Category: Pulp Arrealica

Mr Love in September

Mr Love stood up from his work at last. It was about time for his midday stroll. He shuffled softly across his little office, taking his hat and cane as he went. Doc Aloise had told him last year that she expected him to go walking daily – for his heart, you see. Of course, in his old age Mr Love did not mind the simple and quite public pleasure of a stroll through Hellhest’s Federal Grounds, regretting dearly the wasted years of his indoor youth.
Mr Love gently smiled as he passed Mrs Matilde Swann’s stately corner office which looked out over the pleasant morning on the Rue de Jun. Mrs Swann did not mind Mr Love’s daily walk so much, so long as his work was finished each day.
“And finished it will be,” thought Mr Love as he called for the elevator at the end of the hall. The operator, a young chap in a red jacket called Mr Garide, smiled knowingly as Mr love joined him in the carriage. “Going for your walk, Mr Love?” He asked. “Yes,” came the reply, “I think the Federal Grounds will do nicely today.” Mr Garide commented that he had heard of a Wizard visiting the city recently, and that he may be down by the yew tree if Mr Love would like to take a look.
Stepping out of the handsome foyer, Mr Love found himself on the Rue de June, the sky hemmed in by tall office buildings like his own. To his left, following the cobbles and trams, was the menacing Academie de Hellhest; Mr Love often enjoyed roaming the old campus in the atmosphere of its young cohorts – which was quite a bit smaller than at Academies in neighbouring cities. To his right, past the Federal Grounds, was the Hellhest old town with the Federal Castle at its centre. Just over its heavy wall one could make out the iconic dual spires of the Cathedrale du Santiago and the Tower of Smooth Colour.
Naturally, Mr Love turned right, proceeding slowly down the pavement accompanied by the careful and familiar click of the cane. He smiled as a well-to-do automobile lazed its way past, a soft jazz tune playing from the radio.
The Federal Grounds, a crescent-shaped park split in two by the Rue de June, was fairly busy for a weekday. As Mr Love strolled along the river, which cut through the Northern half of the park and entered the old city under a bridge, he took pleasure in the comely delights of the active citizens that lazed on the grass.
Here, a young girl giggled as her date chased off birds from their picnic. Further down the hill, some boys were setting up a ball game; one of them had taken the lead, directing the others on the establishment of the boundaries and the division into teams; as Mr Love passed by them, an argument broke out over who would join which team, and a small scuffle ensued. Meanwhile, some schoolgirls were dancing about the jasmines and playing make-believe; they seemed to be recreating a Biblical court scene in which the mages of Lord Ibex were in dispute with the senate; “we must be allowed to produce magic in the city,” one of the girls was saying to the assent of her allies, “who was it that drove off the dark plague? and who was it that put sleep in the devil Alinorax?” “—Valinorax” another corrected. The scene went on. Continuing on the path, Mr Love overheard two ladies in quite modern dresses saying, “… and that Mr Shaw! What a sophisticated piano player he is!” “Oh, no, Bettie. He only ever plays blocky jazz! It wouldn’t hut him to try a Nocturne once in a while.” “Don’t be silly, he played a very good…” Mr Love walked out of earshot. Now reaching a small, paved circle, a photographer was determining the best spot to erect his camera while two businessmen stood by impatiently, one clutching his wand with a nervous hesitation, the other pacing as he said, “this won’t do at all. I ought to be back in the office by now…” Now electing to stroll on the grass, Mr Love noticed a small group of Dal Xe martial artists, the teaching reciting a song in Korema as the students followed her motions striking swiftly at some indetectable quarry. Over there were three women with rapiers, the one refereeing while the two (one in blue, one in red) duelled with precise thrusts and parries; in a flash, the blue lady made a lunge for her opponent’s knee, the red lady cut nimbly into the blade’s path in a quick arc that threw the stab off line but as she rounded the cut to take control of blue’s blade, blue pushed deftly up with her momentum, closing the remaining distance and striking the red fencer in the abdomen. Mr Love reminisced fondly on his fencing days as he went down to sit by a fountain which flowed into the stream below.
It pleased the old heart of Mr Love to see so many young people out in the park during the day. At the height of Queen Valentina’s tyranny – well before the city-states confederated – common folk were on a strict curfew, only allowed to go home, work, church, or the market. Mr Love’s natal city of Vunie was not a free state like Hellhest in the 1850s, and young Love spent most of his time play-fighting in the yard with his brother. By the time the city was free in 1867, Mr Love had no interest in the outer world which was forgotten to many. Besides, by the time he’d moved to Hellhest, he had no time for anything at all.
Now meandering down to the river, Mr Love enjoyed the sights of handsome men and women on bicycles (their wheels jumbled and clattered pleasantly along the cobbles), of charming couples giggling (they perched comfortably on the stone wall by the river), and of cheeky tourists on river boats (their raucous laughter leapt down the length of the stream). Mr Love cross slowly over the stone bridge now, glad for the old hat which shielded him against the pleasant sunlight that congregated in jovial spirits along the river’s surface. At the apex of the bridge’s arc, Mr Love halted, resting on the low metal fence with his free hand. From here, he had a perfect view of the majestic Federal Castle, its simple, medieval structures providing a pleasant relief from the sights of the modern city. Right now, Mr Love figured, its courts and corridors would be busy with officials and assistants hurrying between the offices and chambers which were shared by politician and odd magic alike. Mr Palenx once explained that the entire building’s ink supply came from a single “ink spirit” enclosed in a large brass vat in the basement – though this seemed too ridiculous to be true.
Now on the other side of the river, Mr Love strolled down to the old stone amphitheatre which often served its purpose well for the young artists of the city. The approach to the ancient structure revealed (between equally ancient firs that is) the more well-to-do estates of the city just north of the park and conveniently adjacent to the city centre. The maroon and blue and lemon roofs of these eloquent buildings lorded gently over the edge of the park, their authority known and accounted for. Sure enough, Mr Garide had been correct – at the base of the amphitheatre, kneeling under the shade of the yew tree was a Wizard, speaking softly to a small crowd of children encircling him in the dusty arches of the theatre. He wore a green pinstriped four-piece Wizard’s suit (that is to say, with a matching pinstriped robe) and his simple wooden staff was resting on his knees as he spoke., Mr Love watched silently from the top row of seats as the children nodded along with an air of wisdom that they must have felt becoming of a Wizard’s audience. Occasionally, the Wizard would let out a vibrant burst of magic, its colourful mists dissipating into the open air, and the children would chitter like birds before falling silent as the man began to speak again.
After some time, Mr Love decided to walk back, satisfied with the nourishment of the city’s moments.
As he followed the pavement by the river, Mr Love spotted his old friend Mr Barro, the gardener alongside a younger fella in the same khaki uniform with the deep blue cap. The two men seemed to be watering the concrete base of a lamppost, and Mr Love immediately remarked: “Water it as much as you like, gentlemen, it won’t grow any taller.”
“Well,” Mr. Barro turned, smiling, “Maybe not, but the water keeps the lights on!”
“Hm?” Was all Mr Love could manage in his confusion.
“Oh yes, Council just installed new charms on the lights in the park. Apparently, some new initiative with the Academy to involve its students in public infrastructure.”
“What a waste!” Mr Love responded.
“Aye, mate. Of time and resources!”
“I reckon it’s a brilliant idea,” piped up the gardener’s apprentice.
Introductions were made, and Mr Love resolved to return often in the name of old friends.
Now, our old stroller began to retreat to his office. As he passed by the trafficked streets and stoic facades, he dwelled on the pleasant sights of the city he had seen. What a delightful day! What a delightful city! The old man practically licked his lips at the sweetness which his walk had brought upon him, nourishing and exhilarating him with bountiful floral blessings. Mr Love smiled brilliantly at the traffic controller in his grey uniform as he shuffled now back across the Rue de June, to which he received a small tip of the cap in response. The cars chuckled in wait as Love reached the pavement before his office, and they honked in a musical orchestra as they bobbed along with the permission of the controller. And Mr Love returned to his desk and the day carried on with a serene bliss.

