pulled the coat’s hood up and kept walking. For a moment he hoped that he would never see Schrodinger or the any of the cats ever again. He regretted that thought, but he could not deny it. Schrodinger had brought him much pain and confusion, of that there was no doubt. More than any man should have to put up with in one day if you get right down to it.
The roads beyond the sentry station, those that led to the pyramid, were broken and in need of some rather serious repair work. Some places were sunken in, some were not even paved. More displaced train-track sections littered the area. There was a building with a dilapidated sign out front, missing quite a few letters, that Clifford could not name. The sign read S_AR_UC_S in extremely faded green letters.
He walked on. Something in his mind, perhaps during his dreams, had told him that the Pyramid was not far from the sentry station, that perhaps the Historians they had slaughtered to take the station were the last line of defense for Father Time. He passed a massive cathedral like structure with a large rounded dome and a smaller statue on top, nothing like the pyramid. Some of the windows of the cathedral-building were missing, and from inside Clifford could hear wild dogs barking and running. He walked on.
The street narrowed has he approached the intersection ahead. Small little shops and, what looked like restaurants, lined the way. Some he had heard of (like one featuring a large, rounded off golden M out front (I’m trying to avoid copyright laws, okay?)), and some he had never heard of. He hunkered down inside the coat and looked up to see that the rain had turned into a rain/snow mix. His guitar was suffering in silent agony.
As he rounded a corner into the intersection, Clifford was confronted by a scene he wasn’t expecting. Not a necessarily shocking scene, but still not one he was prepared for.
The statue of a man seated in a high-backed chair (like the one at the end of Timey’s bar-piano, but far more ornate) was leaning at about a 60-degree angle against the side of a black marble wall with names carved into it. The statue’s face had been painted over to resemble a clown.
Clifford walked by the marble wall, partly because he was drawn to it, mostly because it sheltered him from the wind. He ran his hand along the wall, feeling the deep cold of the marble. The names were almost familiar to him, and he felt for a moment that if he searched hard enough he would find Jaime Connor’s name on it somewhere, probably toward the end he was approaching. (He was right, Jaime’s name was on the wall, fourth from the last in the very last column. Clifford never saw it.)
As he passed the end of the wall he had to snug the hood tighter around his head to protect himself from the cold. A stray thought, possibly carried on the wind, entered his mind that perhaps Historia was colder near the middle. With his thoughts concerned with staying warm, and partly with the wall, Clifford never noticed that he’d reached the outer wall of the pyramid.
He stopped and stared for a moment. He was there. The end of his journey. Clifford Jenkins, as sensible as any man of forty years, stood on the precipice of his destiny. And he laughed.
He tossed the book lightly onto the cot and began walking toward the exit. The mouse was shouting something to him, but it no longer mattered. Only the pyramid remained before him.
“Clifford, you can’t leave us.” Schrodinger yelled, running behind him to keep up.
With a wave of his hand Clifford dismissed him, but then he stopped, “Oh wait. I need my stuff.”
“What stuff?” the mouse asked.
“You told me that you found my bundle and my guitar. I’d like them back.”
Schrodinger motioned for the cats to retrieve the items. As they brought them forward Clifford inspected each one, making sure that everything was in place. The bundle still contained a bit a cheese wrapped in leafy-paper and the extra guitar strings, as well as the Swedish Navy Knife. The envelope was still there as well.
Schrodinger sighed (hilarious) and asked, “Can you at least tell me what is in the envelope? You’ve carried it with you as long as I’ve known you.”
“Why not? It’s my granpappy’s last will and testament.”
Schrodinger leaned back a bit. For some reason, he seemed troubled by that news. But he let it pass and watched as Clifford Jenkins walked away. Clifford stopped long enough to gather up a hooded-coat that one of the Historians had worn and wrapped it around himself. The rain shower from earlier seemed to have brought winter’s chill with it.
Clifford left the Sentry station and walked in a general north-west direction. He could see the smoking top to the pyramid over some faraway buildings, and he knew that he could reach it with relative ease.
