I – vii – Transfiguration.

| May 28, 2013 | 0 Comments

The Reverend Dr. Logan Ferguson wades across frozen Atlantic from Mt. Period, stopping to pity a blob. Global Village principles cope with news of Ylferim’s death, and papal nuncio orders Flambeaux to involve secular authorities. En route to front, Ensign Plair views film of Frederick II’s assassination at Jerusalem. Hades surges for new arrivals. Tictus tell tale of immersion within inter–regnum as Cheron and all too busy break for lunch, and Ensign Plair, reaching Ossian, is injured in mortar fire. Sasha and Marta depart scene. In Hades, Cheron, all too busy, and ‘scrapmon hearken to tale of the shady Ossianian minister, Ahem.

I — vii – Transfiguration.

Everyone remembered a huge stash of clothespins tucked away somewhere as collateral redemptive of an inevitable exigence. Stillness leaked away underneath pantomime noctambulism travesties. Least apt to draw coeval inference, the Reverend Dr. Logan Ferguson, after wading across the freezing Atlantic, a slushy lens obscured with plankton, developed a signaling shorthand in order to access a series of linkages with prehistory. Going to great lengths for some pizzazz, some waves off key flocked as zoetropic flasks dripped to the tune of somber batholiths this close to tearing out.

      Logan had stopped only to pity the blob entombed in aeons of Antarctic ice. Its function, from an empirical standpoint, to burst onto the screen in theatres scaring millions of teenagers everywhere near you, was why, during overt sequenescence forever dissentient, even while upon the outermost, ninth rye catchers resisted the black cushion furballs of dark energy, its might lain dormantly. Point Zero Kelvin had been the code name of the coordinates upon the southern pack ice that the U.S. Air Force had chosen for disposal of the creature without consulting their meteorologist, who might have explained to them that even if Point Zero Kelvin did not shift, the ice sometimes did, and it came about that the lead canister, that had broken anyway in descent, did not prevent the blob from settling into the bottom of the Weddell Sea. It was dormant but not dead, sentient yet without thought.

      An environment hostile received the blob with an icy encircling grip of salt water, unbearable pressure harmonics, and the relentless grasp of this planet’s gravitational field tugging it downward always until a shelf of mud loomed and arrested the sink. Alluvial forces stirred faintly as night wheeled endlessly overhead, a frozen Kelvin night of shrinking ensued, and the blob bounced like a boccie ball by tide forces resuming enhanced by the return of faint spring light a few more years, shrinking, a few more nudges until the blob bounced off the shelf and caught a lift with a friendly warm current and adapted by consuming kelp for starters.

. . .

When in April a telephone rang at the Vatican, news of Il Fiume’s death traveled even more quickly. The Monsignor of the Global Village sought to convene an audience with the assessor, reckoning on a dire assessment of his chances. With modifications, the room was declared sealed. And what about rumors of the unusual absence of the landlord, seen often tending a patch of tenacious shrubbery? The plight of the unhappy nephew also remained. Typically, alternatives to heroic materialism eluded him. As always, Ostrand found the speed of events alarming. Everything that was overnight lasagna noodle left on the kitchen table had backfired. His gun had just gone off, he did experience (as what he could only describe) a lien abduction, his wrecker, barely derivable, and unfit for use, was on the other side of the landslide; amidst the lines of inextricably mingled responsibility accompanying Bustamente’s hectic voyage of rescue, Ostrand, subsequently charged with the care of one of his uncle’s pet archeological peeves, was shorted in his mission of securing it by the appearance of Anselm, this drooling parvenu.

      Hours after the stupid dinner party stopped, locating the two authors of his discontent: Anselm, whom his uncle seemed bent on adopting, and whoever she was, the wrecker of his livelihood, bothering to plaintive activity near the vicinity of any boat, Ostrand did subsequently struggle for assurance that any magistrate could understand him for what had happened. What a relief, for Sangreal too happily shunned him from the fitful scene, and he trekked to the Bustamente house, his only consolation being a possible chance to speak the unquestionable circumstance to il Fiume that his erstwhile protege had fled under. Bustamente gave him a brandy and expressed a sense of being burdened with too much power. His daughter’s return, with a glance so terrible, yet exculpatory, discouraged questions. Escorted to the guestroom by a dumb waiter, he slept.

      Sangreal logged on in the morning. An old e–mail from the Monsignor awaited them. Il Fiume had died. Sangreal, whose muse rode a camel, adjudged, from this time henceforth, that all suspicion would fall upon Anselm. A theory, advancing rapidly toward likelihood that the other woman, of whose name none of them were certain, had also died at the hand of the youth before being shot at, took shape in her mirror. To winnow Bustamente’s account, she summoned him into their study. “Il Fiume has died,” she said. “The Monsignor found him. It appeared accidental.” The old reserve skipper had always admired his daughter’s terse summation of things and said nothing, knowing that Sangreal disliked assistance, preferring to arrive at her conclusions unquestioned.