Before the Nightwalker

The Nehwotic sun was already low in the summer sky when Br. Gavriil Endeiras left Eserii Monastery for his night-walk.

It had been an uncharacteristically cool day, with a light breeze carrying the air from the lazy sea in the bay below so that, even here at the foot of the sacred hill, the scent of salt and lilac — that silver-gilded flower that lined the processional way — danced like sparrows through the narrow streets and arches of the city. Now, as the lamp-lighters began their evening march, there was a silence that permeated the cobbled streets. In that stagnant moment of the day where preparations for guests and a meal are due, a memory of some ancient life grows like a flower from between two cobbles, drinking in the dark air so old and fresh. To happen on such a moment where the dead supplicate at one’s heels to be remembered is to grow in appreciation of all that is known and unknown in the city’s life: here a stone-mason carved a façade of a maiden in the likeness of his wife — a close listen may elicit the sound of her gentle singing; here stood a tiny church and its graveyard once before all were demolished for industrial growth, so that all that remains are the headstones built into that wall — many who read the epitaphs find themselves smiling as if for old friends; here an old circle of stones marks a well where water was drawn for hundreds of years — just to be near it urges the stroller to recount some tale or another. It is not uncommon, in fact, for one to happen upon a phantom even in broad daylight who might say to a passer-by, “how do you do?” or else might shuffle along in his delicate spats in a haze, as if in a day-dream, squinting wanly into the boulevard as he passes through a wall where once was an alley. Other such spirits have been known to sit in the libraries or bureaus across the city, spouting gnomic advice to students or explaining the extensive etymology of a word just now used by a gentleman giving a lecture. Such deceased, in their pallor and distance, are the quintessence of the city, guarding their road-side tombs and admiring their effigies.

Anyone who has visited Lihat and has summited the Hill dou San Helene would know what a colourful sight the city is when the sun dips low upon the western sea, lifting up by his seat the climber from below so that he may view the streets from above, where terracotta roofs pitch west toward the bay, reflecting the evening light’s sun out like a great red light-house, and where the little painted towers – perhaps a clock-tower, perhaps a steeple, perhaps the hint of an office building – gently watched along from on high, the sky mimicking their soft pastels like a learning child. Once, in the days of bronze and the hours of demigods, this city clung desperately to the Hill, the processional way a walled road that led down to the Piraeic port-town of Ostalna, and the city limits reaching only to the once-quiet base of the Sacred Hill. Here, Eserii Monastery now delighted in the clustering of gentlemen in suits ferrying both wand and ladies alike along the cobbled thoroughfares. Since those ancient days, millennia later, the city had spread itself across its archaic hinterland like a viny pumpkin assuming control of a vegetable garden, its wide leaves subsuming Ostalna, where now piers reached out even beyond the limits of the original harbour, and the Signor Mayor’s manor could be seen at the very western-most outcrop along the bay, the electrical lights of the parlour just now being put to work by his servants. Also entangled in prickly urbanity and industry were the old towns of Sivic, the potter’s quarter of the ancients, where even now one could espy around the corner of the sacred hill’s long ridges the industrial factories of the modern city, the smoke-tops only now ceasing their wheezing so that the labourers within may spill out into the exhausted streets, and of Quedeira, the medieval fort that held out against the Khan’s hordes from the south for all of twelve years before finally giving in to their insidious reign – the coarse granite of the battlements were hardly visible in the evenings on account of their orange hue, so that Br. Gavriil was not able to make out its spires, even positioned as he was on the second-story exit that led down into the monastery’s courtyard. Old S. Diana was weaving among the cloisters, sweeping the wind-muddled soil back into its basin at the centre of the space, where the old willow was settling in for the evening, lighting its candle and amplifying its gramophone to enjoy a suite of ballet; Br. Gavriil smiled gently at the nun, traversing softly across the pavements.