The rain shower that had passed returned moments later, bringing with it a fierce wind. Clifford pulled the coat’s hood up and kept walking. For a moment he hoped that he would never see Schrodinger or the any of the cats ever again. He regretted that thought, but he could not deny it. Schrodinger had brought him much pain and confusion, of that there was no doubt. More than any man should have to put up with in one day if you get right down to it.
The roads beyond the sentry station, those that led to the pyramid, were broken and in need of some rather serious repair work. Some places were sunken in, some were not even paved. More displaced train-track sections littered the area. There was a building with a dilapidated sign out front, missing quite a few letters, that Clifford could not name. The sign read S_AR_UC_S in extremely faded green letters.
He walked on. Something in his mind, perhaps during his dreams, had told him that the Pyramid was not far from the sentry station, that perhaps the Historians they had slaughtered to take the station were the last line of defense for Father Time. He passed a massive cathedral like structure with a large rounded dome and a smaller statue on top, nothing like the pyramid. Some of the windows of the cathedral-building were missing, and from inside Clifford could hear wild dogs barking and running. He walked on.
The street narrowed has he approached the intersection ahead. Small little shops and, what looked like restaurants, lined the way. Some he had heard of (like one featuring a large, rounded off golden M out front (I’m trying to avoid copyright laws, okay?)), and some he had never heard of. He hunkered down inside the coat and looked up to see that the rain had turned into a rain/snow mix. His guitar was suffering in silent agony.
As he rounded a corner into the intersection, Clifford was confronted by a scene he wasn’t expecting. Not a necessarily shocking scene, but still not one he was prepared for.
The statue of a man seated in a high-backed chair (like the one at the end of Timey’s bar-piano, but far more ornate) was leaning at about a 60-degree angle against the side of a black marble wall with names carved into it. The statue’s face had been painted over to resemble a clown.
Clifford walked by the marble wall, partly because he was drawn to it, mostly because it sheltered him from the wind. He ran his hand along the wall, feeling the deep cold of the marble. The names were almost familiar to him, and he felt for a moment that if he searched hard enough he would find Jaime Connor’s name on it somewhere, probably toward the end he was approaching. (He was right, Jaime’s name was on the wall, fourth from the last in the very last column. Clifford never saw it.)
As he passed the end of the wall he had to snug the hood tighter around his head to protect himself from the cold. A stray thought, possibly carried on the wind, entered his mind that perhaps Historia was colder near the middle. With his thoughts concerned with staying warm, and partly with the wall, Clifford never noticed that he’d reached the outer wall of the pyramid.
He stopped and stared for a moment. He was there. The end of his journey. Clifford Jenkins, as sensible as any man of forty years, stood on the precipice of his destiny. And he laughed.
3/01/2009
Historia, Part XXV
Schrodinger watched in horror. Well, horror is too strong of a word to use. He was definitely afraid of what would happen next, but horror conjures up images of Stephen King and TV shows where people sing and a British man makes fun of them. The particular sensation that Schrodinger experienced could be described as, perhaps, low-grade horror. Fear was a better word.
He spent so much time getting Clifford Jenkins to this point. He’d very nearly died during the flood in Lithe. And before that, during the battle of the Farm of Pepperidge, Schrodinger had feared for their safety before remembering, and utilizing, the strange gift that Clifford possessed. And even before reaching the Farm of Pepperidge, Schrodinger had started to wonder about Clifford. As they passed through the King’s Valley, and walked for what should have been days but was only hours alongside a river that flowed uphill Schrodinger had continually assessed Clifford Jenkins, trying to figure him out.
Who was this man? How had he come to be in the sleepy town of Nostalgia? He had grown up on the doorstep of Historia, and ever since Schrodinger had somehow joined up with him (Schrodinger knew exactly how he’d joined up with Clifford. It had required patience, timing, and the ability to act dumb and take cheese when the large man had offered it) he had known something was different. Then, as they had journeyed, Schrodinger had gained a rather hefty appreciation of Clifford’s gift. And with that he knew that Father Time could be replaced.
