Kthaahthikha

I shall tell you the tale my forefathers told me, of a hot northern city where merchants thrived, on the shores of a cobalt sea.

It was in this city that a young man dwelt, the son of a dealer in curios and oddities. The old man had done fine business in the dark days, before ships from Persia and Indochina became almost-unbearably mundane. But he had died poor of illness, and left to his child only one case of jade ornamental eggs.

Upon receiving this inheritance the young man was furious, for many hard times had been gone through as he scrabbled for work in the slums of the city, whilst here in this case were fortunes enough to keep a prudent man his entire life. His father had left no instructions for the treatment of these eggs, and so it was that the young man decided to sell them piecemeal to a jeweller, and live-out his life carefully upon the proceeds.

Having observed the eggs closely, glistening slick and green, he made to close the case tight. Alas, his elbow jarred the table, and one of the jewels was knocked from its velvet seat onto the table, from which it rolled and shattered upon the ground. The young man was horrified that such a treasure had been wasted, and cursed himself for his carelessness. However, he had commenced doing so only a moment when their rose from the shards of the egg a gigantic, hideous jinni, which hissed and writhed and thrashed about like a serpent in a cloth bag. The young man fell at once upon his knees in terror, and the jinni observed him with a baleful eye. Yet rather tan kill him, the jinni opened wide its mouth, and spoke a single sentence of such undisputable wisdom that the young man forgot his terror, and wept in awe at the beauty of it.

Having spoken, the jinni at once vanished.

The young man was astounded at the circumstances that had befallen him. Unsure of what had just passed, and drunk upon the knowledge imparted to him, he fell into a dead faint. Upon recovery he determined to test another of the eggs, (but only one), and upon doing so he found yet another jinni before him, hissing and writhing in agony until it spoke its own word of absolute and wondrous wisdom.

The young man meditated upon the things told him, and with a pen and parchment at hand he shattered the remaining ten eggs and recorded the wisdoms that were unveiled before his eyes. This young man, possessed before of only a rugged practicality, became now a distinguished philosopher and rose in power and influence through societal ranks. Peasants and emperors came before him to ask his advice, and never would he turn the one of them away. So grateful were his supplicants that they fed and bathed and housed him, and he lived a comfortable life at the university, advising scholars with his guided observations.

When several years had passed, the great Caliph summoned the young man to his presence. He asked after the source of the young man’s wisdom, but what he was told the Caliph refused to believe that there were indeed no more enchanted jade eggs. He imprisoned the young man’s beloved in a silk-lined dungeon, and demanded that further eggs be brought within three year’s time, or else the young woman would perish and the young man be banished from all the Caliph’s realms on pain of death.

The young man set-out southward, traversing vast grasslands and wading through steam-clouded swamps. He breasted towering mountains encased in ice and lashed by snow, and cut his way through jungles where gryphons and goblins lurked. From a river boat merchant he learnt of Azifal the wise, and from Azifal he learnt of the caverns in the ice-bound south across the sea.

He boarded a ship and sailed, risking storm and reef, and after a year’s journey he came to a fog-shrouded cavern, and crossed swords with a triple-headed knight who rode upon a venomous worm. His foe bested, he penetrated the cavern, and found at its heart a single jade egg, identical in every way to all the others, resting upon an altar carved with the nine billion names of god.

His quest fulfilled, the young man returned triumph to his city by the sea. He arrived on the last day of the third year, and came before the Caliph dressed in tattered rags and followed by a procession of curious observers. The Caliph took the egg, welcoming the young man with warm words, and before his ten thousand scribes flung it to shatter upon the ground.

The five shards of the jade shell rattled upon the floor, and though all waited many ours nothing ever did emerge. From his cell high in the eastern tower, the young sage reflected upon the events.

I have no idea if this will make the kind of sense I want it to, so please let me know if it doesn't.

There are countless fringe benefits when it comes to studying Literature at university, and the fringe is as wide as Sam Spade's lapels. One such perk is that I have the option of writing a 1500 word parody of any scene from the novel Dracula, provided that it is a scene directly involving the titualr character, and displays an adequate knowledge of the conventions and extravagances of the genre. Being as I am an amateur enthusiast of the world of Baroque purple prose, I am looking forward to this.


The assignment being due in late August, I shall therefore set to read some or all of Vathek, The Castle of Otranto, The Mysteries of Udolpho, and Northanger Abbey (the last of which will, being a spoof, naturally provide me with a total map of cliches - plus I've been meaning to read some Austen one of these days).

I love projects I can get behind. if only detailed historical perspectives on developmental psychology and its underpinning in the Enlightenment were as much fun.

Also, I've been given stewardship of the weekend shift on the web-comic Jesus and the Man,(Keegan Basset having moved-off to work on his own stuff, and more power to him)and I've got a good line-up (in my opinion) ahead of me. It's kind of sad that all of the original JATMites have moved-on, and all that's left is us guys. It's a dark day when I'm called forth to arms. My naturally-suspicious nature keeps predicting some vast, intricate plot to seal my downfall.

Now, on the topic of The Name of the Rose. It's a good book so far, and I was slightly-surprised and highly delighted to find the countless intertextual references within it, including, wouldn't you know it, many major characters being named after famous work of Gothic literature.

I've also developed a number of philosophical connundrums for no good reason, and intend to make bad, simplistic stories of them that get by on the weight of their rather flimsy ideas.

So, all in all, a good week. Except that my sister is growing ill in a disconcerting manner.

The towers that rise from the ocean off of Tazrig are golden, many-spined and beautiful. They catch the light in curious ways, every spire refracting, every node reflecting, and those who stand upon the shore can only marvel at the display.

No one inhabits these towers, for they were old before sapient life, and the creatures that crawl and writhe about the lower roots are warped beyond what nature might attempt. Corals, grey and blue and pink, climb up the towers in stages of changing breadth, and by them the astute observer might chart the rise and fall of oceans across forty million years.

It is in this state that the towers rest, when the ice-queen comes from the palace in the south of the world. Her caravans of dragons and mammoths progress across the plains, and it is with great hardship and many deaths that the jagged peaks are crossed, the ranges left behind as the frigid ocean appears to fore.

The ice-queen takes it upon herself to find the passage forward. With her wand she strikes five times the snow, and an ice-island shatters free. Whales swim from the cool blue depths and giants fix the vast creatures in harness. Northward, the ice-island is drawn, and all about there travels a cloak of winter, to guard against the warmth.

In many weeks the towers rise from the horizon. They stand like gilded sentries at the gates to the tropic world. Ships ply their ways through the straits about them, and cities crouch upon the islands, extending forth their telescopes and universities and catwalks. Dirigibles waft amongst the shining forest, and scholars draw measurements with sextants and astrolabes.

When the first mists drift by, activity ceases. The observers and the nauticals, all ship their oars and watch with curious intent. A cloud bank is swelling upon the south horizon, and at its heart their swells a berg of monumental size. It blossoms into enormity and rests afore the towers, and layers of mist and fog peel back to show the queen upon her silver throne.

She rises, the giantess, and walks forth into the sea. Her calves swim amidst the depths, but still the towers loom above her. It is with slow trepidation that she approaches the foremost.
There comes a shiver. It runs the tower’s height. The scholars gasp but the queen progresses, and with her wand she strikes thrice-fold upon the tower’s wall. It stands in silence, but a second shiver runs through it.

She continues onwards, deeper amidst the towers, she stands at their heart and brings her wand to bear upon a spire. It trembles, but remains.

With fury the ice-queen summons forth a blustering, shredding tempest. It falls upon the towers, and reaches for the heart of one. It rends apart with screams of metal, and the clouds fail to show the forest draped in gleaming snow.

The rent tower gapes wide like open ribs, and from it pours a cold blue light. Slowly drifts a fragment of water, a shimmering, amorphous orb, and it is this that peels apart like a brilliant azure flower.

The ice-queen reaches up, strokes the matter within, and all falls down into burst of pure white light.

When the observers awake, the towers are broken and fallen, and the ice-island has begun to melt. The dragons, swimming through the waves, have found a pearl that sings wordless melodies.


The best part of anonymity is being free of expectations.

The windings of Agarta are the home to many strange beasts. They dwell in the shadows and the honeycombs of the crevasses, and their eyes are gilded orbs set with rubies and agate.

It was in Agarta, in the shadows beneath the precipice, that I first found the old man who dwelt enshrouded in his cloak of night. His hair was sparse, his face a crumpled leather chamois. He slipped along through the darkness and never seemed to touch the ground.

‘What brings you here?’ he asked me. I scarcely knew the answer.

I am seeking something, a solution.

‘What is this solution?’

Do you not want to know my problem?

The old man shook his head, clearly amused at the naïveté of youth. We came to an ice-shelf, facing us from across a plunging chasm. Down within this swirled frozen mists and blizzards formed fleeting entities that wilted as they clutched towards the light.

‘Pitiful things.’

I wish for an answer, and so you must hear my problem.

‘No, tell me the answer that you seek. Then we shall see if it fits.’

I looked in bemusement at the figure. His head rose up out of the enfolding darkness, an arm stretched out pallid into the cold blue shine of the ice. In the palm danced a will-o-the-wisp the colour of a coral sea.

The whimsical philosophy in this vignette is in no way attributable to my current reading of Invisible Cities, although it's a good book. Also, there are great things afoot in the life of T.W.Meade, and announcements shall be made concerning them at the appropriate times. Also, Orpheus is a great film, and Kiss of the Spider-Woman stole my idea.