It was upon such a night and such a city that Br. Gavriil set out, fastening his dark capelet about his shoulders. The red evening light illuminated his vestments in such a way that the black silk embroidery was transformed into a deep maroon. He still pressed his shirts before he left his cubicle even when they were completely obscured by his long dark robes, and he still carried in his waist-coat pocket an open-faced silver watch attached to a silver chain that hung from the centre-most button-hole. Admittedly, such fashion was archaic among the garments of the modern man, especially for a monk. Nevertheless, Br. Gavriil found that even among such contemporaries, the fashionable vestments of the 9^th Era’s clergy were reason for pause and reflection on what has been left behind. As he passed out of the brick-work arch that marked the limen between the mundane and the sacred, Gavriil wondered just what kind of life to-night would lead.

The Br. first sat himself on the stout stone bench just beyond the boundary of the Monastery. Someone had engraved upon the rough surface a self-memoriam: “Tescus hic fuit”. Gavriil pressed his palm gently against the cool stone, its carved surface rough to the touch. The memory of a ghost seemed to brush by in a summer breeze, and the Br. smiled as though greeting an old friend. Seated there in the gentle warmth of St. Ioannis’ week, Br. Gavriil found his thoughts drift (as they often did) towards his father (as they often would). Decades ago, well after he had joined the Orthodox Church of Thelonius, Br. Gavriil became successor to a rich lineage of Nychtovoltoi, urban priests and monks who would perambulate the dark canyons of the city as an aide to the good citizens of Lihat. Any and all work, he hummed to himself, that is done in the name of charity and God is good work indeed. In Gavriil’s bedridden childhood, Kr. Endeiras Sr., forever devoted to the church, had sought to teach his son about their faith, and thereby their culture, nestled as it was within its reams of proverbs. Often – even in the spring of 1868 Ix 9E, when the air-ships glided over the country-side, and the heavy breathing of their fore- and aft-balloons filled the evening air with asthmatic fervour that heated the fields and hamlets below, filling the country-folk with such a sticky malaise that many found themselves doffing even their waistcoats in a mad attempt to dispel the heat – he would share scriptures from the Giothien ‘Se Diruii Fa’ntes’ in the most hushed of tones, so that, even when his voice was not entirely drowned out by the noises in the street below or in the thoroughfares above, the boy still had to read his father’s lips just to follow the story. In other times – when all was quiet and the nations slumbered as bears in the winter – he could listen along with rested eyes, scouring the wallpaper (a simple domestic scene of a rich homestead backed by a cloudless sky and with horses pasturing upon the pale field) for the slightest of hints to inspire the visions in his mind of the heroes spoken aloud: St. Andreas, Prince in Fire giving a speech to the armies of the Aena astride a chestnut horse and a suit not of armour but of modern cotton; or Melamoira whispering to her fugitive sisters in the pale grass clutching water-filled pales not of ceramic but of tin. Often so one’s image of the past becomes enlivened by the present, and the mystical frost that occludes the imagination turns to sludge.

“My Gavy,” the old man once began in his usual manner, smiling at his phthisic son from the arm-chair beside his bed, “remember that in all things God’s will is found, and that always God’s will is seen from three angles and never in the whole. Listen, learn, judge; acquaint yourself with what may be, with what has been, with what is, and with those views you are yet to learn. It is only through the eyes of others that you will see your own life in full.” Yet Gavy often found himself responding, questioning what he was taught, “but father, if God’s will is thrice in all things, how can I know which path is pious, since each one might be so?” Then, “look to the prophets and their mantic writings, to the scriptures and their parabolic stories, and to the teachers and their gnomic proverbs. As it is in the divine, so it is in the mundane: in Trinity you will find Unity.” The old Kr. Endeiras Sr. was wont to quote literature to his son in such a way as this, just as his own father had before him. “But what of disunity? And what of quadrinity?!” Gavy replied, coining as he often did new words for himself in his yet uneducated youth. “Disunity is profanity, and quaternity,” he corrected subtly, “is itself a subversion.” Gavriil was sent into a fearful tremor. “Then we are doomed! You and I and mother and Ioannis make four! How can we save ourselves from damnation?” In his youth, his utmost fear was eternal damnation; thrice he had his certificate of baptism verified by the steward and often begged for a recount of the day’s passing so as to ensure his salvation. To his questions, his father only smiled gently, dimmed the oil lamp, and retired from the chamber.

When the war had ended, the servants were instructed to fashion a fresco on his ceiling (the previously off-white surface of which had only its decorated cornices to entertain the mind of a boy) into a tangled procession of archaic priests and princes, so that, even though Death had lifted the old man up into His embrace, Endeiras Jr. could carry through his promise to keep hold the traditions of his people.

A small parcel had by now been retrieved from the jacket pocket, and (having crossed himself twice) the monk had begun to enjoy a small serving of dried meats while a train of stray cats sauntered by in a slow and disorderly fashion.

Quiet minds and quiet stomachs lend themselves to the best service, thought he, repeating further his lessons from the Giothienic scripts over which he would sob and wrestle and ponder and celebrate and dote each day and each night. Out there in the tickling November evening, Br. Gavriil reflected on those gifts which had been imparted to him in youth, and which he had always kept close to him.