And now, it seemed, Clifford was poised to throw all of that away. All of the adventures they’d been through. The bond that existed between them from their long journey. And deep within the processes going on in Schrodinger’s mind, a rather large cudgel of fear grew even bigger and began battering the other thoughts aside, forcing the mouse to focus on the here-and-now, the great crashing down that was about to cascade from Clifford Jenkins and likely swallow up the entire sentry station, and then all of Historia.
The rainstorm that had started early ended very suddenly, with both mouse and man standing in gathering puddles as the water ran off of them. Schrodinger’s mind allowed him a brief moment of pseudo-levity as he realized his puddle was larger than it should be, and then he suddenly didn’t want to question why. And as that moment of levity passed, the mouse began trying to think like Clifford. He was doing all he could to stop the fear-cudgel from damaging him. How would Clifford assault the pyramid? How would he get in? What would he do once inside? And the fear-cudgel wouldn’t have it, as it smashed those thoughts and forced Schrodinger back into the moment.
Schrodinger watched in horror, unable to move. He grew more and more frightened with each passing moment that Clifford stared at the book. The fear-cudgel in his mind grew larger and stronger and more devastating with each and every page that Clifford flipped.
And Clifford did stare at the book for a moment. Then he frantically flipped page after page, scanning each one before moving on. Then he looked up, well, down, at the mouse.
“It’s blank!”
He spent so much time getting Clifford Jenkins to this point. He’d very nearly died during the flood in Lithe. And before that, during the battle of the Farm of Pepperidge, Schrodinger had feared for their safety before remembering, and utilizing, the strange gift that Clifford possessed. And even before reaching the Farm of Pepperidge, Schrodinger had started to wonder about Clifford. As they passed through the King’s Valley, and walked for what should have been days but was only hours alongside a river that flowed uphill Schrodinger had continually assessed Clifford Jenkins, trying to figure him out.
Who was this man? How had he come to be in the sleepy town of Nostalgia? He had grown up on the doorstep of Historia, and ever since Schrodinger had somehow joined up with him (Schrodinger knew exactly how he’d joined up with Clifford. It had required patience, timing, and the ability to act dumb and take cheese when the large man had offered it) he had known something was different. Then, as they had journeyed, Schrodinger had gained a rather hefty appreciation of Clifford’s gift. And with that he knew that Father Time could be replaced.
And now, it seemed, Clifford was poised to throw all of that away. All of the adventures they’d been through. The bond that existed between them from their long journey. And deep within the processes going on in Schrodinger’s mind, a rather large cudgel of fear grew even bigger and began battering the other thoughts aside, forcing the mouse to focus on the here-and-now, the great crashing down that was about to cascade from Clifford Jenkins and likely swallow up the entire sentry station, and then all of Historia.
The rainstorm that had started early ended very suddenly, with both mouse and man standing in gathering puddles as the water ran off of them. Schrodinger’s mind allowed him a brief moment of pseudo-levity as he realized his puddle was larger than it should be, and then he suddenly didn’t want to question why. And as that moment of levity passed, the mouse began trying to think like Clifford. He was doing all he could to stop the fear-cudgel from damaging him. How would Clifford assault the pyramid? How would he get in? What would he do once inside? And the fear-cudgel wouldn’t have it, as it smashed those thoughts and forced Schrodinger back into the moment.
Schrodinger watched in horror, unable to move. He grew more and more frightened with each passing moment that Clifford stared at the book. The fear-cudgel in his mind grew larger and stronger and more devastating with each and every page that Clifford flipped.
And Clifford did stare at the book for a moment. Then he frantically flipped page after page, scanning each one before moving on. Then he looked up, well, down, at the mouse.
“It’s blank!”
2/19/2009
Historia, Part XXIV
They just stared at each other for what seemed like ages. Clifford reached up to scratch his own chin and realized that he now sported a full beard. As this realization dawned on him, hunger pangs growled from his stomach, “What do we have to eat?”