Damn that movie.

He couldn’t think, so he rode the trams. They carried him inwards and outwards like the tides, a daily ticket for three zones that consumed twelve hours a day.

He didn’t have a house. He slept on the trams. When he was hungry, he would buy something, and make-up a story so that restaurateurs let him use their microwaves. Sometimes he ate take-away, but sometimes it didn’t agree with him.

He wasn’t penniless. He collected the dole, by way of letters sent to his friend Anthea’s house every fortnight. Whenever they demanded that he work, Anthea would give him a job selling books in her shop, and he would sleep in her garage until enough time had elapsed.
Not owing any rent, only six dollars a day (he had a concession card), he found his three hundred dollars a fortnight more than enough. He was only one man, free of electricity bills. For entertainment, he would stop at the nearest library, or else ride out to the university to watch videos for free under the guise of being a mature-aged student.

At night, he walked. He stood in the doorways of restaurants and watched couples wed, sat on the bridge and gazed down into the river, stood by the entrance to the cricket grounds and listened to the crowds. He was not unkempt, for he washed every morning and night in the public toilets, spending a small amount of his money on soap. He used this to wash the knife and fork that were his only practical possession, fitting into the pocket of his mackintosh along with a well-worn volume, the cover gone and the spine thrice re-stitched.

Once, he had taken the train further afield. He walked the streets of this sister-city, seeing his home across the bay. It was winter, and very cold, but the jacket kept him warm. He sojourned two days but left relieved, there being no trams to ride, and his sleep strange and disturbed in the lee of the old town hall.


Am I wrong for loving Vanilla Sky, for all of its numerous faults? I intend to see Open Your Eyes, which seems a painfully-revealing title to me, but nonetheless I really like that movie, even if the ending was a little dodgey. Watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind made me think that Kaufmann could hhave written it in a way more palatable to the average reality-bender bug.

One of several reasons why Sigur Ros kicks arse, which was apleasant surprise. I always have a soft-spot for bands that provide downloads on their sites, especially if the band's songs are not exactly being flogged to death on the radio. I like to imagine some bizzare Icelandic wilderness, where goatherds and sheperdesses flee the wilely influence of the elves and wights, and all across the meadows and hot-springs float the strains of Njosnavelin and Hyperballad.

It is my deepest hope that, somewhere in Iceland, there stands a mountain or precipice ever scoured by winds, overshadowed by a leaden sky and with the occasional clap of thunder, autumn leaves whipped about a sparse, grassy tundra, and in the midst of the grinding surf below a small colony of gannets has made its home in a hill of verdegrised spoons and old cake trays.

No doubt I would be sorely disappointed.

Question of the day:

In today's post-femenist era, if a number of people were upon a liner, and said liner began to sink, would it still be the women who were huried to accompany the children off the ship?

If so, why? Should the definition be broadened to parents? What is actual company policy in such situations? And whilst many would say that it should be both sexes equally allowed first dibs on safety, many would not - yet not consider themselves sexist. Are they right? Is there a 'right'?

Thoughts?

A fine band, for those individuals whom do not know, is Dappled Cities Fly. Many of their songs are available for download online, and practically all may be listened to via a device known as a ‘radio blog’. They create esoteric rock of an enjoyable form that swims with whimsy.

I would also like it noted that Vertigo is an excellent film, lacking the crushing suspense of The Birds or Psycho, but compensating with its intelligent, engaging script, well-rounded characters and captivating visuals. The dream sequence, despite its brevity, is one of the most amazing things I have ever seen.

(As an closer, JJJ is holding another of its frequent downloading sprees, for the furreners).

The Monkey's Mask is a confident, well-executed, and gripping novel, written as a series of short poems grouped into various sections. Running to over two hundred pages (short for a novel but, as poetry goes, kind of cool), it is kind of like Beowulf, if Beowulf had been written by a Sydney poetess channeling Dashiel Hammet and lesbian issues. Which is to say that it is nothing like Beowulf.

The plot is a simple one, revolving around the narrator, Jill Fitzpatrick, and her attempts to locate the missing daughter of a rich North Shore couple, a girl who is later found dead, raped, and buried in a shallow grave in the bush north of Sydney. It is not the plot that makes this book, however (even if the plot is quite well-executed). It is what Porter does with the material.

Rather than being just a taught thriller - which, for all its other aspects, is what it is - this book is a complex exploration of gender roles, an examination of sensual and emotional love, a caustically-witty critique of literary circles and the hypocrits that populate them, and an examination of both poetry and erotic thrillers as genres and literary forms. The conclusions drawn are excellent, the entire thing brutal in parts but smooth and gentle as a whole, and the pages will turn faster than a Cessna's propellers. I miht draw some similarities between this book and Lantana, but I don't think that would give much more than a vague impression of the places and feel.

All this said, if you're not one for foul language (gratuitous use of the 'c' word, that is) or sex, you may not like this, and I'd keep it away from small children.

Nonetheless, a top-notch read. Really worth it.

XXI - 0800

'And so it decided upon a method of payment. Illusions, things made of matter and force, all could be made by it provided that it was kept well-fueled. It assimilates life energies, and it was for such a reason that I brought it living victims. When I questioned it about its abiliy to protrude itself into my mind, it revealed that it could in fact memorise entire minds, and recreate individuals as easily as false matter or cities.

'And such was the origin of Ville du Lac Bleu. Willing sacrifices travel to submit themselves to my master, their minds recreated, their forms made beautiful beyond compare, and heir bodies reanimated to serve in the up-keep of the city. And in exchange we provide my master with energy to sustain it at a conscious level, be it human or, when times are lean, animal. There is no gruesome murder here, and the mysterious are not overly dark.'

I was almost unable to fully comprehend what had been told to me. Nor could I fuly understand the reason of it.

'Why have you revealed all this to me?' I asked.

'Because,' said Maldoni, 'it is what I tell every person who enters the city. And then I give them one of the two following options - either dwell here with us in a city of eternal delights, or be sent with your memory tailored back into the world, an entirely-new chain of events within your mind.'

I thought about this. The shear wealth of knowledge concentrated in that city would be unfathomable, yet what the use if I could never spread it beyond those who already knew. And was what was contained within this city actually real? Could a mere version of myself, held within the infinite mind of some extra-terrestrial being, in any way be a continuation of myself? Or would death be final, and what was left behind be nothing more than a moving photograph?

'I will have to consider this,' I said.

'Of course,' was Maldoni's reply. 'They always do. You shall have free rein of the city, but under no circumstances attempt to flee. You will not succeed.'

I write these final passages now as I stand at the top of the wall, overlooking the ravine. I estimate that I shall be able to throw it a considerable distance, the height of the ravine considered. I can only hope that that thing does not have any conception of what I do, for if it does then this manuscript has been for naught, scribbled away in my sketchbook in the hopes that it be found by someone and provide a warning, before some fool wanders into the city without realising what lurks here.

* * *

Eriksson stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting patiently for his friend to exit the chamber.

'What took you so long?' he asked.

'Oh, nothing,' said Maldino. 'I was simply finishing-off a book'.

_____________________

This is my cop-out ending, because I'm tired and bored, and I already did another 24 hour novel that was a lot more fun earlier this week. That one was crazy. This one is a bad pulp serial.

Anyway, here it is. There was going to to be a confrontation with the master, a chase-scene, and a well-rounded debate on the nature of reality, but meh.

XX - 0700

'It began,' he said, 'when I was a soldier, a young man fighting for my country against the invasions of the Tartars. We pushed-onwards against the enemy, and made fare headway in the forests, but in time the tide turned against us and we were forced back into the forests. The men fled, ill-equiped to face such a such a swift-moving and battle-hardened foe. We retreated southwards, and scattered, and in time I was alone and wandering the forests, alone and unsure of myself.

'The Tartars were an unbroken line to north, and so when I came to the moutains I was in no real situation to turn back to the north. I though only about self-preservation now, for I was one man and could hardly defeat an empire. The mountains seemed to be enough to defeat the Tartar cavalry, and so I determined to push my way through to the Transcaucus and find sanctuary there.

'I wound my way into the ranges, trekking through valleys and clambering atop of swaying peaks, and in time I lost my way and stumbled upon this peak. On the one side is cavern in which I sheltered for the night, and from above I could here strange noises that beckoned me upwards. I scaled the slope, and discovered the forests, and whilst resting by the lake I noticed the strange creatures that swell in the water.

'I was terrified by these things - a superstitious peasant ill-informed about the cosmic wonders of the universe. I fled away from beasts that, water-bound, could never touch me, and stumbled down into a pit that lead to a being of manifold terrors.

'That pit lead to maze of shafts - shafts like those of a mine, but of a glossy smoothness and a milky-white hue. I stumbled about lost in them for days, until I came upon a high chamber at the heart of which, upon a dais, there sat an orb of aperfect whiteness that shone with brilliant light. I was entranced by the thing, yet fearful to touch it. My attempts to excape the shafts, however, prove at every turn to come to nought but failure. In the end I lay in a distant tunnel of the labyrinth, and as I did I heard strange cries and music that seemed to come fromsomewhere just below the surface of this world.

'I tried to resist. I was terrified of what might await should I give-in. But it was no good, for I was only a human being.

