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Dark Harp

Posted in Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags beats, feedback, grandpa, music, vibration on January 8, 2012 by javedbabar

The crowd at the Great Hall funked and grooved. They shook their bootys and whirled round and around. They were more dervishes than dancers, their souls lost in sound.

The Harpees didn’t play here too often. Ever since they won the World Fusion Championships, they were always touring. But this was their home town, and they didn’t forget their own. They were a twelve piece band with two basses, two sitars, bongo drums, tablas, two trumpets, keyboardist, harmonium, violinist, and lead harpist. Each instrument played its part beautifully, but the harp was what made their band really special. The vibrations of its strings climbed high, touching people’s hearts and dreams. And it was a unique instrument. While other instruments gave feedback – muddying the music – the harp never did. It produced only pure sound.

Rufus gave a final flourish, and set all of its strings vibrating. He dropped his head sharply to end the number, and the rest of the band followed his lead. There was huge cheering and applause. The band thanked their loyal fans who had set them on the road to stardom, and called it a night.

Before Rufus had even stopped sweating, the manager of Resonance – the recently completed apartment block in the centre of town – came to bug him. He wanted The Harpees to endorse his building, continuing its musical advertising campaign. This had included taglines like “Sounds good!”, “In tune with you!”, and “Live in harmony!” Rufus said he didn’t have time right now.

No matter how many times you’ve done it before, teardown is always a messy business. There’s always mounds of boxes, jumbles of plugs, and a jungle of wires. The building’s steps made it even more work than usual humping the gear. Finally everything was loaded, and Rufus drove home. They had to hit the road tomorrow, so he left his gear in the truck. He didn’t sleep well that night, which was unusual. He usually soared heavenward.

The next morning was the worst of his life. He checked and rechecked but the harp was gone. Had he misplaced it, he wondered? Or had someone taken it in error? After all, instrument cases were all dark and bulky; they could easily be confused. Yet he recalled placing it into the truck carefully. He really didn’t want to consider it, but the only real possibility was that someone had stolen it!

Rufus held his head in his hands and snarled like a dog. He was so angry, he could not think. He could only feel colours.

When his Grandpa gave him the harp, he’d said, “It’s been in the family for centuries, and I have been its guardian for fifty years. It’s now your turn, Rufus. But don’t lock it away somewhere. It is alive I tell you! Play it! Play it! Play it for the world!”

At first it had been hard to know what to do. It wasn’t the coolest instrument, or the easiest to master. Dull black wood with a hundred strings. But Rufus persevered and became proficient. He started out as a street-musician, then joined a chamber orchestra, and later a local experimental band. He played so well that he displaced the lead guitarist, and became “lead harpist”. Eventually they changed their name from The Spudees to The Harpees, and the stage was set.

“All instruments have souls, and they respond to others,” his Grandpa had said. “But this harp has seen too much in its lifetime. It braved two wars. Now it makes its own music, that is all, and doesn’t echo the sounds of other instruments. It is like a great person, who is sure of himself but wary of the crowd. And because he stands apart bravely, he attracts others.”

Rufus hadn’t known what to make of that, but the musical benefits were clear. There was no feedback, and thus clarity and force in performance. Its sound would rise above all others.

But now the harp was gone. He had lost it! Rufus snarled again. His hearing was so keen that he could detect the quiver of a nearby string. But he knew that even if he drove around the Village, house by house, playing other instruments, the harp would never answer back. It gave no feedback. Its special quality was now its loss.

Of course they cancelled the rest of the tour. Rufus stayed at home. He was mainly quiet, but sometimes found himself snarling.

That night there were strange occurrences in the Village. Dogs barked non-stop, and the glass in shop windows kept trembling. Reflections distorted and shook.

The next night everyones’ car alarms went off everywhere, and many streetlights shattered. Everybody in the coffee shop was talking about these strange events. Had there been a series of small earthquakes? Or maybe some kind of electrical-field reversal?

Only Rufus knew. The harp had broken its long silence. It was responding to his call.

The third night, the Village fire-trucks’ lights and sirens came on. Also those of the ambulances, and the police cruisers. The centre of town was like a fairground. Emergency personnel all turned out in response to the sirens, and it’s a good job they did.

The Resonance building crumbled into dust. It wobbled initially, and then fell flat. Fortunately the manager had noticed some cracks that evening, and evacuated the buildings’ few occupants before he disappeared. No one was hurt.

Some days later, among the rubble of Resonance, was found a large black instrument case. Inside was a dark harp.