       “The Monsignor,” she continued, “hopes to take the case personally. He is very determined to honor the specifications of an ancient treaty.” “He is nothing if not a stickler, the old bookworm,” Bustamente stated. “Why shouldn’t he be,” his daughter replied? “There is too much willingness to forget the old ways. And how is our guest?” “He is asleep,” her father replied. “He said his week was very difficult.” “He should tell us about his principles someday.” But as her father rose to fetch him, Sangreal demurred. “Too many articles are already missing.”

      They shared a pleasant silence as the morning sun filled the study with lemony warmth and waited for their guest to awaken. They considered the approaching inquest. The legation secretary promised the caller a swift reply. In theory, he’d written this some time ago, knowing the oddments of an immediate involvement, with the taping festival, an exceptional tabling of the entire project no longer vetted, someone seemed almost relieved, happy, or desirous, of combining rain from out of the ere I knew. The long way home was the shortest round of brass possibly assemblable.

       “Your Grace, the Monsignor Flambeaux wishes to speak with you.” Outside of Rome, the papal assessor paced while his secretary announced the death of il Fiume Paulrus. On the other hand, the Monsignor, separated from the details of the case by the legation secretary, jumped as the telephone rang. The papal assessor, a Louisianian who did not eat a lot, coached impoverished city high schools to consecutive parish championships, and looked as if he would be as much at home settling a picket line roll out while a full mass in vestments at courtside. “Please accept my deepest condolence upon the death of your child, Matthieu. He was a stout pillar of the Church, a defender of decency, a man of great works. Papa will offer a special mass for the repose of his soul. Now,” the papal assessor continued, “just one question.”

      “Your grace,” the Monsignor assented.

      “How long has this man been dead?” The Monsignor looked at his watch. “Seventeen hours.” Are you out of your mind, he heard the assessor ask? Flambeaux maintained that he was not, wishing to add, and it’s pronounced mind, not mynd. “Seventeen hours,” the assessor mused. “Does anyone else know of this?” “Two persons,” the Monsignor admitted, “the chancellor, and a court photographer.” “And where are these people now?” “I don’t know. I swore them to silence” — “so that you might amuse yourself by playing Father Brown? Good shadow puppet, man, I don’t care how many novels you read, you report these things to the civil authorities!”

      “If this has–been does not begin, soon I will feed his hat to the goldfish,” Sangreal joked, as a means of prodding the reluctant Monsignor, who at that very moment was sputtering “but, these grounds, consecrated, the Treaty of San Stefano” — “must I remind you,” the papal assessor replied, “that the treaty also stipulates that local authorities will be concurrently notified?” “As a matter of course,” the Monsignor declared, “the deceased was the only law around here” — “as far as I’m concerned, a death occurred on Iberian soil,” continued the papal assessor. “I will be speaking with the commissioner in twelve hours. Whether you have done so before then will be a matter for your own conscience. Now, let us pray.”

      As the papal assessor rang off, he wondered if he had been a little hard on the old Monsignor. However, he was fed up. From the four corners of the globe, secular authorities were screaming at jurisdictional infringements by plot–happy clerics. This had been the fifth case this week. Whistling the overture to the Damnation of Faust by Berlioz, the papal assessor had the look of a cherub charged with a hideous task while the subduction of the coffee klatch counter–utilization table struggled with boredom. Although closely linked with the producers of phyto–plankton, the person was a far cry from hoping that time, that great sculptor of love, would ever wait until the bottom fell from the market of helpful intentions. He was seen posting a sure bet that the destination of any Damoclean creed was poised over him.

. . .

Itinerant, insular, conclusively played out by his audience with the incoming ditchery–doo, crushed and bowed by storms of lift and inconstancy, lacking the skills of secret squirrel, saint, or conspirator, and interpreting this as a sign, Ensign Plair went into another war commercially, fearing that the screams of unquiet urchins were his last glimpse of civilization as the ailerons pitched toward the sandpit laterally, his togs gaining much scrutiny from these allies as if he planned to bump his fellow pilgrims with his nose clips. His government had deemed in its best interest that he forswear the camaraderie of the airlift shuttle and instead infiltrate singly into the box via contractual means, until every one back home was like, how lucky are you to be travelling commercial, as if this were some organic nirvana, a ticket to bliss at thirty seven thousand feet; when was the last time you were in an airplane, he forgot to retort, as this phrase princess was now just kicking out the back of his chair and somewhere over the Azores, when the plane had finally stabilized and even the tykes snored insensately, suddenly the walls in front of them had gone white as sheets and feature films that had never made it off the cutting room floor were sold to the U.S. government and plastered against his cornea. He was refused a headset for lack of currency.