'In the end I crouched before the orb, and it reached-out its influence and left a part of it in my mind.I saw, then, the full extent of it's history - a tale too long to tell were I immortal, which thankfully I am not. The orb spoke of cities that rested outside of time - of Khahir where existance was shaped and of the ancient citadels of Nyarath and Gayra that were erected before lost Mu fell into the sea. It spoke of its own passage, across aeons of space and time, falling slowly towards the earth drawn by the imprisonment of one of its own brethren - a creature without flesh forced into a crude physical form, and impacted upon the face of the earth.

'The two entities, they managed to connect, they existed in some strange symbiosis of the mind. Electrical impulses flung across the globe joined them where they sat in their respective resting places. In time, men dug them up, and it was with these men that the beings fashioned these receptacles for their physical forms - places of undeniable security where they might await slowly the arrival of a time that will allow them to shattere these inert, sedentary forms, and return once more to states beyond time and matter.'

I observed the man, amazed at the concepts that he shared with me. perhaps one day such ideas might be commonplace, but to me, then, it was as though someone had opened a door to an entire other reality.

'At first, I was its slave. Its other servants had been destroyed by war and famine, but it made me stronger, warped me with its influence, having learnt from experience of the unique frailties of the human being. I brought it mice, and then rabbits and birds. It had no need for the flesh, provided that the creatures be alive when brought before it. Then the thing would kill them, somehow, and I would eat the meat. Under its auspices I prospered, I was freed of the tunnels, I built a house upon the plateau and in time improved upon it. My mind, my body, all were strengthened by my master, and whilst I could never - and no doubt never shall be able to - control it utterly, I trained my mind to the point where I could parly with it . I delivered ultimata, made agreements, and my master realised that, as powerful as it was, it needed me'.

I keep thinking I've mis-spelt Transcaucus, but I haven't. Buck 65 rocks.

XIX - 0600

I awoke in darkness. Sitting-up in bed, I heard the door open, and a figure entered carrying a small lantern. As they stood by the bed, I could see their face. Maldoni looked at me, crouched amidst my bedclothes.

'Come,' he said. 'We shall discuss things in my study.'

I put my gown on, and followed the man out of the bedroom and along a high, narrow hall. After several turns, he stopped at a small oaken door, and opened it by way of a large brass key. Within, a simple study presented itself, lighted by a gas-lamp in one corner and furnished with a large bureau and several armachairs.

Maldoni seated himself in one, behind the desk, and gestured for me to take the other. A fire was burning away brightly in the grate. Maldoni offered me a glass of sherry, but I refused politely.

'You are no doubt burning with questions,' said Maldoni, 'and so am I. It is not usual for people to come here without knowing what they would find, or without our having intended them to come. Usually it is my practice to travel out amongst the countrym provide information, invitations and the like, and ensure that whomsoever comes here is a person suited to Ville du Lac Bleu. But you, you provide a unique problem. It is a side-effect of the shrinking nature of the world.'

'But what is this place?' I asked. 'Are you all ghosts? Corpses waiting on their own departed souls?'

'Not as such,' Maldoni replied. 'It is something of a lengthy story, that has its beginnings many hundreds of years ago...'

Doesn't it always? This'n is especially-small due to my taking a shower and up-dating my web-comic.

XVIII - 0500

All of my attempts to communicated with Clothilde proved fruiteless. I could see no signs on her person of what had killed her, but the very idea of it horrified me. I could only remember her as she fawned over Maldino, attempted along with all the others to get as close to him as she might, and I wondered if this might be a part of his terible influence - could he killed them at will, pass them across from life to death and back again. On that strange night high in the moutains, it seemed to me that anything was possible.

I left the apartments and reclaimed the coach, bidding it return me to the Palace of the Seven Stars with all due haste. The coach made its way through the streets at frightful sppeds, leaving me quite amazed by the haste that it managed to conjour. Soon enough I reached the boulevarde leading down through the palace gates. Now the number of carriages entering had slowed almost to a trickle, whereas those departing maintained a steady stream. It was growing nearer to dawn, I supposed, and the revellers were finally going home.

The carriage drew to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, and I made my way past the footman and up through the sumptuously-dressed peoples making their ways down the stairs. They veered away from me as I approached - for I had barely paused to throw-on my old clothes before rushing out the door, and whilst htey had been cleaned as I attended the party, they were still mere rags when compared to the costumes to which these people were accustomed.

I entered the palace, and looked about the floor. maldino was standing in a corner, a coterie about him as he talked, obviously trying to wind-up the party as some over-ardent admirers surrounded them. I made my way across the floor towards him, and he could not help but notice me as I did so.

'I do not recognise you,' he said, 'are you, perhaps, the newcomer?'

I went to throw a damning accustation at him - an accustation truly pitiful in the effect it might hope to have - and as my mouth opened Clothilde turned and smiled in a cordial manner.

'Ah, you've come back,' she said. 'Have you yet been introduced to Maldoni?'

I stumbled upon my words and halted short of what I been about to say, hastily-reordering words in the hopes of avoiding sounding like the howling lunatic that I felt myself.

'I saw your corpse,' I said to Clothilde, ' as a serving-girl, at your home.'

'And what is this, Mademoiselle Delacroix,' said Maldoni with a smile, 'entertaining strange men, what would your mother say?'

'One might only wonder,' she replied, beaming. 'Now as for you, Charles, that was simply my corspe - not I. I'm afraid that you haven't had it all explain to you yet.'

'I prefer that the burden rest on my shoulders alone,' said Maldoni, 'and so I encourage people not to tell newcomers a great deal, but rather to leave it to myself. Unfortunately, this sometimes leads to misunderstandings if do not speak with them in time - much as now, for example.'

'I am very confused,' I said. Maldoni smiled.

'I am not surprised,' he said. 'There an awful lot of confusing details about this entire affair.'

I have failed to note that through all this he spoke in French with a faint accent. It seemed, so the say, the lingua franca of the place.

'Come,' he said, 'and we shall discuss things further in my chambers. If you will follow me, then hopefully everything can be settled.' he looked at the clock on the wall and frowned. 'Unfortunately, there is not a great deal that can be done until this evening. If perhaps you would rather rest, and we can discuss the affair then.'

I agreed, although I did not see why it should have to wait, not feel it lkely that I should easily fall asleep. I was shown to a large chamber with a comfortable ed at its centre. The matress feather-stuffed and raped with an eider-down. As I lay there, a servant brought me a cup of genuine drink, and I swallowed it down gratefully. I was soon asleep, swallowed up in darkness.

I did not dream of anything, so far as I remember. Whilst I have always been lucky in being gifted with very curious dreams, I can rarely hold them very long, and I regret this deeply, for I was certain on this night that I had a most curious dream indeed.

I'm bored, I'm tired, andI have six more hour of this to go. Sigh.

XVII - 0400

Entered down the stairway, dressed all in red and walking with the aid of a cane. his hair was black, but a few streaks of grey showed themselves amidst this, and his face was touched at the corners by the faintest of wrinkles. He was a handsome man, but nothing on the level of those around him, and above all he ws showing the signs of age.

Although I was not the first to note him, I turned at once as soon as I saw others watching. He stood on the central landing of the staircase, looking over all those gathered with a warm expression on his face. All those there looked back with something resembling adoration, but I thought I saw in his face the vaguest hints of what might have been possessive pride.

Maldino stood upon the stairs, and slowly he began to walk down them, one by one. At first people drew away, but as he passed they gathered behind him and followed slowly, with the sort of reverentional fascination that is usally reserved for a saint or monarch. As this impression touched me, I wondered which it was that they fancied him.

Maldino stood at the foot of the staris, and looked about.

'What a lovely birthday party,' he said. 'I'm glad to see that you are all having fun. I am sorry to be late in joining you, but there were things that had to be done. For I only just received the news as I was readying to dress and come down. Otherwise, I should have greeted you at the door. Now then, it is an absolute pleasure to see you all. Please, continue on. I hardly wish to disturb such far-gone revelry.'

Slowly, people turned away from Maldino, and he walked about unhampered for the better part by hangers-on. Wherever he paused, however, others would soon congregate. I noted Clothilde hanging upon his arm, a smile cutting its way across her face. She ws quite clearly entranced by something in Maldino's eyes, and I asked myself what strange power it was that the man had over his subjects. Was it purely, as it might be taken, a deep and all-consuming love? Or was it that he actually exerted some force over their minds?

There was no way of knowing, for it was hardly the type of question that I intended to ask. I waited patiently, for I had been promised an audience, and hoped to converse with tis enigmatic figure.

For now, at a distance as I was, I restricted myself to an examination of Maldino's bearing and appearance. there was something about him that clearly distinguished him from all of those others in the hall. perhaps it was the sheer presence of the man - the way in which he impressed himself upon any scene in which he was immersed? Or perhaps it was that whilst everyone else seemed somehow detached from reality, to real or not real enough, Maldino trod the earth as much as I did myself. It was clear that he was not of the same order of being as the others, that perhaps he was something lower or higher in the scale of things supernatural, but I had no way of knowing what it was. I asked the bearded man across from me, but he just shook his head.

'Maldino would prefer it that you hear such things from his own mouth,' said the bearded man, and closed the matter by proferring me a drink. I accepted, savouring the taste, though I had a glass of physical water by my side.