Extrapolator

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags corruption, extrapolator, vibrational on January 7, 2012 by javedbabar

In my sixty years at the General Store I’ve never seen anything like this. Our green and golden valley’s become orange and pink. There’s hundreds of workers in safety vests. Don’t know why they call them that – in my day if a guy dressed like that, he’d get beaten up. And red and white tape across the forest, like a festival barber shop, except not a very good one, the cutting is patchy. Young women smiling, giving you the come on, then calming you down, flashing “Slow” boy, and then “Stop”. Still, good to see so many people working. Wonder who’s paying?

There’s lockdown tonight. Gotta stay off the streets. I push aside some Viagra boxes to peer out. A local store’s gotta stock everything these days.

Choppers dangle shipping containers, and a Jumbo-copter swings something the size of a house. A convoy of flatbeds hauls concrete blocks; there’s pairs of trucks balancing bridge sections. Next morning there’s this God-Awful noise. If a constipated bear was roaring in the steambox of a Victorian engine in an endless conduit, you’d be close.

Next morning the lockdown is over. I go and ask Pink Sweety a few questions and offer her some thermal underwear. Say she can try it on in the shop. She says I am an old creep and I should know better at my age. “My grandmother used to shop here,” she says. “And she’s warned me about you.” Damn, she knew about my spy hole in the saddle box. I used to fit right into it.

I go to Tangerine Boy, and call him “son”. I think he likes that, probably doesn’t know who his father is. “That’s the Extrapolator, Pops,” he says. I want to “pop” him on the head, but my fist would bounce off his hard hat. “Haven’t you been reading about the big project in your papers? Lucky for you I’m a Public Rural Interface Committee Kommisar, I can tell you all about it. BC Bylaw 2012, Volume 17, Edition 6, Set 24, Evolution 14 says that ‘All features must conform to best practice’.”

“What ‘features’?” I ask.

“As it says, Pops, ‘All features’. They are to be regulated holistically within the existing non-local paradigm.” I feel a bubbling deep within.

“What’s ‘best practice’?”

“The consensus view on constructive activity that is sustainably authorized.”

Why has everybody started speaking mumbo-jumbo? Official words that mean nothing at all? What’s wrong with saying things plainly? What you really mean or think about stuff? But that could be offensive to somebody, somewhere, sometime, and they say we can’t have that these days. Political Correctness. Paranoid Cuckoo. I pop a smelly one out behind and move away.

A billboard says that our valley indeed does not conform to best practice. They say the balance of low UV-sunshine, windchill, water sediment, snowy crystallography, drainage nodality, wildlife passage, agricultural offsets, tourist magnetism and heritage values is not optimized. They say that this can all be resolved by amending the physical proportions of the valley. The Extrapolator – invented by the UBC Dept of Vibrational Tectonics – will stress the earth’s crust to make the valley 100 meters less wide. Screw that, why don’t they fix the power lines over the centre of town, or throw some trees around the railway tracks?

The main distinction these days is not between truth and lies, but between truth and bullshit. Even lies have a purpose, a certain integrity, a sort of honest hope. But the aim of bullshit is to confuse you. To dim your wits causing a fearful paralysis. Like on Tinker’s 60^th birthday, but that wasn’t my fault.

Over the next month, forests are cut down, farms are flattened, and houses commandeered. Those affected are told not to worry; generous rebuilding loans are available from the government on easy terms, at 150% of existing values. Everyone’s cashing in. I get a check after they bulldozer the store, but not before I sell out of my most profitable lines: leathers and Viagra. Double bonus. I chat to Pinky Sweety whenever I can, but the guys from the pub keep shouting out “Hey Napoleon, have you found Josephine?” and “She said yes, you can get off your knees now.” I’ll show them yet. I don’t even like the pub. Same old bores. But where else can I go?

There are daily discussions, weekly workshops, monthly marketing plans, quarterly quantas, and annualized analyses. Any protestors are paid off, scared off, or carted off. At the end of the month, our valley conforms. “Exactly 100 meters more narrow,” they say. They stress the word “more”, as if they have given us something extra. Now it will have the right balance of “occupational logistics, psycho-climatography, and social shunt”.

A bill of $40 million is presented to the village. A million a day plus service plus bonus plus tax. There is a press launch. The Premier cuts a blue ribbon across the new, more narrow valley. I stay at the store that day. Still got the marks from the handcuffs the last time.

Ten environmental monitors will remain for a year. That’s extra. The rest of the workers pack up, ready to move onto their next project – it seems that the next valley is now 100 meters too wide. I’ll head up there in my new Mustang, wave at Tangerine Boy, and see if Pinky Sweety wants a ride. I’ve got a lot of cash now and only a few years to spend it. And I saved a few of them magic blue pills. In this crazy modern world, at least there’s one thing you can count on to point you in the right direction. Maybe she’ll flash me a “Fast” sign.