      A long line of persons waited in front of the Inference Library to place holds for books, the titles to which had been long forgotten. The temple guards emerged then, and glanced with insensate, if mock senility, as loose–leaf ingenuous doubts oiled Frederick’s manger steps toward the Technicolor realm. “I’ll wager it’s a freer country,” he tipsily declared while gawking. Nor lost upon him were the graffiti illuminative of orbiting tacit folklores; that this implied their thought unmoved since last idyll, presaging messengers of will soon return, led the nascent suzerain verily to regress to the centerpiece of lucid conscience in order to yell into empty space, thus the previous session was overrated! An almost halo scrawled in effigy, more or less obliterated by time flies, moussed His sedulous brow plaidly.

      As such denoted requiems to the bureaucracy demopolized, no more savvier than nervily stewed cements, a taste of Levantine surety, the Ideopath decanted, feistily row row row robot. Templars intruded upon the bittersweet vigil when, for your information, a riotous chutney thudded with decorous irascibility to eschew the leftists amongst them audacious enough to creep into the sanctum. Frederick continued his ordeal doggedly, staring at a list of diets behind the garrulous chic Nebula, arrayed in the finest of opulent tattersall, a vanguard of powers–that–be who winked at the mustier seed faiths and swooped for chimerical entrees, so perfidious were the lo and behold back lots entreating His own violet caption.

      “Death to figureheads with glittery eye shadow,” a rose colored vague hashish’iun guzzled plaintively, and with a groan the thinning crowds muttered. Certainly unease growing behind him, Frederick sensed the harquebus all too soon. “Treacly type N is there Noone here,” the leeches cried? Gendarmes formally urged, “forsooth move on, it is the merest of normality, and our last best guess is dead.” With that the chaperones nearly eloped to sell out, between surrogate work crews, a curious look back upon our all too brief Hohenstaufen era, while at the base of his portrait all too busy monads bonded the scene in coracles, grappling while the emblazoned cyclical remuda drawled, “scat happy socks, there are no large lizards here!”

. . .

Cheron just coaxed his leaky bark across the flood once more, straining his ragged tush to drag another fare into the neighborhood, and railed at the series of Styx sneezes that emanated from Snorggi. “Of all emendations these were the worst for anyone wishing to travel through Hades,” he sobbed, for they were violent staccato outbursts that sent positive ions spinning about while failing to provide substantial motive force. In his absence, ghosts of old chance, for all that you felt you were able to act upon for fear of rippling the tenuous mere, were all that was left.

      all too busy said, “if only your casque was motorized you would not be at the mercy of the sneeze.” “I know,” replied the ancient fairy. The Emerald City, rain or shine, had once been a magical place, but once the Mariners had been consigned to the cellar for several seasons, Cheron lapsed in listless contemplation of a goldener time than now was ever imaginable. The realm was now subsumed in a horrible clutter of intentions, and the effort required to row from the Lethe to the Elysian fields had increased from several moments to a span of unendurable seasons. Because of the effort expanded in reconciliation of the transportation industry, dust motes upon the veranda bumbled in non–Brownian motion as Cheron dragged up to the boathouse on Vashon Island.

      Once a refuge of refulgence, owned by a nice lady, this had become a haven for dense materialism ever since her son Grendelle had returned from Alaska after an unsuccessful career in telephone sales. They exhaled in huge relief when she told them that he was temporarily a broad, and sat down to watch a vast library of ancient echoes. Said all too busy, “that in the belief of the industrial state’s capacity of assuring mutual sustenance, the minister Alcuin assigned value to argumentatively pitched Venns indicative of asymmetric advances and nominally reflective of communal motif. Hesitantly adopting the transmission of cultural framework would allow us to construct a self–motivated bark allowing you to cut through all of this sluggish sagacity like insert any metaphor for brevity here.”

      Cheron said, “We’d have to swing that by our dizzy puppy. You know that ever since his bride was abducted by the Niceans he sits in a glum lassitude, saying neither yea nor nay. Moreover the relegation of his namesake planet to asteroid status has needlessly insulted his sense of progressiveness.” all too busy said, “I think we might get him into a sweat boogie for some lodge therapy.” In the meantime, at the sound of an ominous droning, all too busy put a sock in it.

. . .