The evening progressed well in the presence of Maldino. Where before it had been a wild, directionless adventure in parties, now it took-on a more structured nature, and became something of an attempt to impress the lord. He smiled like an indulgent father, and thousands of people smiled with him. Songs were performed, but now they were no longer random ballads and spontaneous bursts of lyricism, but elegant and measured tunes - the classics of a host of ages. I heard amongst it some Mendhelson, and what sounded as though it might have been Chaucer.

There were feats of conjuring - doves and cards - and a juggling diplay where three full cups of wine were spun through the air without spilling a drop. I was amazed by this, and applauded along with all the rest the young man wo accomplished the trick.

After the singing and the siplays of petty magic, a troupe of dancers appeared - a number of beautiful men and women that moved in sinuous manners, bending in ways that seemed to contradict what I knew to be possible with the human frame. They swirled and gyred and did cartwheels and back-flips, and with a few quick motions they formed a tower that swayed up to the chandelier and allowed the top-most dancer to pluck one of the diamonds free with her feet.

As the night wore on, I grew tired, and decided that I would hunt-up Maldino later-on. I sought-out Clothilde and asked her when we would be departing. She told me that the festivities were due to continue to dawn, and if I wished to then I might return to her house by way of one of the carriages.

'But where is it?' I asked.

'Simply go to the foot of the steps, board a carriage, and request that it take you to the home of Clothilde Delacroix,' said the girl, evidently beginning to tire of my company. Rather than frustrate her, I left and did exactly as she had instructed.

The vehicle that I selected was a bare-wood, dark-stained road coach, and it was into this I climbed and spoke the requisite instructions. At once the coach was away, and I looked out the windows at the fabulous grounds passing by, and the small guard-houses set into the walls that became visible only for an instant, as I passed through the gates.

I returned to Clothilde's apartments in due course. Some might consider staying at a strange woman's home scadalous and immoral, but I would reproach those who do so by suggesting that this is only the fact if ones intentions are likewise. I rapped at the door and was admitted by the serving-girls, being escorted to a bedroom whilst several of them ran for me a bath.

It was in this that I luxuriated, taking great pleasure in the warm water on my body after so long without this simple pleasure. the warmth soothed my bones and muscles and the soap washed away the sweat and stench that had been concealed with an expensive suit.

I dried myself, and dressed in bed-clothes and a gown provided by the serving-girls. Before bed, I decided upon helping myself to a sureptitious inspection of the place. It cosisted, i was dissapointed to find, of a small number of rooms of a large volume each, with one long, low room in which were double bunks for twelve housemaids.

It was as I entered this room that I was treated to a great surprise, for having entered and found the room empty, I was just about to leave when I turned and was confonted with Clothilde.

'I'm very sorry,' I said, 'I was just about to leave. I was merely looking about the house before retiring to bed.'

Clothilde merely nodded silently and moved passed me, and it was then that I noted she was dressed in the uiform of a serving-girl.

Ooh, suspense. 18 hours and counting.

XVI - 0300

On entering the palace, I found myself in a vast hall, borded on all sides by a gallery reached by a lengthy marble staricase that divided at its centre into two spiralling wings. Everywhere peopled moved to and fro, and corpses walked about bearing platters laden with champagne and and entrees. It crossed my mind to wonder where al this provender came from, but I was unable to ask Clothilde fpor she was busily-engaged in conversation with another young woman, a stunning Chinese dressed all in ink-black silk.

I attempted to mingle amidst the revellers, but everyone seemed to take me as a servant, and many were deeply surprised when I introduced myself until, gradually, they came to realise that I was a newcomer to the city.

'Tonight you will meet Maldino,' they said, and strangfe smiles would pass across their faces as they laughed into their wines. I did not wish to make any enemies, and so avoided pressing the point, but on several occasions I attempted to decipher the nature of the place. Though it was not healthy to contemplate the fact, I knew that all those about me were either corpses or inhuman - else something more than human. The very idea of it sent an electric shiver up my spine.

I took a glass of wine from a passing platter, and drunk deep. I am usually moderate but these were exceptional times. The taste was rich and full-bodied - I had clutched at a glass of claret - but I felt none of the pleasant warming that should have radiated outwards from my stomach. I sniffed at the glass, and the odour was sharp and all-pervasive as that of wine ever is. I wondered, and clutched at another glass.

This one followed the first with another pleasant taste and failure to warm me, and I decided that either I was drinking some rare and enchanted beverage entirely-devoid of the common effects of wine, else I was drinking a phantom - which seemed a far more likely thing.

I had to think, then, if all of this was phantoms. Spectres, illusions, ghosts. How else to explain the city's sudden appearance, its magnificence, its flaunting of natural laws and the deathless, otherworldy-quality of its inhabitants. Just to be certain, I downed another glass, and remained enitirely unaffected, although I had to admit it possessed the ghost of an excellent vintage.

As the night continued, the orchestra playing its musics from all across the globe, a number of figures climbed up upon the stage and, picked-out by a shaft of blue stage-light, give vent to songs that seemed to flow directly from their souls. There were ballads of the highlands sung in rich Gaelic lilts, and French ditties that touched my heart. A number of impenetrable oriental tunes, though I failed to understand any of what was sung, had such a slow, alien quality to them that I could not help but pause to listen as they drifted slow and sharp through the air. I determined quietly to myself that I would visit Japan some day.

All of this took place amidst a forest of silk bunting, suspending hanging outards from an enormous chandelier that hung from the centre of the hall, dripping glass like water from a stalactite. All around the room burned gas lamps and candles, and it was these that gave the hall a warm glow. It somejow counteracted te chill hues that were projected by the revellers, who could be quite disorienting such large numberd with their constant shifts between hyper-realism and suffused brilliance.

I spent the better part of my time, once I had realised the nature of the place, sitting in an armchair by the fireplace and listening the young man with a beard, who went on and on about something to do with the ways in which language can infect ones view of reality, and conversely perfectly-harmless words were growing ever more sinister as the world changed around them.

But even this wet blanket was quite playful in his diatribe, and I do not believe athere was a serious person in the place. Of coure, it appeared that spirits could grow intoxicated upon this imaginary wine, and it was a most excellent wine indeed. Songs and strains of music filled the air, great impromptu dances were formed and fell apart, and a number of people came up to introduce themselves to me as it becmae clear that I was a new figure in the town.

In stark contrast to the villagers, very few people seemed at all interested in outside goings-on, and I am sure that the most heated inquiry I was subjected was that of Clothilde, and her two questions pertaining to America and France.

As the evening rolled on, however, there was no sign of the much-vaunted guest of honour. I had been assured - and continued to be so - that I would be introduced to Maldino before the night was done, but I was more than a little apprehensive about the affair, although I was also filled with a great deal of excitement about the idea. Very few of the people whom I questioned seemed wither to know anything about the nature of the place or willing to disclose it, and i grew very eager to discover just what, exactly, was the relationship between corpses and servants, and between that Artic reach and this lavish phantom settlement.

But for the time being I ate and drank, and grew gradually hungrier, until I finally asked one of the servants for actual food and was brought a bit of meat and some wild berries. Meanwhile, everyone - myself included - was having a marvellous time, and so entirely failed to notice when Maldino came into the hall.

Some daft bint has been inaccurately-recording the twenty-four hour numbers on my post-midnight posts. I must see about going through a new agency.

XV - 1400

Once out in the street, one of the horseless carriages drew-up before us. It was painted white and blue, trimmed with gold and silver, and the inside was of red suede trimmed in red and imperial purple. Clothilde slimbed within, I following, and at a low command the carriage began to roll away along the road.

'The ball is to be held at the Palace of the Seven Stars,' said Clothilde, precluding my next question. 'You look quite smart in your suit, and so should not attract to much attention.'

I was dressed in black formal attire, as was the popular fashion at the time, and slightly surprised at the moderness of my clothing. From somewhere, she handed me a silver-topped cane.

We made our way through the city streets passed hords in joyous carousal. The carriage made its way across a wide bridge, beneath which ran the luminous, rushing waters of the grand canal. The weather was fine, and the climate (oddly) quite pleasant. The Palace of the Seven jewels rose from behind a low wall at the end of a broad, tree-lined boulevarde. It climbed in mounting layers up from out of the pild masses of conflicting styles and fashions, an one point a kremlin and at another a mosques, a cathedral, a fortress, a manor in the French style such as that which stands at Chartres, and even the temple at Karnak restored to all of its living glory. The artistry of a hundred races had gone into that building's construction, and for all that it screamed to be declared a crime against art, it stood-out as a wonderful chimaera, a marvellous hybrid that captured my imagination as I watched it approaching through the front, amidst a seemingly-endless stream of carriages, cabs and rickshaws pouring steadily through the gates and departing once more, emptied of their passengers.

In this city of impossibilties, I paused barely a moment to wonder if the plateau could contain all of this upon it. A city had melted from the air and untold thousands of souls with it - if were to begin imposing the laws of common-sense upon the course of events, then I might soon find myself as mad as Kozlov.

The thought of Kozlov caught me. I remembered this city's sinister ties, and determined to unearth them as I went.

The carriage passed through the gates and along and enormous rotund drive. At the centre of this drive rose a fountain, spouting-forth waters of a myriad hues that glittered and shone, catching the moonlight even as they cast-forth their own dazzling beams. The carriage drew-up before the palace, and the door was opened by a voiceless footman who stood aside for us to disembark. We made our way up the vast carpeted stairs that led to the towering glass-and-wood doors, set in a facade of creamy marble.