The Bear Truth

Posted in Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags animals, bear safety, cabin, siege on January 6, 2012 by javedbabar

[The following is a transcript taken at the village circuit court.]

“There were mud flecks and wet smudges around my cabin. No respect for private property, bloody brats. The builder was on a two-week holiday: skiing-snowboarding-snowmobiling, and paragliding-canoeing-mountainbiking, all readily available in ‘Super, Natural’ British Columbia. I was annoyed with him for not finishing the job before taking off, but recreation comes before creation here. Bastard builder.

“During construction often there were things out of place, but nothing untoward. Things blown about – could be wind. Things distressed – could be sun. Things softened – could be rain. But the day the builder left there was evidence of tampering, someone trying the door. The handle was jarred from being forced too far, and hinges loosened by a jolt. Someone was trying to get into the cabin!

“The next day all the flyscreens were torn. Their slides were jammed and runners twisted – dried insects revealed, their corpses falling apart. And upon the glass were wet nose probing and stiff hairs. So not a brat after all, it seems, but a beast. Now to figure out the nature of this furry felon.

“The third day, the walls were battered. Something had to be done. A monkey I realized would not have behaved in this way. A famous experiment at Berlin Zoo had shown that they were methodical. They would have picked off the batts, one by one, and stacked them up nicely. And a dog would have just humped the walls or pissed on them, not tried to destroy them. So it was certainly a bear.

“The fourth day’s target was the floor. The usual entry points had proved invulnerable. Now, like great generals before him: Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Saddam – the bear was trying flanking manoeuvres. He was broadening the battlefield and busting boards. Dunes had appeared across this beige expanse of tongue-in-groove desert, but the invader had been repulsed.

“The fifth day was another day of vertical thinking, but this time, higher up. A torn-off maple branch had been used as a lever, prying off a roof panel. But the position of the snowstop had limited leverage. There may have been further jumping on the roof to mimic the effect of an avalanche, but the roof was built for a Coastal Range snow load, and didn’t buckle.

“The sixth day, the bear tried to trick its way right under my nose. My firewood is cut and bagged for the year in 100 lbs bundles. The bag I chose seemed heavier than usual, and there were no hard edges or clacking sounds. Something’s up, I thought, and left the bag right there. Later I heard canvas tearing, a burst of sneezing, and something padding through the dust.

“On the seventh day, I was relaxing in front of the fireplace, sipping Hoffmeister beer, when I sensed something was awry. Smoke was swirling in the firebox where there’d been none before. And it wasn’t just swirling, it was forming. Flames were stretched out, concentrating into sharp points, and clawing. There were sudden sparks, and the glass door flew open, raked marks on the soot inside. A plume paw reached out of the firebox towards me. I slammed shut the glass door, damped down the flue, and watched the claw rake ashes in anger and disappear.

“This was clearly a declaration of war. I realized I must be on the battlefield now, always bear aware. So at the beginning of the builder’s second week of holiday, I decided to initiate a programme of ‘Super Cultural’ lifestyle additions. First up was a camping stove. My pot of local veggies was soon ready, but something didn’t smell right. Gas was escaping unburned. It held a sweet, sweat stench – that of a dirty jungle animal. I quickly turned off this smell of bear. I would rather go hungry.

“My eco-friend from the City came up on the ninth day, and helped to install a 200 watt polycrystalline solar panel on the roof. However, even when the sun was shining all day, quite enough to run a bush hot tub, no power was generated. No photons could reach the carbon, for it was blocked by an earthly constellation, the blackness of the Great Bear.

“The most basic need of the human body is water. So on day ten, I banged a drain onto the edge of the roof, set a pipe off it into a barrel, and laid down layers of grass, charcoal and gravel. A simple filter to remove traces of bird and bat shit. After a hot day’s work I took a long, cool mouthful of the blessed holy water. But its gamey undertaste of fur-dripped liquid made me retch.

“Day eleven I called BC Hydro. They came and hooked me up that day. With the latest technology, I would surely be invincible. I put sensors all around the cabin. That first night I sat back smugly, only to have one sensor trip off, then another, then them all. How could that be? The transformer was humming strangely. I laid my hand upon it, and a shot of juice tore up through my arm – sharp tingles like stiff hairs were pushed through my veins.

“I’d been struggling to survive for twelve days now, and realized I needed access to emergency response. Telus sent an engineer immediately to fit hard-wired certainty. No more shifting signals. I saved the numbers of RCMP, Dow Security, and Pony Espresso. I was ready for anything. The phone rang – my first caller. ‘Hello,’ I said. There was a moment of silence and shuffling. Maybe it was a test call or wrong number. Then came a pop, scrape, grunt, and growl.

