The Kimota Anthology (17 page)

The former human known as Mark E Moon took a deep, luxurious breath. Getting up from where he had been lying, he looked around at the scene. The barman and the others were also beginning to emerge from where they had been. Everything looked the same and yet totally different. He paused for a moment, his mind clearing, then said simply, Oh yeah!

Like a virus, but not a parasite - it was more organic than that, more of a symbiosis, a synergy. As if the A, C, G and T of human DNA had become interwoven with the A, B, C, D, E, F and G of the musical scale to spell out new words, to produce something else, something more.

Back on Earth, he knew, the music would be starting at last. The long wait was over.

The
Motorcycle Emptiness
turned, the new music blasting out to the universe at maximum volume, and headed for home.

[Originally published in Kimota 12, Spring 2000]

THE GREEN BELT

by Steve Dean

“There! What was that? No, back a bit, bit more, there!”

Two tall figures peered into a small stone bowl half filled with amber liquid. The man was pointing at an image which seemed to float just above the surface.

“No, no good, sorry! Thought we had something then, snake skin armour and a bent stick are no good for what we need.”

The woman sighed “This could take weeks at the rate we’re going.”

She rubbed her fingers across a line of polished stones set into the side of the bowl and the image moved on.

“Let’s take a bit of a breather shall we,” said the man hopefully, “We’ve been at this for hours.”

“No, not just yet, we’ll try a bit longer, his majesty wouldn’t like it if we failed him.”

“We haven’t let him down yet, have we? Anyway what gratitude does he give us, ay? None that’s what! Not even a thank you note or a bunch of chrysanthanumanums.”

“Yes dear, but it’s not just for him this time is it? The whole town has been challenged and it’s up to us to provide a champion.”

“And that’s another thing.” The tall figure stood up straight, pushed his long wavy hair out of his face and began pacing the darkened room. “Where is the mighty Thaw Axe, defender of the Gods, right hand man to kings, etc. Off gallivanting I’ll be bound. When did you and me get to vant our gallis ay? A long time ago, that’s when.”

“Wedgil do stop pacing dear, you’ll ruin the glyphs, let’s just get this out of the way shall we.” She gave the man a sweet smile.

“Yes my little kumquat, you’re right as usual.” Wedgil assumed a martyred expression. “Let’s get on with it.”

“He’s at it again dear, making those funny noises in the conservatory, I can hear him from here with the window open, I wish that woman at number twenty seven would cut that tree down a bit, I could see him properly then.” From the back of the room the sound of knitting needles stopped.

“I wish you would come away from that window Kenneth, I dread to think what the neighbours are making of it. They can see you, you know.”

“I’m not doing any harm dear, I am just a naturally curious individual,” Kenneth pushed his glasses further up his nose, looked wistfully towards the ceiling and declared, “I care for my fellow man.”

“Yes dear, that’s all very well, but do you have to use those step ladders in the house?”

Kenneth ignored the last comment and carried on, “He seems to be wearing some kind of white suit, and he keeps throwing his hands in the air and shouting, you don’t think it could be that American bunch, the Du Lux Clan, or whatever they are called?”

The sound of knitting needles started up again, “Aren’t they the ones who paint themselves white and wear silly hats?”

“No dear, you’re thinking of the Masons.”

“What, Audrey and Cyril Mason from the corner shop? Well I never did!”

“No dear.”

“Perhaps if we adjust the seaweed a bit we can get a narrower search pattern, what do think, Pol?”

“It’s worth a try, but we’re straining the goat’s bladder as it is, if that goes we’ll be out of action for hours.”

“We’ll just have to risk it, that’s seven of those funny green men in half an hour, did you see those little metal tubes they had? What use would they be against a sodding great man-mountain?”

“Well Wedg, if we don’t summon a warrior soon it’s the end of the road for us and everybody in town, we just lose by default if we don’t even field a champion.”

Wedgil scowled, then forcefully grabbed the seaweed and began squeezing. The image in the bowl started to whirl, the water began to steam slightly under the increased magical field.

“Careful Wedg, not too fast, things are hotting up. There what was that?” Poleyela pointed into the image suddenly, catching Wedgil off balance, he stumbled, reaching out a hand to steady himself his fingernails brushed against the internal organ of a sheep-like animal, which immediately began to leak a blue liquid.

“Oh no! Quick activate the catcher,” Pol yelled in a rather shrill voice. Wedgil hesitated for a moment then stamped down on a wooden peddle beneath the plinth, which, via a thin piece of catgut, released a mauve powder into the air above the liquid.