 First had been a vuelda. Such a small piece of silk brocade, given to him on his first coming home from the midwifery. It had embroidered upon it in cerulean script the motto of house Endeiras: Let us not be forgotten. The vuelda was soft and pale, and never strayed far from its post in his breast pocket, folded about the second of his life-long gifts: a bronze kourix. A superstitious and archaic thing, the kourix was nothing more than a small, flat circle of bronze which held deep-rooted magical properties of apotropaic nature.  Finally was his watch, which was his father’s and by which he swore to retain his father’s memory. On the reverse of the watch was the embossed coat of arms of the Endeirai.

Indeed, the Endeirai were of comfortable standing, at least for the town of Khebel, which lay some days south of Lihat by way of carriage, and some days north of the metropolitan centre of Mdilo. One would never call them nobles, but they were considered ‘noble’ by virtue and ‘gentlemen’ by behaviour – at least to the people of Khebel. The house – for in truth they could at least be considered a house, being filled with and well-connected to landlords and politicians and the like – was well seated in the region, with a pleasant enough estate and a delightful manor (though small by aristocratic means). Unlike the upper nobility, who, following their total annihilation of the aristocracy in the revolution, were reduced to local barons and mayors, the Endeirai still continued to hold many of its assets into the new era. This was thanks to the elder Endeiras’ devotion to the church which now held the authority. In fact, the grandfather of our Gavy, the Ven. Dr. A. P. Endeiras had been a teacher of the good word in the Academy after some time as an officer in the Royal Navy (this was in 1832 Ix 9E, when the Navy was still Royal); being the theological instructor of so many aspiring priests – though never a priest himself – Dr. Endeiras often found himself a well-favoured acquaintance of many a Bishop and Deacon, in both city and country alike. This close connection, as well as the benefaction of the local priest, Rev. Fr. Pietro Gehis, had entrenched Gavriil firmly in a position where he was swiftly enrolled in the academy at Lihat for the sake of theological and moral education.

Gavy had so enjoyed his youth in Khebel, where the lemon orchards washed green over the low hills and seemed even to reach up and snatch at the dry air. Some long evenings, when the town was indigo with the dense pleasures of cool shadows and soft clarinets, Gavy could at last escape the discernment of his private school-master Mr. Otto Apród and make haste for the plaza. There, nestled in a tree like a raven, he watched the good people of Khebel with great joy; the lamps would be lit all around, and tables and chairs would be brought out from all the houses in such a way that all could find a seat and have room for their black ceramic plate and cup. Then came the food: lemon-seasoned chickens, a quarter of a hen for each plate, vegetables grown from towns adjacent and afar, and even (on particularly good years) the occasional Thelenic dessert. Often the town Wizard Mu. Wilfred H. Oeren, on such an exceptional night as this would perform tricks to the amusement of the children. When eventually someone would call out ‘deceiver!’, he would stand up – by now full to spilling with drink, his breath rich with sweetness – and proclaim, “You now see the legacy of the very Lord Ibex you worship! Do not betray your impiety so profanely, blasphemer!” and proceed to reveal his wand, turn his flesh to stone, and lay himself flat, sinking into the very cobbles beneath him! Then, he would fall asleep in drunken exhaustion until some poor townsman would happen to step on his stony nose, to which he would react with a yelp and more muttered curses. Then, he would find his seat back at the table with Fr. Gehis, who would be already launching himself into one of his aetiologies, as was common among priests from the city.

“…So St. Eusicus brought the nomads into the city and before God, and there did they settle upon the hill opposite us, so that the town would be known as Avgoro, and thus is its church dedicated to St. Eusicus – or Sond Ossishus as they call him there.

“As for Khebel, I have read reports of a dark python with scales as large as dinner plates.” (He here lifted up his own plate, now emptied of meal, and cast it into the plaza with a celebratory ‘hah!’ along with some of the other townsfolk) “Of course, its presence caused such a miasma on the land that in shuddering sweeps its crawling travels across the landscape would cut deep troughs in the bedrock, that in flittering dance its metronomic tongue would lap up all the heat of the hills and freeze over all the crops, and that in glaring terror its sharp venom would dampen the soil with the silver blood of angels. A young and nameless warlock then came once to the profane grove were this serpent lived. Reaching into the pale earth and taking it up like reigns, he tamed the serpent as one might break a horse. Scholars came to call the young warlock ‘Kebelœ’ – Sensation of disharmony in the protection of profanity. When St. Andrew defeated the warlock and his hellsome pet, civility and humility returned to the grove, but the town retained the name Khebel.

“But now consider the name of Sonnis street…” he would continue on for much of the night.

 When the meal was done (and often during it also), the clarinets would strengthen the tune, a drum and a stringed qitaro would be produced, and the entire town would dance in circles, singing with high high spirits.

Soon, the night would slink in through the empty streets right into the plaza like a slim stranger in a down coat. And yet the town hall would be well-lit by now, and the tall clock tower that gently encouraged folk through the day emitted now a warm hue from within its mechanisms, so that one could easily follow the developing minutes as they clapped in time to the people’s dance. Like the dark spots in a fainting vision, the brilliantly coloured skirts of each villager spun and twisted in the distant light of the common place.

But always would Mr. Otto Apród appear beneath Gavy’s tree. He would coax the poor boy down with a harsh word and they would quickly return to Endeiras manor, where he would endure once again his studies. Mr. Apród was indeed a strict and austere tutor and assistant to the house, having come from the rigid Académie du Mathyte in the Levonic north. He had a handsome, dark complexion, and had a habit of looking down his nose in that air of superiority that only a Levonic servant could, even to his employers. ‘A noble student should exempt himself from the base frivolities of the common folk,’ he would insist, quite archaically, and quite to the Lady’s subtle nod of agreement. And so it was that Gavriil was confined to the house’s library even in the most alluring of summer days when his peers would strip down by the river and nourish their spirits in the piercing mountain water. Having been attendant and indeed a friend to Kr. Endeiras Sr., Mr. Apród endeavoured to educate Gavy in a manner he was sure would be pleasing to the late Lord; thus, Endeiras Jr. was instructed in the scriptures, the classics, and all the literature and behaviour appropriate for a gentleman’s education.