“There must be others like me, harassed by bears. But where could I find them? Thirteen days alone, I said to Shaw, who immediately sent someone to fix me up with broadband. He added wireless for free. Tucked up in my loft bed, I searched for bear tips. One website in particular – Unbearable Bear – gave advice on the local area. I emailed the webmaster, who responded immediately: ‘Why don’t you ask me yourself? I’m downstairs on your desktop.’ I was too scared to sleep, and frozen in a terrible trance. What happened after that I can’t remember.”

“Is that the end of your statement, Mr. Mehl?”

“Yes it is, sir.”

“You have nothing to add – or detract?”

“No, sir.”

“And you are saying this under oath, you recall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is your truthful explanation of why you were found by Mr. Collins – your as-yet-unpaid builder – within his house? Upon returning from his holiday, he saw that you had broken down the front door, ransacked his freezer, were naked and smeared in honey, eating Very Berry cereal straight from the box, listening to the Elvis Presley single ‘Teddy Bear’, watching Grizzly Adams on cable, viewing pornographic materials on barebear.com, having scat in his bath, eaten his goldfish, and were about to escape with a bagful of domestic goods – to get you through hibernation, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you seriously expect me to believe that?”

“Sir, you must know something. I was living in a delusion, always thinking that the bear was breaking in. Then I realized the truth of the matter, that the bear was breaking out. I could no longer hide from myself. For I am The Be..!”

[The transcript ends here. Neither the judge nor court recorder survived the incident. The guard is still in a coma. The suspect escaped, and Lucerne RCMP and Lilly Tribal Police have broadcast an All Points Bulletin for his capture. Also present in the courtroom – it is believed for behavioural analysis – was an adult brown bear, which was sedated and later released by rangers into the Upper Lilly area.]

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Eve

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, World Myths with tags fertility god, nativity, saviour on January 5, 2012 by javedbabar

Foolish kids, thought Dave. What were they doing out on Christmas Eve? They must feel like iceblocks, standing there at the side of the road with their thumbs up. At least he had a reason to be out – he was a washed up guy going home from his shift. He passed the kids without really looking.

But then in his mirror, he saw how their shoulders fell as he passed them, and how they hugged closely. Goddam it! Something about those gestures touched him. He turned the truck and went back for them, and told them to jump in the back seat.

“Oy, tank you,” said the boy. “Ve ver cold dere.” The boy’s accent was unfamiliar, maybe Eastern European?

“Yoy, tank you, Sir,” said the girl. Was she Middle Eastern?

“No problem,” said Dave. “Are you heading to Lucerne?”

Neither of them spoke immediately. In his mirror, he saw them exchange quizzical looks, and then the boy said, “Oy, tat’s great. Lucerne.”

“How long you been on the road there?” said Dave.

Again the silence and quizzical looks. “Oy, ve say half-hour.”

“Well, it looks like there’s a blizzard coming. Let’s see if we can get you safely home before that.” Dave threw on a dance playlist from his glory days: Heaven 17, The Orb, Faithless. The blizzard hit hard, as if summoned by these rousing tunes. They pushed on through swirls of snowflakes.

When they reached Lucerne, Dave said, “Ok, where shall I drop you off?”

There was hesitation, before the boy said, “Oy, just here is fines.”

As the girl got out, Dave noticed her heavy shape beneath the layers. She was pregnant! That explained their strange behaviour. But it wasn’t for him to pry. He wished them well and drove off. But in the mirror, he saw it again. Their forlorn postures, and close hug. Goddam it! He turned and went back. He said, “You haven’t got anywhere to stay, have you?”

“Ve vill find where,” said the boy. “Tank you.”

“Look, with her condition, I’m not leaving you out in the cold. It isn’t much, but why don’t you stay at my place? There’s just me there.”

The boy hesitated, but the girl spoke up. “Yoy, tank you, Sir.”

They only made it half way up the Meadows. Dave had never seen snow come down so hard and fast. There was no way the ploughs could keep up. Rather than getting stuck further up, he stopped at Martin’s farm. Even there, the driveway was impassable. He tried to call Martin, but service was down. He pulled up at a barn. “Look, I’ll walk up to the farmhouse. You two stay in the truck. I’ll be back soon.”

Dave returned with Martin. But as they approached the truck, Dave exclaimed, “Goddam it! They’ve gone!”

Martin saw the barn door was ajar. “Ah, there they are.”

They went inside. The girl was lying on hay bales, panting.