Schrodinger looked around, trying to find one of the cats, “Mr. MeowMeow, did you find the stock room?”
The cat stopped running long enough to speak, “Yes, down the main hall on the left. There is food for humans there.”
Clifford used his head to point the way and he hobbled after Schrodinger down the main hall. Schrodinger continually glanced back at him as they walked, “I sent some of my people to get your belongings at the house of Shakespeare. We have your bundle and guitar. Any idea where your old travel bag is?”
Clifford shook his head, “I haven’t seen it since....” And he realized that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it, even though he’d had it in Lithe, which he’d been in at most three days earlier, but his time-sense was so messed up that it might have been decades since he’d been in Lithe, and in his dreams he’d doubted if Lithe even existed.
“No matter,” Schrodinger continued, “We’ll get you some food and talk about your plans for the pyramid.”
They reached the stock room and found cans of food, as well as a running refrigerator, which, after Schrodinger explained to Clifford what it was, Clifford slowly opened it to find cold drinks and cold cheese.
As they sat down to meal at the small table a rumble of thunder echoed down the hall, followed by the soft pitter-patter of rain on the roof. Clifford continued eating.
“Well,” Schrodinger said between bites, “you really think you can get in alone?”
“Hmm-mmm,” was the best Clifford could muster with a mouth full of food. He swallowed and nearly choked, “Yeah, I think it’ll be easier that way.”
The mouse nodded, “I can understand that. My mission here with the cats actually has nothing to do with the pyramid.”
Clifford, for no real reason other than he had loads of pent-up frustration with Historia, found this statement extremely annoying, “So why did you drag me along? And be honest with me, mouse.”
Schrodinger wiped his hands off on the tablecloth, “Okay. Honestly, you were as you said you were. You were a means to an end. I hate to tell you that, because at first that’s all you were. Then I learned of your gift, and realized that you would be excellent for replacing Father Time.”
Clifford just sat there, “So that’s it? You admit then that I was a means to an end?”
The mouse nodded.
“So my being here really doesn’t effect what you guys are doing? You really didn’t need me to get into the sentry station?”
“Actually,” Schrodinger said, “I was testing a theory there. I’m sorry you got shot. My theory was that, since you are here to replace Father Time the sentries on duty would recognize that fact and let you pass. I mean, with the strange crap that has been going on around you, why not?”
Clifford took another bite of the cold cheese, “And so I was your theory?”
“In a way,” the mouse replied, “But not necessarily. My theory was more on the lines of...”
Clifford held up a hand to stop him, “I don’t need any more of your psychobabble. I just want to finish this bite in peace,“ Clifford then stood up and began walking away, “Then I have to go. Now.”
He started for the door and then began the slow walk down the main hall. Schrodinger sat at the table for a few seconds before Clifford’s possible plan dawned on him.
The mouse then leapt from the table, and in his haste stumbled over a crack in the floor. By the time he regained his footing to follow him, Clifford was well ahead, “I understand your desire to leave, Clifford.” Schrodinger half-yelled, “But I implore you to at least wait until the storm passes.”
Clifford continued walking toward the courtyard. Schrodinger went after him, but was far enough behind that Clifford beat him to the open area by nearly ten seconds, which was more than enough time for him to cross to the cot and the shelf and grab the book.
As he turned around he saw a look of fear cross the mouse’s face, “No, Clifford, don’t.”
Clifford returned Schrodinger’s semi-evil grin, “Oh yeah.”
His thought process was actually rather simple, especially when compared to the mind-churning mental arithmetic he did when sorting out who Sora Thii actually was. Schrodinger had told him that his life was contained in a History book, which was impossible. And even if it was, then the likely outcome of Clifford opening the book and looking inside would be that he would enter a continual loop of opening the book and looking inside and opening the book and looking inside and opening the book and looking inside. And let’s be honest, that’s a far less stressful life than the one he’s living now.
Schrodinger, though, knew the truth of the situation.