A moment’s silence was followed by a thunderous crash. About 8 cubits away on a raised platform a ring of red fire had leapt up then dropped back to a steady blue flame.

“Right. That’s that then, let’s wait and see what we get.”

“Got, see what we have GOT,” corrected Pol.

“Yes, sorry this instantaneous calling always gets me confused.” Wedgil looked at Poleyela and slapped his hands against his stout belly. “Shall we go out for lunch or eat here? I’ve heard there’s a pretty good Greek restaurant near the market.”

“Yes, that sounds good, a nice skin of wine as well, we need to relax.” Wedgil grinned, “I should marry you one day you know, you think just like me.”

Poleyela smiled wisely, took his arm and together they walked out of the Lab.

“Look left, one two, turn head right one two, forward... damn! Always forget the Tettsui Uchi, start again...”. Stuart Bramley was practising the ancient art of Shotokan Karate.

Sometimes he would practise the art on the lawn, turning his body into a steel killing machine, but today it was raining so he was in the conservatory. There wasn’t a lot of room, what with the wicker effect plastic furniture and the banana plant, but it was better than getting his pure white, immaculately ironed Karate suit, or ‘Gi’, dirty. Sometimes he would pretend to be Bruce Lee (who actually did Kung Fu, but hell, it was his fantasy) kicking and chopping in a way that would have sent his wife into hysterics.

He was a slightly built man, with thining hair, a rather weak moustache his wife made him grow, large feet and no dress sense. Today he was serious, Saturday was gradings day, the day he went from green belt to purple, if he practised enough. He was just about to execute a rather tricky Hiza Geri Uchi with Kiai when he suddenly smelt burning. Looking down he saw a thin flame run in a circle around him, the tiled floor of the conservatory turned into a stone one covered in strange symbols. As the sound and everything around him faded away, he thought he heard a rather piercing voice shout “Kenneth! Put that camera down!”

It wasn’t as if it was particularly horrible being mentally ill, it was just, well, disappointing. Melanie will be so upset when she finds out, he thought. He knew he wasn’t dreaming because he hadn’t been asleep. He had come to the conclusion that the last Kiai or shout he did had ruptured a blood vessel in his brain causing a temporary, he hoped, mental episode. How else could you account for suddenly being ripped from the safety of one’s own conservatory and being sent hurtling through a dark void?

Stuart practised a few Mawashi Geris then sat down on the surprisingly warm floor. Perhaps I ought to make the most of it he thought, Melanie always said that he needed to broaden his horizons, Wargaming and Karate are not the only things in life she would say, frequently. “Well, new experiences broaden the mind, so here I go, if only in a metaphysical sense.” He said out loud.

What felt like several hours later he was woken by the sound of strange voices, he didn’t know the language but he knew they were drunk, that translates every time.

“Hey! Poly-dolly, lookss liyk we got sumba’dee.” Wedgil slurred loudly.

“Well it is about time too, don’t you know.” Poleyela was the kind of woman who got airs and graces whilst drunk. None of this common slurring for her.

“D’ya thing heel waytillmorning? OnlyI don’ fe feel ve’y well.” Having said this Wedgil proceeded to not feel very well out of a passing window then collapsed into a chair, although not by design.

“One is going to put the kettle on to boil, then make a nice cup of herb tea. Waiter! two cups if you please.” She made it as far as the pile of cushions half way to the kitchen area, stumbled and very unlady-like toppled face first into it.

The visitor on the platform watched all this with mild interest, then, recognising snoring when he heard it, settled down to sleep as best he could on the stone floor.

“Wakey wakey! Rise and shine sleepy head! I don’t know where you come from, but we’ve been up hours.”

Stuart looked up into a man’s cheery face framed with masses of dark hair. The man was of indeterminate age, over 30 but under 60. He had the kind of cheery face people want to slap; a grin from ear to ear set into fat cheeks, bright blue eyes and a button nose. He was dressed in some sort of leather coat over a cotton dress which reached to his sandled feet. A rather disgusting bundle of various animal body parts swung on a thin rope around his neck. He realised with a start that he had understood what the man had said. But of course this was his hallucination so it made sense really.

“Hello I’m Stuart, how are you,” he said, standing up and offering his hand over the dancing blue flames.

Wedgil stepped back cautiously, looking into Stuart’s hand for some kind of weapon. “I’m Wedgil, and this is my companion Poleyela.”