All about us there moved similar souples and groups and solitary figures, some, like Clothilde, clutching at a hand, whilst others stood apart self-assured and conversed with the paragon of wit. I myself was dumbstruck with the wonder of it al. I had never seen such wealth, such oppulent displays of it, on four continents amongst the greatest nations of the Earth.

Minute. That sucks.

XIV - 1300

'And when was this?' I asked.

'Oh, many years ago. Although, time seems to run together in this place. I myself came here when I was twenty years of age, and yet if you were to ask me how old I am now I wouldn't be able to give you anyhting even resembling an accurate estimate. But you, where do you hail from?

'I am from Engliand,' I said, 'from London of current. I'm an explorer, of sorts.'

'Ah, yes,' said Clothilde. 'And have they discovered the North-West passage yet?'

'Whom?'

'The Americans. They were trying to when I came here. But then, as I said, time does tend to run together here. Do the United States of America still exist, or has someone conquered them.'

'No, the United States are going-along quite well.'

'Ah, good to know. And France is still flourishing?'

'A global power, mademoiselle.'

'Ah, good.'

We arrived on the other shore, and disembarked the boat. Another pair took the boat, and the musician took-up his instrument again as they set-out upon the waters.

Below the city walls was a long promenade, along which a large number of people were walking in dress of all times and places. We entered the city by the front gate, and on passing through the wall I found myself within a stunning melange of architectural styles. The street was of large cobbles, and to either side their rose up pagodas and parthenons, and tall gabled houses the scond and third floors of which jutted forth to overhang the street. A Japanese palace was set back from the road, and an a number of gleaming domed structures rose from the remains of a dilapidated manor. This was only a fragment of the visula cacaphony on the display, as we walked along streets lined by wooden huts that merged into long-houses and then into mot-and-bailey fortresses, and under bridges that crossed the roads and were thronged with revellers downing winde and chatting gaily into the night.

Everyone who I looked upon seemed a figure of perfection. Not a person could have been classed as ugly, or even as unattractive. Everywhere they walked, or rode in horseless carriages, or lounged in cafes and laughed and sung with faces split by joy.

'Is there some festival?' I asked.

'Yes,' Clothilde replied, 'you are, it could be said, rather lucky, for it is Maldino's birthday.'

'Then Maldino can keep track of time,' I said.

'It would seem so,' Cltohilde replied, 'although in truth few really care. What is tiem when death is but a memory. Come, we shall go to my apartments and you may dress more suitably for the ball.'

I had little chance to object, and i was hopeful that I might meet Maldino at this event. I asked Clothilde and she confirmed as much, for it was a Birthday Ball, after-all.

Clothilde lived in vast apartments over-looking the grand canal, and was served by a host of maids each as beautiful as her mistress. None of them spoke, though I attempted to engage them in conversation, and when Clothilde saw what I was trying to do she loosed a silvery laugh.

'It is no good trying to talk with corpses,' she said. 'They could not speak to you even if they understood your words.'

'Then these are corpses?' I looked into the face of one beautiful maid as she fixed my sash and buttoned my jacket. There was nothing about her, no necrotic tinge, that might lend once to assume that what Clothilde said true. If anything, she seemed more a living, breathing thing than Clothilde herself.

'Of course,' she replied. 'Who else would we get for servants. If you should introduce yourself kindly to Maldino, one day your corpse might even serve us. Who is to say?'

I wished to argue this, horrified at the statement, but before I could say anything the young woman had vanished away into her chambers, one of the corpse-maids shutting the tall double-portal tight. I sat in the antechamber, observing the servants, attempting to spy something in them that might betray their deathly nature. It later became apparent that I was thinking about the matter in entirely the wrong way.

When Clothilde emerged finally from her dressing, I quite forgot anything that I had intended to ask her. Such beauty as shone from her face never existed outside of the confines of that city, and her figure was such as to bring grown men to tears. I am both strong-willed and, I believe, a gentlemen, and so I merely acknowledged that she looked ravishing, and followed her out of the building and down the sweeping staircase and out into the street.

I know how this works, but i'm not elaborating until it's dramatic.

XII - 0000

I raised my musket to my shoulder, sighted, and fired. The crack of the discharge sent the deer's head flicking in surprise even as the ball shattered its spine.

I examined the carcass, and brought it back down to the lack to butcher it. It was my hope to attract the catfish by throwing remnants and offal into the water, and so I set to work skinning the deer with my jack-knife. It was a young buck, of one of those species that hover on the border of being antelopes. It had two minute horns that I had to wonder at the purpose of, and the pelt went I lay it out was extremely thin and delicate. I regretted having no means of tanning it.

Having completed the skinning, I removed the innards, and these I threw into the water. I could see the swirl of the creature moving beneath the surface, and faced that I saw another set of ripples cutting across from the far side of the lake.

Unfortunately, I was unable to tease any of the creatures back to a surface exposition, and so comforted myself by building a fire and organising a spit. I roasted the deer slowly over the flames, burning the outer flesh but consoling myself with the knowledge that the inner layers would be delicious. I dined on venison and a small quanity of wild blackberries that I found nearby.

The sun began to fall, as is its want, and I lay beneath my lean-to, on the shore of the lake, watched as the star burnt away in clouds of gold and purple vapours. The moon began its way up out of the horizon, following the course of the shadows that had heralded it, and the sky turned to a cool purple shot through by golden pin-pricks. I lay beneath the frosty light of the hemisphere and looked out across the lake, watching the stars reflecting in its preternatural surface. An unusual reflection, the colours changed, the water somehow more beautiful and real than the sky above it.

I began to feel myself drifting away, and amused myself with fancies about the city. I imagined, lying there, that the walls and towers of some great baroque castle stood amongst the trees swaying on the thither bank, and that music drifted to my ears in acompaniment to the rich odours of a thousand thickly-seasoned feasts. Windows shone down upon the lake in large, segmented rectangles, and boats set-out upon the water bearing shimmering beauties on pleasure-rides whilst bards strummed delicately upon lyres and guitars. The catfish, emerging from the waters, drifting about the boats, seemingly lulled by the beauty of the music.

Images of Spain and Germany and the Far east, all of these flooded my mind as I gave sway to imagination. Men and women with almond eyes and cinamon skin, who dressed in the English fashions of a century ago. And what of Mu? Of this I dared not delve. But I painted images of gay promenades and fireworks loosed to explode with the clash of cymbals and drums.

I thought, perhaps, that a boat drew up upon the shore, and it was only as I observed the hand extended to accept my own that I realised that what I saw was not fantasy, but real, and before my very eyes.

The woman had deep brown eyes, and creamy skin pale and beautiful. She seemed, almost, to clow with an inner radiance, although depending upon how I looked at her she seemed to shift to absolute solidity, until she fell into the background further than any ordianry person might. It seemed that she shifted constantly between aethereality and hyper-realism, and the whether or wither depended in whole part upon the on-looker.

She said something, in what sounded like a french Patois. I could not understand, but replied in Parisien.

'Ah, welcome,' she said, as I rose and bowed before her. She was dressed entirely in pearl-grey Regency attire, and her accent was perfect to my foreign ear. 'My name is Clothilde Delacroix. What brings you to Ville du Lac Bleu?'

'My name is Charles Eriksson,' I replied. 'I am not entirely certain what brought me here, save it be curiosity and chance.'

Clothilde smiled.

'The greater number of things in life can be attributed to curiosity and chance,' she said. 'Come, we shall go to the city. You may accompany me in my boat.'

I followed her - she led me by the hand - and we climbed aboard the small white boat as it drifted, unaided, across the waters.

'What propels this?' I asked, amazed.

'I am not certain,' she replied, 'but then, there are many magics about this place of which I am ill-informed. best to ask Maldino, for he is well-versed in such subjects due to his lengthy stay herein.'

'And whom might this Maldino be?' I asked. I imagined at once the lord who resided over this castle, and thoughts of ghosts once more flooded my mind. I felt it impolite to directly ask, although I had a burning urge to do so.

'Maldino, it was he who built this place,' she said, 'or at the least constructed the first of the many buildings to go into its current make-up. He did not erect the walls, not the palace, but rather the small keep that was the foundation of it all'.

What's this cheesey smell emenating fromthe mauscript? Most queer.

XII - 2300

I began to wonder if, perhaps, it was all a simple flight of fancy carried to far. It was not difficult to imagine Alim, passing throgh the region in the course of his travels, garnering a number of details - perhaps filching the icon himself - and even now sitting chuckling away in Africa at the fool's errand to which he had consigned this willing rube.

But then, the phantom in the chasm refused to fall on the side of fantasy. The further and further I pierced into the heart of that shadowed forest, the more I was certain that what I had seen was in fact reality. Some strange reality, no doubt, and one that until now I had been less than eager to give credence to, but the possibility remained. And it was far more appealing than the alternative - that I had stumbled into the midst of the Caucasus on the trail of pure mythology, and found it crystalised in the form of a game trail and a geological peculiarity.

I kept on, questioning, my eyes and ears open at all times. And what it it were true? Then what should I be searching for? Some deep, light-suffused cavern with uncanny masonry at its heart? A city of tumbled, conflicting architectures from all across the globe and every moment in time? Such a thing had the villagers only alluded to, and it made me wonder upon what the Moor had founded this particular gem of information.