Clifford opened the book.
Schrodinger looked around, trying to find one of the cats, “Mr. MeowMeow, did you find the stock room?”
The cat stopped running long enough to speak, “Yes, down the main hall on the left. There is food for humans there.”
Clifford used his head to point the way and he hobbled after Schrodinger down the main hall. Schrodinger continually glanced back at him as they walked, “I sent some of my people to get your belongings at the house of Shakespeare. We have your bundle and guitar. Any idea where your old travel bag is?”
Clifford shook his head, “I haven’t seen it since....” And he realized that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it, even though he’d had it in Lithe, which he’d been in at most three days earlier, but his time-sense was so messed up that it might have been decades since he’d been in Lithe, and in his dreams he’d doubted if Lithe even existed.
“No matter,” Schrodinger continued, “We’ll get you some food and talk about your plans for the pyramid.”
They reached the stock room and found cans of food, as well as a running refrigerator, which, after Schrodinger explained to Clifford what it was, Clifford slowly opened it to find cold drinks and cold cheese.
As they sat down to meal at the small table a rumble of thunder echoed down the hall, followed by the soft pitter-patter of rain on the roof. Clifford continued eating.
“Well,” Schrodinger said between bites, “you really think you can get in alone?”
“Hmm-mmm,” was the best Clifford could muster with a mouth full of food. He swallowed and nearly choked, “Yeah, I think it’ll be easier that way.”
The mouse nodded, “I can understand that. My mission here with the cats actually has nothing to do with the pyramid.”
Clifford, for no real reason other than he had loads of pent-up frustration with Historia, found this statement extremely annoying, “So why did you drag me along? And be honest with me, mouse.”
Schrodinger wiped his hands off on the tablecloth, “Okay. Honestly, you were as you said you were. You were a means to an end. I hate to tell you that, because at first that’s all you were. Then I learned of your gift, and realized that you would be excellent for replacing Father Time.”
Clifford just sat there, “So that’s it? You admit then that I was a means to an end?”
The mouse nodded.
“So my being here really doesn’t effect what you guys are doing? You really didn’t need me to get into the sentry station?”
“Actually,” Schrodinger said, “I was testing a theory there. I’m sorry you got shot. My theory was that, since you are here to replace Father Time the sentries on duty would recognize that fact and let you pass. I mean, with the strange crap that has been going on around you, why not?”
Clifford took another bite of the cold cheese, “And so I was your theory?”
“In a way,” the mouse replied, “But not necessarily. My theory was more on the lines of...”
Clifford held up a hand to stop him, “I don’t need any more of your psychobabble. I just want to finish this bite in peace,“ Clifford then stood up and began walking away, “Then I have to go. Now.”
He started for the door and then began the slow walk down the main hall. Schrodinger sat at the table for a few seconds before Clifford’s possible plan dawned on him.
The mouse then leapt from the table, and in his haste stumbled over a crack in the floor. By the time he regained his footing to follow him, Clifford was well ahead, “I understand your desire to leave, Clifford.” Schrodinger half-yelled, “But I implore you to at least wait until the storm passes.”
Clifford continued walking toward the courtyard. Schrodinger went after him, but was far enough behind that Clifford beat him to the open area by nearly ten seconds, which was more than enough time for him to cross to the cot and the shelf and grab the book.
As he turned around he saw a look of fear cross the mouse’s face, “No, Clifford, don’t.”
Clifford returned Schrodinger’s semi-evil grin, “Oh yeah.”
His thought process was actually rather simple, especially when compared to the mind-churning mental arithmetic he did when sorting out who Sora Thii actually was. Schrodinger had told him that his life was contained in a History book, which was impossible. And even if it was, then the likely outcome of Clifford opening the book and looking inside would be that he would enter a continual loop of opening the book and looking inside and opening the book and looking inside and opening the book and looking inside. And let’s be honest, that’s a far less stressful life than the one he’s living now.
Schrodinger, though, knew the truth of the situation.
Clifford opened the book.
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