“My God!” said Martin. “The baby’s coming. Look, you keep an eye on them here. I’ll call for help on the landline.”

Dave watched as the girl gave birth naturally, assisted by the boy. It was intense. He’d never seen a newborn before. Golden and shining. Maybe every birth was holy like this. It was just the labels we put on it that made it seem foolish, unwanted, or a burden somehow.

But he also knew that this birth was special. There was sudden flashing everywhere – like a rave in his glory days – as three huge snowploughs appeared. All the cows in the field gathered around the barn. The horses snorted and donkey brayed. Mt. Negra rumbled.

What all of this meant, Dave didn’t know. Nothing was certain in his life these days – he had recently lost his wife, his health, and his home. He was living on the edge of the world. But of one thing he was sure. That this morning, he had witnessed the birth of someone he had long been waiting for.

“Can I hold the baby?” he said.

“Yoy, of course, Sir,” said the glowing mother.

It was impossible, he knew, but it felt like the child spoke to him somehow. She said, “I am here for you.”

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Secret Buyers

Posted in Lucerne Village, Uncategorized, World Myths with tags mushroom buyer, prophecy, secrets on January 3, 2012 by javedbabar

Every spring their shacks went up. What they did all winter was anyone’s guess. But they returned with the bright buds and birds, sitting in an assortment of trailers, tents, and shanties, each with a sign saying “Secret Buyer”.

Some of them were third, even fourth, generation buyers. The old families were well established. They bought only secrets that were ripe and ready to be told. Many new buyers, who came from the City chasing a quick buck, bought their secrets early. The people who sold them never reached the end of their thoughts.

Suzi had a secret that she’d kept for years. Ever since she could remember. It’s not that she didn’t want to sell it – it’s just that she didn’t fully know it yet. It was developing.

Her brother had sold some secrets last year, and got enough cash for a new skateboard. He hadn’t told their parents because they were religious. They didn’t believe in selling secrets. Her brother was going again today.

Suzi went with her brother to the buyer. He sat in a white tent with a heater on high, surrounded by steel boxes. “What’s in the boxes?” asked Suzi.

“That’s where I keep the secrets,” said the buyer. He had a bushy brown beard and yellow teeth shining somewhere within it. “It’s a long journey from here to Holland. They have to be well protected.”

“Why do you send them to Holland?” she asked. “Don’t people there have their own secrets?”

“Yes they do. But they are not very good secrets. You see Holland is flat. There’s less excitement, and nowhere to hide. Here there are mountains to play on, and valleys to sneak into, so there’s lots of great secrets.”

“And how much do people pay for secrets?”

“Well Suzi, that depends.”

Suzi froze. How did he know her name?

“Don’t be shocked,” said the dirty banana shape moving within the beard. “I bought your brother’s secrets last year, so I know your name.”

What had her brother said about her, she wondered?

“Children’s secrets are always the most valuable, because they’re true. Adults lie about theirs, to make themselves look better.”

Her brother wrote his secrets on a piece of yellow paper. The buyer read them slowly, nodding, did a quick calculation, and wrote $160 at the bottom of the page. Her brother nodded enthusiastically. The buyer folded the paper and enclosed it in a steel box. He counted out the cash.

“Do you have a secret for me, Suzi?” he said.

The way he said her name again – hissing. His yellow banana-teeth. His birds nest beard. She wasn’t sure why, but she turned and ran. She knew that she wasn’t yet ready to sell.

There were so many rumours about secrets. Some people said that you should never tell them, because the moment you did, they were gone. Others said that it was your duty to share what you knew with others. She’d heard there was a factory making secrets in the Industrial Park without zoning. That the village was trying to introduce a Pay & Tell scheme. And the rumour that intrigued her most was that there was one secret, so secret, that if it was told then there would be no more secrets. This made her both want to tell her secret, and also not to. For what would life be like without secrets to tell to your friends?

Suzi told her mother that her secret was bothering her. Her mother suggested that she go to church and tell it to Father Joseph. He was surprised to see her, for she usually only came in with her family on Sundays.

“Yes, child, how can I help you?” he said.

“Father, I have a secret. I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Do you feel like telling me?” he said. He could see she was nervous.

“I’m not sure I can say it.

“Well why don’t you write it down?”

Suzi wrote down her secret.

Father Joseph read it and went pale. He sent Suzi straight home. He put her secret in a metal box and booked an urgent courier to Rome. He knew this was going to happen one day, for it was written in Holy Scripture. He thanked God Almighty that the secret had come to him before it went to the other side. For he knew that “Secret Buyers” really worked for someone else, whose price was your soul.

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