The brook emptied, aftrer a while, in broad lake. The lake gave me cause to stop in wonder - for it was of a beautiful turquoise shade, so clouded with minerals that it seemed a pool of purest enamel, or a liquid jewel. It was a gorgeous thing, and I laughed at it - the man who went to Africa to study nomads and instead found a Russian lake. But it was a beautiful thing, shimmering in the sunlight. I decided to stay beside it, and had a meal on the pebbles that formed its shore.

These pebbles I took to skipping, and sent them slying away across th water. The patterns they left behind were truly marvelous to behold. Several of the larger ones land with heavy crashes, and I grimaced at my lack of dexterity.

It was as I skipped stones that I wondered if anything could survive in water such as this. I thought not, but was uncertain - for I am not a master at biology and have always relied more on the abilities of others to examine my discoveries. perhaps I might have achieved more lasting fame had I catalogued Zathagar as well as unearthing the pillars that were once its gates.

I skipped a few more pebbles, and noted unusual ripples moving back and forth beneath the surface. This raised interested in me, and I paused in mys skipping, thinking perhaps that my questions were about to be answered.

The waters grew placid once more. I cursed, and dismissed it as the wind. The breeze was cutting down through the hills to my left, a pair that framed the lake between them as I looked along it from where I stood. I picked-up another stone and returned to my sport.

I had succeeded, much to my delight, in skipping a pebble all the way across to the other side, when the ripples began once more. This time I ignored them, for it was clear now that they were being caused by the wind, and I was far too busy working my mind through the various problems that continued to present themselves.

Another stone shot away over the lake, and I watched it as a great, bloated mouth shot from beneath the surface and swallowed the inoffensive pebble whole.

I shot-up, stunned, and watched as the creature twisted about on the water, a long, grey-blue thing like an enormous cat-fish with plates like a crocdile all down its back. It had a host of gleaming fangs, and it was these that it bared at me as it pivoted like a whale and dlipped, almost noiseless, back beneath.

I was astonished. In one single moments all of my doubts had been dashed, or at the very least my fears of infamy. The brute must have been at the least thirty feet long, and as thick across as a small row-boat. And such scales. And the eyes! Twin points of watery yellow that seemed to glow internally, infernally. It was enough to chill me at the very thought of it. But fears soon departed before a waves of absolute and utter relief.

This monster, it seemed to stand for everything that I had hoped for. Was it not possible, if the place that I had sought contained such creatures, it might not also contain other wqonders. Some might argue to the contrary, and would probably be correct. What relationship does a hideous reptilian catfish bear to a rumoured city of immortal spectres? I could see none. Yet, much as one seemingly-impossible discovery will spur-on all those others who are hunting dreams laughed at as unattainable, the unearthing of this creature gave a sense of incredible optimism to the entire affair.

I skipped a dozen more stones across the water, but only managed to coax the creature out once more. It seemed to have discovered the stoney nature of the lures, and would have none of it. I cursed, and resigned myself to being at its mercy. A number of unanswered questions were running through my head one after another, such as how the thing breathed in what was no doubt a cloying mixture, and how many were living in that enigmatic lake.

No answers being forthcoming, I decided to go for a brief walk to calm myself. Aterwards, decided to establish a camp of some form, and so erected a lean-to of sorts from branches and sticks torn from the lower parts of trees. These served me well, and I was quite proud of the thing. I then decided to aquire for myself some game, for I recalled having seen signs of animals about the place. I cleaned my rifle and loaded carefully, then set-out into the forests to find something to shoot.

I came in due course to signs of some animal, perhaps a small species of deer, and followed the trail carefully, discovering it to lead against the wind. I was not surprised to find that it ran to the brook, where I saw the animal drinking steadily. It was, as I had supposed, a species of deer, its coat dappled beautifully and of a predominantly deep-russet colour.

Yes, monsters. I wrote this, so it was bound to happen eventually. Just be glad I haven't pulled the old 'lost world' trick like I contemplated doing.

In other news - HALFWAY DONE AND I AM STILL COMPARATIVELY-SPRY!

::jigs.

XI - 2200

When I awoke the next day, I was unsure of whether what i had seen was reality or a dream. I could not be certain either way, for little recalled itself prior to waking aside from watching that figure vanish into the storm. I was frustrated at my inability to discern reality fro fantasy, and I cursed myself as I made my way along the path, snivelling with the cold and saturated all throughout my form.

The trail betrayed my inclinations around noon, when it turned on around the moutain upon which I stood, rather than wending its way towards the bizzarely-misshapen peak. After some time spent in indiscision, I decided to follow my instincts and my vision - I had compromised between reality and a dream. I turned away from the path and pushed my way through the trees, down into the deep, narrow valey that seperated my peak from the one that I sought.

This valley, or gorge, rather, was of a most precipitous nature. I was forced to take extreme care as I scaled the edge, in many cases forced to clutch at roots and outcrops, clambering down the face as I ever neared the bottom. It took me an hour or so to almost complete the act, after which I was forced to pause and rest. I resumed the journey, and finally found myself at the bottom of the valley, looking up on either side at the sheer, green-swathed faces, the great sheets of grey rock that showed themselves amidst it, and the trees and shrubs that clutched at every available foothold, over hanging the tops of the cliffs like the teeth of some gruesome giant.

I was in a sensitive state, and the idea of being consumed by an enormous giant crafted of the mountian wa quite enough to unsettle me. I waded through the clover that swathed this shadowy reach, and began to climb slowly up the other side. I was quite exhausted before I had even reached the level of the game trail, and forced to rest several times. Climbing upwards is far more effort than climbing down, for in the latter case gravity is on ones side.

I pulled myself, slowly, agonisingly, up the mountain side, and when I pasued next I looked out over a vast an stunning view. Down below I could see the game trail, sharp cut of grey amdst the green and black, and over the tops of the trees the clouds had turned to gorgeous shades of purple and red and gold, tumbling into blackness as night came on.

I slept on the slope, lying upon a ledge a few feet wide, with the gulf before and the bluk of the mountain behind, so immense that I felt almost asthough it sought to force me off by the shear bulk of its magnitude.

With the morning, aching beyond any easy comprehension, I resumed once more my climb up the mountain.

It became gradually more gentle now. The shearness diminished and I was able to rise occasionally from all fours and stumbled a few short steps. I tore a sapling from where it had grown wedged into a stoney crevice, and used it to hook into the earth and draw me on. I felt asthough I were some titan, climbing the slope of the globe itself, and when I reached the summit - the horizon - I would look out across an endless void with all the countries of the world below it, and the stars and planets suspended like lanterns above.

But then I felt a lot of things in that thin mountain air.

It was midday when finally I reached the summit, and the anticipation that coursed through me was such as I had never known. I dragged myself onwards, nearing total exhaustion, eager to discover the ultimate answer to all the questions that I, my friend, and circumstance had posed. The emotions that ran in my veins were positively electric, and it was to my credit that I did not faint with excitement.

I stumbled up and over a rise, and found myself upon a heavily-forested tableland. Nothing could be seen amongst the dense tangle of foliage, a ridge of hills on the far sie of the plateau that seemed to work themselves towars something of a peak. I could see nothing at first to show of my success, and so lay down beneath a tree to rest before continuing my search.

When I woke, I was still weary and aching, but I felt that I might manage to make a small surveillance of the area. I do not know how long I had slept, but by the position of the sun it seemed to be the morning of the following day.

At first, as I sought about, I noted little of any real import. Birdsong filled the air, and now and then I would pass the spoor of some animal - a dear or pig - but I payed this little heed as i was fizated upon unearthing some further proof of what i had now - for some reason - convinced myself was fact.

I continued towards the interior, and found after some time a small brook that was winding towards the centre of the plateau. The entire top of the mountain seemed to slope towards the centre, and the peak on the other side suggested that a lake or some such might collect at the heart of the mountain. My theories about an extinct volcano seeming to be confirming themselves.

I have 'Dance Music' by the Mountain Goats stuck in my head. I figure this must be some sub-conscious lateral thinking thing.

X - 2100

The next day I awoke fresh and sprightly, despite a slight stiffness from the unyielding nature of the ground and a number of nsect bites upon my face. I breakfasted on some bread and cheese and set-out again with my bedclothes packed away.

The clouds had begun to gather as I slept, and it looked as though it would be a day of variable weather. I slipped on my jacket as the first droplets came down and made my way through the forest. The game trail, as much as the young man had promised it, was failing to make itself evident, and I began to wonder if they had, unable to dissuade me, simply lied instead.

I was seriously considering this, and wondering if perhaps I should turn back, when I came across a small track leading up between the crests of two hills. This seemed to tally with the description given me by the young man, and so it was that I followed the path, and found it leading slowly up into the mountains.

The way, at first easy, gre gradually rougher. I managed by walking along the actual track, which led by the sensible inclination of animals through the easily sections of terrain. The mountains, that had formerly arched before me, now began to gather slowly around. I looked up and saw on either side the steadily climbing slopes, and I wondered if somewhere amidst that condensation of of peaks there lurked that city to which I hoped, in time, to come.

I never once entirely dismissed the possibility of it. I kept on all through that day, clambering up the slopes, pushing my way through the coniferous forest that swarmed about the bases of the peaks. The trail led onwards, up along the edges of the slopes, and wound its way through a lengthy, mist enshrouded pass.