In the months leading up to his departure from Khebel, Gavy’s mother Pt. Elena Endeira, who had always been burdened by vexations, took pains to ensure her son would not be troubled in his new and distant life. Indeed, she even encouraged him to join her in an archaic sort of countryside ritual which she had learnt from Mu. Oeren; by night they trudged out to the old eucalypt tree which marked the town’s border, and there they prepared both the brazier with incense and strips of holy linen and also the prayer-wheel by attaching to it a dusk-trapped Iobhis bird, which already was wailing and screeching. While Pt. Endeira stripped the outer layers off the tree with a cavalry sword, she called upon the aid of Liud Kathan, the holy patron of priests, “I strip this tree, Lord, that you may not strip my son of his honour!” All the while, she had her son dance about the perimeter of the tree carrying silken fillets and singing in the tongue of the divines to the tune of the spinning Iobhis, “Lord! Lord! protect me in my education and give me strength to learn your teachings!” The fillets and the wheel spun in divine fervour, as if spurred by unnatural winds. Gavy sung in as well a voice as he could, but to chant a magic hymn at a cross-roads was nothing like his singing in Church, when Fr. Gehis would lead the procession in melodic prayer; he felt his voice snatching from his chest, leaping up and out of his throat as if lynched on the branches of the eulacis. When Pt. Endeira could reach no higher to strip the tree’s raw flesh, and a white mucus was spilling from its throbbing veins, the frenzied woman, spurred on by divine influence and the absurd instructions of Mu. Oeren, urged Gavy to mix the mucus with bay-leaves and a mastic from Lihat so that they all might drink it and be protected. “I mix this mastic,” he said as he stirred, “that I may find myself a citizen in Lihat just as in Khebel.” Another time, both Mu. Oeren and Fr. Gehis joined them in the church-yard. Someone had prepared an effigy of Gavy of wax and lead, and a small basin was prepared in which the effigy would be bathed. The doll was by no means a perfect imitation of the boy, but the black locks of hair which had been transplanted onto it and the severe scar along its chest made it clear to anyone, god, spirit, or mortal, that this was Gavriil Endeiras Jr. When the correct preparations were made, and Dawn was already stripping back the dark roofing of night, the four of them stood cardinally about the shallow basin and, as Fr. Gehis doused the effigial Gavy in holy ointments with a fox-hair brush, they each began to sing in Giothienic: “Just as this doll is doused in virtuous oil, so too let Gavriil be doused in holy virtue!” And as Fr. Gehis gesticulated with the plastic arms of the effigy: “Just as this doll wards off evil, so too let Gavriil be warded from evil!” And when Mu. Oeren took up his wand and harmonised with the song in his casting a spell of consecration on the doll: “Just as this doll is consecrated and rid of miasma, so too let Gavriil be cleansed and redeemed!” And when the doll was plunged into the basin: “Just as this doll is plunged into divine waters, so too let Gavriil be plunged into a divine mind.” And finally, when the doll was retrieved by Pt. Endeira: “Just as the Lady will harbour this doll, so too let God harbour Gavriil!”

All this was done in the proper order and with the appropriate reverence to the correct Saints. And yet, “never,” Pt. Endeira had entreated, even as he leant out the window of his cab, his hand outstretched to allow her to grasp it in desperation, “Please, Petrodes, (for she often called him by patronymic when she wanted to make a point), promise me never to become yourself a priest! It must not occur!” He had said nothing as the driver spurred the horses away and onto the road, his mother’s hands slipping to her sides as his own slipped back into the cabin. Her image, depressed into his mind, was unmoving all through the journey, and he was bilious even into his first classes. How could she say this to me? He often said to himself, repeating her words cruelly in the night. It had been decided long before! I should have been destined for clergy, it’s true! When, after some time, her meaning had become clear to Gavriil, his heart had hardened in anger and he had decided, more so out of spite and a realisation of his now wholly bilious disposition than obedience, not to become a priest.

And so – despite his excellence in his studies and his two years of clerical service which he utterly disliked – Br. Gavriil refused every offer and letter of entreatment to become a priest. As a cleric (or clerk), one was required to attend to a superior in the church for a year or so, taking appointments, noting affairs of financial and social business, copying out long bits of text from letters, scriptures, or speeches, and even attending the courts – in which the Church was of course involved here in Lihat. In contrast, the chores of a monk were simple and introspective: tidying the chapels and monasteries and other places of worship, memorising and understanding the scriptures, attending daily prayers and sups and services, donating to and helping the less fortunate in the city (of which there were many) and so on. During the loathsome and angry years of youth, Br. Gavriil had found the solitude refreshing following his years spent hemmed in by urban colleges and alleys (he had originally lived in a monastery far more remote than here, in the S’rakana mountains to the south). When he finally came to his senses at around the age of twenty-eight, he immediately conscripted himself to the Nychtovoltoi in Eserii Monastery.

Simply put, Br. Gavriil far preferred monastic life.

Back then, Gavy had only left Khebel and its hinterland once before, when he had attended the Fort Aiacin military academy. He had driven out to the academy with his father’s brother, Cpt. Iason L. Endeiras, quoting poetry and village songs along the way. The Cpt. had become the foremost among the Endeirai, since Elena had a disposition only towards motherly love, and did not take up the mantle of head of house as was common among women in such lands. After that tumultuous November day when everything had been ruined…, Cpt. Endeiras had decided he would have young Gavy be educated such that he could become a man. At first, the idea seemed to excite the young man: the bright uniforms and rigid structure and righteous duty. He relished in the rough-hewn stone walls of the Fort, and wore his academy cloak with such pride that he determined to send home a blurry tintype he managed to have taken. However, not even as early as his first attempt at joining in file, did those jeering peers in the echoing courtyard of the academy easily notice his meek nature and anxious disposition. Gavy was utterly tortured by the other students and even many of the staff, and needless to say did not endure even a month of service. Eventually, his uncle found a way to exempt him on the grounds of his illness.