A tall, thin woman with shoulder length copper hair stepped around Wedgil and smiled, a warm caring smile, set in a not unattractive, but showing signs of wear, face. Stuart would have guessed her age at about 35. He would have been miles out. She was dressed almost exactly like the man but wore a wide leather belt decorated with squiggly symbols.

“We’re sorry about bringing you here, we needed a warrior you see, we also had to cast a language spell on you, hope you don’t mind.”

Stuart nodded wisely to himself. It’s one of those fantasies is it? Warriors and stuff. Great!

“Pol-eye-ella and wedge-ill is it?” Stuart repeated slowly, “Shall we get on with it? The quicker it’s over the quicker I can get back to normal. If we hurry no one will even notice, Melanie goes to her personal awareness class tonight, so she won’t be home until eight.” He looked from face to face with what he hoped was a positive grin on his face.

Wedgil and Poleyela looked at each other then back at Stuart.

“Well he is keen, but what is he like in combat?”

“Where are his weapons? Where are his muscles come to that?”

“Perhaps he’s a mage-warrior, with magic weapons concealed about his person.”

They both looked at Stuart inquiringly. Sensing it was his turn he dropped the plastered on smile and tried to explain.

“My hands and feet are my weapons, I practice the deadly martial art of Karate!” he swished around making silly noises and chopping with his hands and kicking with his feet. About as related to the real thing as a salesman’s expenses form to his actual expenditure, but the two mages seemed impressed.

“Well we’d better let you out then, there isn’t much time, but there’s a lot to do.”

As one, the strange pair turned and walked over to the bowl.

“Are you sure we can’t have another go?” whispered Wedgil, “This guy isn’t exactly all there. This thing isn’t too badly damaged, we could have it up and working again in a week or two.”

Pol seemed to consider for a moment then said quietly “The challenger will arrive in three days, if we keep him waiting it will be bad form, it’s better to field some guy who will be ripped apart than none at all. Besides if we mess with the loop we won’t be able to send him back, you know what happened last time we messed with the time-space thingy.”

Wedg grimaced, “Don’t remind me. O.K. what if we give him a bit of a boost?” He illustrated the idea with a gesture of a raised fist. “You know, a bit of the old dragon’s water in his wine.”

“You know we can’t, any attempt at cheating...” Pol gestured this time, drawing an imaginary line across Wedgil’s crotch.

Wedgil grimaced again, only this time louder.

“Listen, I’ll wear this thing if you really insist, but it will only get in the way, I need to be able to move freely, to dodge and weave.” Stuart illustrated the point by trying to dodge in a knee length, metal plated leather tunic, which seemed to weigh several hundred pounds. To illustrate the point further he then tried to weave, neither action was very successful; The dodging looked almost exactly like the weaving, and the weaving looked like swaying. “You see, no mobility at all!”

Wedg and Pol looked on with increasing anxiety. Over the past couple of days they had tried to bring out some kind of warrior skill in this stranger; There were the swords, the daggers, even the mace, but Stuart had rejected every one. All he seemed to do was dance around in some set pattern going “hooot-ssa!” a lot. So they had tried the armour. The King had given them the run of his armoury, what with the army all gone; no money to pay them with, there was plenty of choice.

He had rejected point blank most of the metal stuff, but had reluctantly agreed to try some of the leather suits. These were now cast into a pile in the middle of the outer courtyard. He had tried them, then one by one, rejected them.

So, having decided that magic had let them down, a warrior summons spell was supposed to summon a warrior, not some short, thin bloke who was about as much use as a eunuch at an orgy, they trudged wearily home.

“Is that the best you can do? I’ve shat bigger than that!”

The gathered masses of the away team howled with laughter, not just because it was funny, but because the man who said it was twice the size of anyone else. “Why has he got his jimmies on? I don’t want to sleep with him!” Again massed hysteric laughter.

Stuart looked up at the sun eclipsing bulk of flesh before him. He was everything a warrior should be; huge, big-muscled, bald-headed, not too bright, a brute of a man, clad mostly in leather and smelling strongly of sweat. His face was lightly scarred, his brown eyes had that look of I-won’t-hurt-you-too-much.

Boy am I in need of a holiday, Stuart thought, I wonder which part of my mind he lives in?

“Size isn’t everything you know, have you come here to fight or to do a stand-up routine?” Stuart stood defiantly before the man, hands on hips, “You’re only using humour to cover your nerves, Melanie says that’s a bad thing to do.”

Behind him the home team remained silent. Not that 14 people and a donkey can make that much noise in an open space. The rest of the towns folk were hiding in embarrassment. Those that had turned out were friends of the mage’s, and even then they had been promised various potions and balms.