By now the rain fell freely, and I was shivering enfolded in my oilskin and a shallow hood. The slopes, at first shallow, had become steep, and the trail was leading up along the side of one of the mountains at an incline that a man of my age began to find somewhat taxing. I began to wonder about where I should camp, as night began to come on, for the slopes were growing barer up her save for the bramble and scrub, and were steep enough that I had to wonder if I might slip and fall. Eventually, however, the pathway widened-out, and I lay wrapped in my blankets on the mud with my knapsack as a pillow. There was no fire, and my dinner was cold and unsatisfying.

The morning broke overcast once again, but I was rewarded now with a view of the world covered-over in mist. Sitting upon the slope, shivering with the damp, I felt wedged between a ceiling and floor of clouds. Out along the way I had come I could see open spaces, and in the very distance the lower forests and plains were even visible, but around me now was nothing save for rising masses of grass of trees, as though I were in some cyclopean vaulted chamber that reached into the very heart of the range.

The trail, now, led me downwards and along a connecting ridge to another mountain. From here I descended into the realms of mist and shadow, and stumbled my way along the slopes, precarious and worried that at any moment I might tumble and fall. It would be a fine ay to end, dead at the bottom of a ravine, my name forever marred as one who had eloped to the orient with a few pounds and vanished to never be seen again.

The mist was chill and damp, and from time to time it was worse than a downpour to walk through. Once I put out a foot and found my leg hanging in the yawning void of some gorge, and it was then that I took care and walked with slow, cautious steps.

After some untold time, the path began to rise again. I emerged from the mist to find myself amongst a dense, closely-rising series of mounts, with the cloud-cover still impenetrable overhead. It began to rain again, a faint drizzle, and I headed onwards and upwards through the glens.

That night my sleep was slightly better, for the rains ceased and I managed to find some dry tinder amidst the bushes about a copse of pines. The fire was short-lived but delightful, and it served well-enough to warm my hands and toast a bit of bread and sausage. I slept under the trees, and delighted in the comparative dryness of it.

The next day, around mid-morning, a most horrendous thunderstorm broke.

Lightning lashed the peaks, and rain swept down the slopes, threatening to wash away the level stretches of ground. The sky was now as black a cinders, and the fogs were torn away by the rain to exposes the vast drops into valleys that, though pleasant-seeming, were terrifying when viewed precariously from several miles above. I forced on, and hoped that I might find something son. I had enough food for several days more, and so could continue on a day or tow before I would be forced to turn back. I wound my way ever onwards into the thickening layers of the mountains and ridges, feeling like an ant walking through the petals of a rose.

The wind, cutting through those plunging chasms, howled with a ferocity that hurt my ears. It cut through me like ice as I stumbled along the path, my collar up-turned and hands plunged deep within my pockets. I was eternally grateful for my hood, without which my ears should have been tortured beyond bearing, though it did little real good over-all.

As I came around a bend in the slope on that storm-wracked afternoon, I saw before me a mountain that seemed to stand distinct from all the rest. All about me the peaks shot, higher than the clouds, yet this one rested with its tip just below the enfolding vapours, a flattened top that marked it as unusual - perhaps a volcano long extinct. As I lay eyes upon it I felt certain that it was this peak towards which I was striving, and too see it visible before me amidst all those others was a sight that brought, even in such dismal straights as those, a spark of warmth to my weary heart.

It is unfortunate that, having stated it to be so seemingly close, I cannot say that I reached it upon that same day. Rather, I ws forced to sleep once more exposed to the rain, draped about in my blankets and shivering, desperate for warmth. I felt myself being drawn inwardly to that strange, flat-topped mountain, and I could not help but dispel the feeling for all that I was worth.

It was on that night, as I sat unable to sleep, that I saw a phantom or some such thing make its way along the ridge.

Although I was insomniac, I could not continue for fear of losing my footing, and so I sat waiting patiently for either dawn or sleep. Out in the darkness, rent by the occasional brilliant thunderbolt, I fancied I could see the vague masses of the peaks, against the night sky.

In truth, the atmosphere was impenetrable. I amused myself with wondering where all the animals were, those that had worn this trail upon which I sat. I had occasionally seen traces of spoor along the way, but no sign of any actual living creatures. The only moving thing I had espied had been, on the second day, falcon, gliding on the winds.

But now as I sat I thought I heard a strange note mingled with the rains and thunder. It touched my ear as from afar, and turning I saw in the distance a low spark, some object that moved steadily across the queer mountain's ip, as though it were a watchman on a parapet. I regarded it curiously, wondering if, perhaps, it were some foreshadowing of the things to come. The weather had not entirely blunted my capacity for wonder, and so I looked at that point of light and, as it grew, my awe grew in direct relation.

Through the rains I heard once more those ghostly notes, the quiver of the violin and delicate shimmering of the harp. And mixed with them I heard such instruments as never were crafted by living mortals, and my heart began to grow heavy at the uncompromising beauty of it all.

That point of light grew, or so I thought, but as I watched closely I saw that it fell forth from the mountain and drifted, slowly, languidly along the chasm. It seemed buffeted by the wind, yet it moved with some conscious intelligence, and came slowly up the chasm to pass below that point where I sat. I looked out across the acute slope and watched as that billowing, enshrouded form drifted by beneath me, some thing of pure light cast in the shape of a woman, with hair of a purple almost black that shone still with divine radiance.

Blogger Spell-checker suggested 'Presidential' as a replacement for 'Foreshadowed'.

IX - 2000

I approached the young man the next day, in the hopes of securing him as a guide. By this time I had little in the way of money, but the pople of this area were - comparitively - not especially affluent, and I was confident that I might sway him without over-extending myself to greatly.

The young man, however, seemed to be a child born of deepest superstition, and refused on all counts to help me once he discovered where I intended to go. Despite several renewed attempts, he maintained this position, and in the end I was forced to ask if he knew of anyone who might be less hostile to the idea.

Unfortunately, though they continued to treat me pleasantly enough, the attitude of the town shifted after word got around of my conversation with the young man. It seemed that, whilst more than happy to fill me with the absolute knowledge available, the villagers were in no way enthusiastic towards my actually attempting to uncover the source of the myths. I did not believe then, and nor do I now, that they were purposefully hiding details from me, but nontheless a most certain sense of unenthusiasm - indeed, near-antipathy - suffused the entire relations.

I was left, then, wondering what to do, and slowly the number of options available to me was winnowed down until only two clear courses of action presented themselves. The one was that I return to England, but I dismissed this after careful consideration as entirely unsatisfactory. I had not come this far to be dismissed by superstitious peasantry.

The second option was that I climb into the mountains myself, and attempt to find some clear indication of the facts behind these unusual legends. This seemed a far more inviting idea, although not something entirely within the scope of my prior experience. I was not, nor do I believe myself to be, a particularly-able mountaineer. That said, I was confident that I might make my way well enough, and perhaps my evident persitence might convince a number of the villagers to help me out of pity, where imploring had failed.

I aquired supplies and equipment from the townsfolk, and received many heartfelt goodbyes but no offer of assistance. The nearest thing that transpired was that Serik, out of the a concern that ill might befall me, gave me lend of the poorer of his two rifles. It was an old-fashioned powder-and-ball affair, but I accept it with open thanks along with the small horn and shot. In my travels I had become acquainted with the basic operation of such an engine, and I hunted about for something to give to Serik as a token of appreciation. The only item that seemed at all appropriate was a small shaving mirror that I had amongst my things, that was of silver and emblazoned with a gilt crest. Serik was delighted with it, and insisted that I keep the musket.

I refused, and, with my pack full, my wallet empty and a warm coat ready against turns in the weather, I set-off into the forests to follow the instructions of the young man.

It was early Autumn by this time, and the weather, though cool, was not unpleasant. I followed the strem that ran into the lake, a swift watercourse that made its way out of the mountains and wended between hills and along the bellies of narrow gullies. The hills were gradual about here, and I had no great difficulty in following the bank. With the sun on my back and the pine needles crushing softly beneath my feet, it felt less that I was hunting some ancient legend than that I was making my way back through the parklands at my uncle's country home.

The stream led up through several cuts in the rock, and the mountains grew over head as I climbed the hills. The branches were quite thickly interwoven, and it was through them that I saw the peaks slowly approaching overhead.

I turned away from the stream a little past two, my waterbottles full. I walked for several hours along through the hills, hoping to catch sight of the game trail that the young man had spoken of. As yet nothing presented itself, but I continued anyway, and camped that evening on a rise that overlooked the rolling forests below. I could see the faint whisps of smoke from the village, until darkness overtook all, and the moon rose gibbous above it all. It seemed less real, than an image from a story-book, the vivid purple of the sky and that silver crescent surrounded by endless stretching fields of twinkling stars. Across the landscape drifted the faint cry of a wolf, and I lay by my fire waiting patiently for sleep.

The diminishing nature of these hour-segments is growing slightly irksome. But it's surprisingly-difficult to come-up with stuff to type, and type it all out, without jumping ahead and finishing at 4 in the morning or going to slow and winding-up one third of the way through a Karenina-esque epic when I reach zero-hour.

Part VIII - 1900

It was by conversations with Serik, and with the inn-keeper, that I managed to build-up in my mind something of a picture of the mythology surrounding that shrine.