But by now, Br. Gavriil had finished his meal, and had begun his walk.

The Final Report of the AA Sylvania

I am making this record of events in the hopes that anyone who might find our crash site will know to leave this place and never return.

My name is Pablo Maria Abajar, renowned pilot and first mate of the Arcane Airship Sylvania. I and the remaining members of my crew have found ourselves crashed here in this icy waste with no means of escape. What was once a complement of fifty men was reduced to twelve by the crash. Now, only three remain. The beast will come for us too, in time.

We first left off from Cape Nabar eighteen days ago on the 18^th of September 1922 with fair weather and a south-eastern destination. Our captain, the Wizard Juan Moreno the Emerald-Eyed, was shipping hundreds of charged mana crystals from the mines on the Isle of Montes. The Sylvania was perfectly suited to this job, since we could fly direct over the Poljari mountains, rather than sail Cape Sul.

After sailing for a day in order to leave Federation airspace, which is reserved for Federal ships, we took to the skies. Captain Moreno fired up the arcane engine, leaving me at the helm as he kept the machine in check with his advanced knowledge. Unlike the arcane engines in a locomotive or an energy plant, the one on the Sylvania was much more complicated and volatile, requiring constant attention and communication with the helm in order to maintain lift, velocity, torque, etc. With the unnerving thrum of the engine pulling the arcane tethers that surrounded the ship to life, I took the ship’s wheel, watching and responding to the captain’s movements as he took control of the machine on the main deck.

We passed over the rest of the Federal waters with ease, making quick time of the journey over the mountains too.

It was there, within eyesight of the Yersine coast, that our journey faltered.

Marius, the lookout, came to me on the morning of the 21^st with tidings of storms. Naturally, I reported immediately to the captain, whose stately office was situated at the stern of the ship. Knocking on the yellow pane of the door, I heard Moreno call me in. “Captain? A storm is on approach sir.” “So?” came the reply. I recommended that we take harbour.

The Wizard captain gave a gruff snort, his black curls shaking as he surveyed his dark office. A cube of black stone was whirring mysteriously on his desk, and he seemed to contemplate for a moment. Having passed over the mountains now, the Sylvania was cruising on its lift-sails, maintaining a steady altitude without the captain’s attention to the engine.

“No,” he said at last.

“??”

“Prepare the arcane engine for my guidance and fetch my apprentice. This cargo is too valuable and dangerous for delays. Thank you, Pablo.”

Hesitantly, I agreed, “Yes, sir.” Then, I went to fetch Fernando Colchas, the Captain’s apprentice of arcane engineering. He kept his quarters in a large black ring about the size of a truck’s wheel. A button on the side notified him of a visitor, and he opened the portal, stooping to exit on account of his muscular frame. His dark suit and apprentice’s cap were completely out of place as he stood there aloof, the rest of the crew hurrying about him.

“Well?”

“The captain has need of you.” I simply said. He would learn the details on his own.

Back on the top deck, I observed the storm was approaching rapidly now. The same winds which ferried its dark and powerful clouds were currently overpowering the warding buffers, lifting some of the ship’s lighter cargo directly into the air as some of the deckhands struggled to maintain control of the situation. I immediately took command, gripping firmly the wheel and bellowing orders to the men on the rigging.

We hauled in the lift sails once we got word that the engines were running and began to raise the specialised storm sheets that Fernando had designed to keep the engine protected. All the while, we sang, Oh Dear Fellow, partly to keep rhythm, but also to steel our nerves against the impending danger.

Then, just as the storm’s first shadow breached upon the prow, two disastrous moments converged. First, Marius called out from on high, “Thundermists!” just as he was mulched into juice by a speeding miasma of grey mist, his dark blood spraying into the atmosphere. There was hardly a moment to lose as a dozen such swirling thundermists flashed across the deck with violent accuracy, and a menacing rustle. Secondly, from deep below our boots came a piercing whistle which seemed to carry out across the black sky and into the mountains. It seemed to build in intensity, a perfect symphony with the frenzied assault occurring above. I sent a deckhand down to the cargo bay to investigate, later discovering that he was annihilated instantly upon breaching the hold, torn to mere atoms by the charged mana crystals we had been hired to ferry. Lucky chap received the better fate of us all. Within a minute, anyone on the main deck had been mutilated, their flesh blitzed by the razor-sharp mists of our assailants so that the storm became a gruesome admixture of sleet and gore in the chaotic winds. Anyone near the cargo was similarly annihilated, their bodies apparently supercharged with lances of unimpeded cosmic energy. I remained at the wheel, firing silvered bullets at any thundering clouds that blew my way. Unfortunately, it was not enough. By this time, the storm had full control of the Sylvania, bludgeoning her through the canyons of storming clouds. With most of the crew slaughtered and the rigging sundered, I could no longer keep the ship upright. We began to plummet dramatically. Most of the surviving crew report blacking out as the arcane airship nosedived. Those of us that survived the crash into the frigid Antarctic waters (by some miracle) were promptly reunited with consciousness. We managed to swim for shore as the AA Sylvania sank with its valuable and dangerous cargo.

Twelve of us reached the beach twelve days ago. The survivors included Pedro the chef, Talia the quartermaster, Antonio the carpenter, and Fernando the arcane apprentice, who reported the captain was slain almost immediately by a bolt of lightning that connected with the engine’s sensitive mechanisms. Between us, we were able to take stock of the few provisions we were able to salvage and set up a camp near the beach. Most of us have survival experience from the Great War, so we were able to fairly easily establish traps and go fishing and hunting in the lush surrounds. Fernando, for his own part, said he could prepare a fairly measly message spell, but that it would take several days before anyone would receive it, since he was essentially inventing the spell from scratch from what he had seen others do. Unclear of the specifics of arcane practice, we simply chose to trust him, leaving the apprentice mage to his studies while the rest of us worked to stay alive. The Sylvania never had a two-way radio, Captain Moreno always insisting upon the superiority of magic. Now, we were left stranded on two accounts of magic’s failings. Still, we felt confident that we could rescue ourselves. Three of the crew members were severely injured, so we resolved to hold position until they were recovered (or the alternative, as Talia supplied), then head North in search of civilisation.

It was the evening of the 23^rd that the beast first made itself known. All through the night, an inhuman screeching was heard. In the morning, all our traps were found empty – bloodied claw marks having rendered the iron parts of each with inhuman strength.

“We cannot stay here,” Ana, one of the cannoneers, announced. “Whatever that thing is, it will come for us next…”

“We have a duty to our companions,” I returned strongly. With the Captain dead, I was automatically the one to take charge, although I knew it would not last.

“Even if they are on a sure path to death…” Talia said, eying the beds where the three infirm lay sleeping.

“Then why wait? I can prepare my spell on the road, and we have a much higher chance of finding more people if we leave now.” This was Fernando, who was becoming characteristically restless.

A dispute quickly broke out, and we eventually resolved to part ways, with five of us (Ana, Fernando, Antonio, Clair, and Iosepine) leaving camp, and the rest staying to tend to the sick.

That night was perfectly silent – devoid of the musings of insects and predators of the night. In the morning, four of the separatists were found by the river. Their skin had been torn off the bodies in messy shreds. The corpses were barely recognisable at all, so that it could not be said who was absent from the veritable mortuary that the riverbed had turned to. Oddly enough, the scene was completely devoid of blood, the raw flesh pale and dry. Talia set to burying them while the other six survivors discussed our options.

“They were butchered, Pablo. We have no hope!” Pedro exclaimed as he passed around the meagre morsels of fish someone had caught.

“I reckon it was Fernando that done it,” said Ms Madrigal, the only surviving engineer, though she was bedridden and suffered burns all on her right side. “Saw his opportunity to off us lesser folk and fled! Only a magical attack could’ve brutalised them like that, and did anybody else notice only four bodies?”

There was a murmur at this. Talia stood up, “Oh for god’s sake people! Don’t let your personal disputes get in the way of what’s happening here! A creature of the night is stalking us, picking away at us like animals; what we need is to increase our defences, maintain a vigilant watch, and now allow ourselves to be splintered again, lest we become weaker and more vulnerable.”

Talia began to take more control after that – she who controls the resources controls the people, after all – and I was pleased enough with her decisions. We were always agreeable, even aboard the Sylvania, her serious attitude and bold disposition giving her the strength and insight to challenge the captain when others could not. So, at the quartermaster’s direction, we established a makeshift cheval de frise about the camp’s perimeter, laying out shattered glass where we could not set down the large wooden stakes. Fenjik, a northerner who happened to know a simple alarm spell, had made a long string out of bark, encircling the entire camp with it just as he had the other nights. If anything passed over that string, a loud and irritating noise would wake them all.

For several nights following, the beast made no appearance at all, and our traps were bountiful. Samanta even improved enough to get out of bed and help in the camp.

By the 29^th of September, after 4 nights without a sign of danger, the other survivors seemed to relax somewhat.

“Well done,” I congratulated Talia. “Perhaps you were right. This beast may see us as too much of a threat now to attack…”

“No.”

We all spun around to look at Fenjik, who had been scaling a fish, not appearing to be listening at all. I shared a look of surprise with Talia – Fenjik almost never spoke, his understanding of our language fairly poor.

“No,” he said again. “Beast full. Beast rest. Silven miri fear nothing.”

We attempted to press him further on what he meant, but it seemed the poor fellow had reached the extent of his glossary. He simply shrugged, returning to his work. None of us knew what a silven miri was, but the word set a sense of unease in us all, and even Fenjik seemed to have an uncharacteristic air of apprehension about him that night as we fell asleep.

The next morning, when I went to tend to Ms Madrigal’s wounds, I discovered she had died in her sleep, succumbing to her wounds. We buried her with the others, just beyond the boundary of the camp. We resolved that as soon as Flavio could walk, we would leave camp.

Over the course of the day, I noticed Pedro watching Fenjik with suspicious glances. When I asked him about it, he simply muttered something about “foreigners and their bunk spells.” How could I have been aware then that Ms Madrigal’s death would mark the end for us all?

That night, when I was keeping watch at the camp’s main entrance, I thought I saw movement in the forest by the lame light of the moon. Drawing my revolver, which only happened to have two rounds left, I began to creep toward the tree line, conscious of the thought that this might leave the entrance open to intruders. As soon as I reached the first tree, a flitter caught my attention, and I heard the distinct sound of rough, bestial panting. Turning to look, I saw three figures, hunched and heaving with unnatural breath. In the delusional haze of that moment, I swore I saw Fernando standing beside Ms Madrigal, their rotting chests heaving with wheezing breaths. I let out a yelp, and before I could catch sight of the third figure, they were all gone.

I went to wake Talia to tell her what I saw, but when we went to investigate Ms Madrigal’s grave, we found it to be undisturbed.

“It must be your nerves, or perhaps guilt.” Talia spoke to me gently, like a mother. She could be kind when she wanted to be. “Don’t blame yourself, Pablo. We’re all doing what we can to survive here. Get some rest.”