It seemed that the legends of strange spirits about the region had been in place ever since settlers first arrived, centuries ago, fleeing the Tartar invasions and hopeful of a realm of peace and quiet. Here, they had discovered that tjhe hunting was excellent and the lake was well supplied with fish from the stream, and so had settled and founded their nameless hamlet.

But, so local legend ran, strange sightings in the woods had occured that were first attributed to angels, and then to forest demons of some form or another. Strange figures of uncommon beauty passed through the village at night, queer music following in their wake. Those who looked out the windows when such a night was in the offing were prone ever after to an irremovable whistfulness, and would no doubt grow unhappy and cold, and rarely shared their tales.

And so it had become ill luck to watch the spirits pass through the village, and on such nights all the windows were shuttered and the people retired early to bed with their ears stopped by cloth.

The stories so far ran in a parallel to the myth of the High Hunt so prevalent in the British Isles. It was only what followed that seemed to differentiate in any great way.

One young girl, who witnessed the passage of the figures, was known in local tradition by the name of Alexandrina. It was said that she was one of the few who would talk openly of the events, and told of the raven-haired women with crimson lips and the men with flashing eyes. She had seen them descending from the moutains in a trail of blue and white light, and claimed that they had floated above the ground and spoken in the voices of musical instruments.

Several years later, when she was a young woman in the full bloom of her beauty, Alexandrina had gone-out during another coming of the spirits, and had been carried away to their city in the mountains. A much loved individual, several attempts had been made to locate her, but all had ended in the men who did so returning hungry and wasted from exposure, with nothing to show for their attempts save the scratches on their palms. The following year, on the anniversary of her disappearance, Alexandrina's dress had been found in the clearing that was now the location of the shrine, with the symbol of the disfigured diamond scratched into the ground beside her. ever since that day, the shrine had been kept there, and all creatures who passed through the clearing had been held taboo, as it were, and temporarily under the auspices of the People of the Mountain.

As provincial legends went, it had all of the makings of a fine one, and I had to conceed to myself that the entire idea was ridiculous. Of course, how much of what had been told to me was fact, and how much was generations of embellishment, I had no idea. I could only reply upon the word of Alim that any of what he had said was true, and though his claims had been confirmed in relation to the shrine, it did little to confirm the mythology of the place, nor explain its connections with a mysterious temple in the midst of the Arctic wastes.

When I attempted to discover the location of this mountain city, it proved to be of little help to me. Conflicting reports and conjecture abounded on the subject, and the villagers crowded about me at the inn at night and filled me with countless stories of the monsters and spirits of the region. I was treated to an account of the Rusalka that one old man claimed to have espied as a youth - a beautiful woman in the water who had smiled with her needle-sharp teeth and attempted, without success, to lure him down beneath the waters. There was, also the supposed adventure of one great grandmother who had allegedly run away with a giant and returned, after many years, to settle-down with a much shorter man and give birth to Long Yevgeniy, the tallest man to ever be born in that area.

But few of the tales related to the People of the Mountains. A combination of legends, rumours and the like seemed to indicate that it lay upon a high, snow-bound peak, nestled down amidst ravines and valleys. One young man claimed that game trails always led away towards a spot several miles west, but that he was disinclined to investigate for fear of the place. I voiced the internal opinion that this seemed the best place to investigate, and made sure to note the one who had brought it up.

Part VII - 1800

The village, when we came to it, was a hamlet situated far back in the hills, beside a small lake. nestled close to the base of the moutnains, it was such a settlement as lends itself to the conjouring of macabre tales. It was not difficult to imagine dark goings-on here, but I refused to allow my imagination to get the better of me.

The driver of the Lightning Waggon was, it appeared, also the owner of the local public house. He and I managed to make ourselves understood to the level that we came to an agreement regarding quarters, and I was shown along with my things to a small room overlooking the lake. By now it was dark, and the moon shimmered softly on the waters. I had gathered - amongst the scant few things that I had gathered - that there was very little traffic into and from the town, and that the majority of the waggoneer's business was done in taking people from hamlets further along the highway up to meet the carriages. I could see little from where I stood save for a few thatched houses, and a small mill that turned its way on the watercourse that ran down into the lake from the direction of the mountains.

My luggage at this time consisted of a valise and a portmanteau - the latter packed with clothing whilst the former held my papers, writing materials and the like. I had left these both at the consulate in the anticipation of failure, but regretfully had failed to pack them with either a great deal of materiel, nor anything of particular quality.

And so I went to bed in my shirt, and prepared to set-out on the following day and attempt to uncover the secrets of this much-vaunted shrine - although I had none of the artifacts in my possession that should supposedly prove the facts. My true reason for being there, by this time, was merely to be freed of the duty of returning to explain my actions in England, and to enjoy the precarious, adventurous life that had been my favoured during youth.

I sleptly soundly that evening. There was not a thing to disturb me and when I awoke it was to a hot breakfast of porridge that I attacked with considerable gusto. There was besides this a glass of warm milk, the presence of which was explained by a faint lowing coming through the wall. The inn was a two-storied building with high glass windows, and evidently one of the more prosperous houses in the hamlet. When I stepped outside it was to be greated with the view of a short lane fringed with cottages and a another pair of two-storied houses, these squating opposite one another at the end of the way.

I was a subject of curiosity from the moment that I stepped out of the inn, for as I have said visitors were not very common to that district, and so I could not help but be something of a sight. After a time a man came up and introduced himself to me, and introduced himself as Serik. I replied that I was Eriksson, an anthropologist, and he politely inquired as to my presence in the village.

I explaine that I was investigating the region for the various tales of ghosts and ghouls, for such stories had of late become very popular in Western Europe, and I was hoping to bring back a number of the customs and traditions of the realm.

At this Serik became quite please, and agreed to help me the best that he could. He asked if I would like to visit at his home, and before I could refuse I had been invited into another of the larger buildings, and was being poured a cup of tea by a woman of middle years that I took to be his wife.

We exchanged pleasantries, and I was once again forced to shed any light on events beyond the forest. The best informed member of the village was, naturally, the inn-keeper, but it seems that it was refreshing to hear news from someone other than he.

I once again did as best as my limited abilities would allow, and then began to inquire amiably into life in the village.

Serik told a story such as any might expect, of the farming, of hunting in the forests, of the severity of the winters and the oppressive heat of the summers. He eplained his history, as a young man who had once gone off to war, and of his returning to marry the beautiful young maiden who I now saw beforeme, considerable diminsihed in youth and, one presumes, maidenhood.

He seemed all around a likeable individual, and when I began to steer conversation to the nature of the shrine he seemed delighted at my interest, although at the same time slightly troubled by the wider thing. When I asked after how I might go about finding it, he offered to show me himself, for at the time there was nothing else to be done and it would be a pleasure to go out amongst the trees. He offered to bring his guns, and perhaps we might even take some pheasant during the course of the morning.

It was now about eleven, when we bid Serik's wife good-day and set-off into the forest. A narrow path led up through the trees, and climbed slowly higher and higher through the mountains. As we walked, Serik told me of his son and his three daughters, and of how the boy had runoff to attempt a life in the city, whilst the girls had all been married away and done quite well in the scheme of it all. He seemed rather bitter about the boy, but did not discuss the issue to greatly.

The shrine was a small stone building that sat in a natural clearing, between three enormous pine trees. The ground about was marked by traces of deer, but when I mentioned as much to my host he shook his head and said that we would not hunt such game. Conceeding, I set to examine the shrine, which was a rather plain little hut with a roof of wooden planks. The door was barely high enough to pass through at a crouch, and within the air was close and dark, the few square yards of space illuminated by little more than the chinks in the masonry and roofing.

Serik entered first, and once incide he called for me to follow. I asked if it was not, perhaps, sacreligious, but he merely asked if I were of the Christian faith.

'Yes,' I replied, not entirely lying.

'Well then enter, for that it good enough,' he said.

I crawled into the shrine and looked about. As my eyes adjusted to the dinge, I noted a small altar above which a wooden crucifix had been hung, a smaller golden cross such as might form a pendant having been tacked to the larger's middle. The altar itself was bereft of any ornamentation, although in a hollow beneath it there stood a small clay figurine of what I took to be a very old man.

'That is Saint Peter,' said Serik. I asked if I might examine it.

'Very well, but be careful,' he said.

I took the idol in hand and turned it about slowly, attempting to make out details in the faint light. I had for the better part consigned this expedition to the dustbin of failure, yet now I began to wonder if, perhaps, I was wrong. Did not all legends have foundation in a grain of fact? And as I turned the icon, I could not help but feel a deep and growing desperation in my heart. I so deeply wanted for the emblem to be there, for Alim ibn Karim Al-Khayri's stories to be confirmed or at the least supported. I turned the icon and stared down at its perfectly-blank base.

Crest-fallen, I departed from the shrine. I could not but fear the reprisals that would be taken by my backers when I returned to London destitute and broken. Serik, senseing my disappointment, began to speak.

'You seem unhappy about the icon,' he said. 'is it that you were expecting something?'

'No, not really,' I said, only half-listening. A levity had begun to suffuse me as I realised the ludicrousness of it all.

'It is not even the same icon,' said Serik. 'The original was stolen many years ago by some foreigner. I do not know why - it is worthless save for the purpose of sanctity. That one was different than this, of coursing, having as it did a sacred emblem upon its base'.

Right, now who didn't see that coming? Good, you people can all go with Mr Schroeder here. And never mind the jackets - they're purely for our own protection.