I woke to yelling. Rushing over, I saw Pedro in a scuffle with Fenjik, cooking knife in hand. “Nordic scum!” He was shouting as he slashed maniacally at the man’s body. I leapt in pulling the chef off the paler man, but it was too late. Pedro had cut deep, and Fenjik lay dead, blood spreading rapidly on the sand. Still, I kept Pedro on the ground, my knee holding him firmly down as I tossed the murder weapon aside.

“What have you done?!” I shouted. Pedro did not answer. He simply nodded his chin, gesturing over my shoulder to where Talia had come running. She stood over another body, hand over her mouth.

“It’s Samanta,” she exclaimed. “The beast…”

“Not the beast!” Pedro spoke at last. “Fenjik did that…”

I bound the chef by his hands and feet until a decision could be made – he had killed Fenjik, after all. Then, I walked over to Samanta’s body.

She had been brutalised the same as the others – long claw marks streaking down her face and body in filaments of bloodless wounds. She had shrivelled up, her limbs tightening from the blood loss, and her face seemed frozen in terror. It was clear to Talia and me (and to Flavio when we explained to him) that Fenjik was not responsible. So, Pedro remained bound.

“That Nordic bastard did it! I’m sure of it!” Pedro exploded in a string of accusations when I brought him food later. “There was no beast at all – Fenjik used that foolish silven miri nonsense to scare us. He wanted us all dead… Probably a cannibal come to think of it…”

I left the man to his ramblings. Fenjik had been harmless, if a little odd. The poor man’s only sin was that his alarm spell had failed. That troubled me… How had the beast stolen into the camp with all of our defensive measures?

On the night of the 31^st, I finally saw the beast.

I had been sleeping when a soft scuttling sound woke me. Opening my eyes to the darkness, I was met with the sight of a creature the size of a wolf, its long leathery wings clawing at the dirt as it skittered back from me in apprehension. It jumped back as I leapt up from my bedroll, my legs pushing sand as I shuffled backwards from the thing. With an uncanny fwoop, the batlike beast lifted its wings and pulled itself into the darkness above, disappearing from sight. Relieved, I crossed myself and got up, figuring sleep to be impossible after such a fright.

That was when I saw the beast in its full, glorious terror. It was not unlike the winged creature I had seen moments ago, but it was stranger, more human, with greying, leathery skin, and a back bristling with dark fur. Its human-like arms seemed to be gripping something as its head bobbed in a strange rhythm, the back of its obscene skull lifting up occasionally to reveal a scalp of mangled white hair. Silven miri was all my brain could muster before, “HEY!” I shouted in a surprising feat of stupid bravery. It turned to face me at last, its unnatural, bestial features revealed to me in full. The face was not unlike that of an old man, except that its large, mammalian teeth bared as it registered me in the darkness, its red eyes flashing with malicious hunger in the moonlight. Blood was smattered across its pale face, and a thick ring of fur seemed to cover every surface. It smiled a predatorial grin as it dropped its previous quarry and began to stalk purposefully towards me. My heart leapt into my chest as I stared at its approach, paralysed. The bat-like creature which had fled just moments before now landed by its side, apparently newly empowered by its companion’s fearless hunt. As its strange paws touched the sand, it transformed, standing to reveal the nude, furry form of what once might have been identified as Fernando, the apprentice mage of the AA Sylvania. He smiled a similar predatorial grin as he paced slowly toward me behind the dark form of the silven miri, his own bestial teeth showing in a dark and grimy fashion. They seemed to communicate through rough, low speech, a dark glimmer passing in their eyes which never broke from my frozen body.

Suddenly, instinct seemed to take over me. I remembered my revolver, stowed just near my bedroll. Seeing me lunge for it, the beasts began to move more rapidly, but I was quicker, cocking the loaded gun and firing directly into the chest of the larger beast. They both recoiled from the sound of the gun, the larger one dropping to the floor quickly with a squeal of pain. The bestial Fernando quickly caught my eye; fear plastered on his face as I levelled the gun at him next.

“Begone!” I shouted, suddenly empowered by this subversion.

As if in reaction to my command, both beasts froze, then transformed rapidly back into the winged creatures they had been when they arrived, flapping frenziedly as they took to the skies. By now Talia was awake, and she rushed to my side as the sound of their upset cries receded into the forest beyond. Together, we crept cautiously to where the elder beast had been feeding to find…

Pedro’s mutilated corpse, still bound, his face and neck shredded like all the others. The beast had not reached the rest of his body, but he had the same, bloodless scars like pinstripes lining his terrified face. We quickly checked on Flavio, who was alive but still ill, then made to bury Pedro with the rest. We made light work of it; the soil still unsettled from Ms Madrigal’s burial only days before. There was no sign of her body when we put the chef to rest.

The sun was already up by the time we were done. Nobody spoke all day. It is plain to us that there is no hope. Those who tried to flee were killed, those who chose to stay were killed all the same. Somehow, Fernando had been forced (or allowed himself? or even requested?) to become that beast as well.

So, I resolved to make this report, in the hopes that it might prove somehow useful to anyone who might come after us. If you came to this place freely, then I tell you again – leave now, while you can.

Since I began this report, four days have passed. Flavio was taken on the 33^rd, though we tried our best to fend off the beast that was once Fernando. Talia was injured in the tumble, her arm clawed at when she got too close with Pedro’s knife (which seemed to have no effect on the beast). She was killed the night after, unable to defend herself when the beast returned.

I am now alone, with one shot left in my revolver and God at my side. Today is the 36^th of September 1923. If I survive the night, if I defeat or at least scare off the silven, then I will begin the journey north in the morning in the hopes of a better chance at survival. If not, then…

God save the souls of the AA Sylvania.