Like all youthful sciences of tictuses, their third genera were a wasted line, blisslessly tied with rigid improvisations of the seconds yet pierced by the serendipitous and artless fourth. Dactyl tenors, rolled out from minor variants in time, negligibly sang their irruptive source if not a felt ease of yodel ossia. Agog restive seizure rare tempo fitful now presaged sum totality of a suppressed boil from scrolls: “We hated inter–regnum and its lies, their merciless chairs without recognizance till we had now here to turn somehow. Our fortune fell back when so ancient from that harbor we held no device toward them and generic cheer became insofar our then as legitimate their treatment for we never fear those who could harm yet their where in the name of substance gurgled our patriarchs into soily pimpernels. Everyone in dock learned Godot had revoked all new whey to serve intact the mocked lots now may one ever cope whenever readily it is not ipso jure fun lest the shaking cease.

      “Listen, we kept the code, and resent not those cameo systems armed for our time. With noble gasps we lixiviate in flukes for a greatest good we learn, oft had inspissate truth will from our cherish purpose then, had we persuaded the future of ultimate increment derived through incessant chances of act. With so utopian seemed the small price of fine limit mesh in exchange of an entire clutter. Our wiser wigs amongst though consoled rebellion but what a flint hard road it seemed. Youngsters fain prone to wallow in the quest for somewhat that we never knew that we want. Then sent we them first into the original sobeit and raised ourselves upon the empty throne to declare all this anew.

      “This ease let us rot for a while in pageantry. We thought if this legitimated us, then not a thing would prevent us from getting behind them so simply.” Yet not even this service received shrift in their anthems: upon arrival in Ossian, Plair reported dutifully to BUROSSPERS, a rather plush facility, despite the ubiquitous aroma of coffee grounds and copier ink pervading all DoD facilities, to supervise reallocation of bandwidths in the emerging nation. Of all situations facing service members abroad, none was more disorienting than arriving after 1700L, and the lone duty officer said his orders attached him to the Royal Navy, and he’d have to hoof it or hire a rickshaw across the flight line. Eighteen hours after being dragged from the turret with a hose, Ensign Plair was in a creepy jitney whose signet promised that from now on he was subject to being blown apart at any minute. He felt that someone had, without a single word or prompt, devaluated the conceits and rationalizations he’d haphazardly constructed for the last three years, disparaged them in a scaffolding of crudeness, and indulging such feeling of tenderness and regard toward his compatriots during the last ten days, he was swiftly overtaken by a feeling of loneliness or shame.

      For nothing had changed, if he had ever expected it might, and although he seemed to have reached a tacit understanding with his environment, the southern wall suddenly exploded in random mortar fire. A stray qunbala sailed into the compound. Ensign Plair, his kit scattered, his hair singed, and his clothes blown off, leaving him as naked as the prophet Isaiah, staggered toward the local canteen, the Sunrise Cage, aroused faint curiosity from various coalition forces, and began sentences with this indefinite article, risking tete–a–tete with the polychromatic Tiamat, the tizzy worm of diversity, who suffered thieves threnodiously, was best mollified with tiaras, tie–dyes, or timbrels, though the latter are often too little, too late, and of course tethers, tom toms, and other tripe were just right out.

. . .

When Marta Meringue appeared in his life, Sasha fell out of his chair, as if not expecting that someone in faded blue jeans and jacket, a boyish pastel that complimented her shoulder length blonde hair, would bring a smile of crinkling irony that threatened to burst into laughter at any moment. Sasha was in love. She was his Christmas tree angel. Dressed to the tune of Rita Mervyn, this path, at least since he had grown mature enough to be aware of such things, was one he had ever wanted to follow. His Christmas tree angel had lit up the parlor upon that cold snowy morning during that forgotten year, 1966, when he and his brothers sleepily tumbled out to discover their new verticules. To she he was effortlessly able to devote his entire attention. He pored over her, noticing that she had pipe cleaner arms and her hair was moistly shellacked.

      This made no difference. To the contrary, that she had been able to encapsulate a moment of rare happiness, during an otherwise bizarre family history in light of subsequent perceptions, had enhanced her credibility. When this entire family periodically underwent those periodic Thermidorian reactions of throwing out old decorations, he had dived into the dustbins of apocrypha to rescue her. Other women migrated to the far points of the compass, though indispensable in their own light, taking up complimentary roles as supporting actors to this mother lodestone in the play unfolding before their eyes.

      Responding to his quest for a photographer to film the estate, Marta was often as let go as such a person could possibly ever be. From that moment, he was hers. For someone so active, she had retained her surprisingly dumferling shape. More than once she sighed aloud, a model ode addressed to magazines she read, suggesting that they were beyond compare. To such calculated displays of coquetry, Van Etnabaron was often wont to consider throwing her over and spanking her on the knee. Today she was wearing a deliberately dowdy green crushed velour pantsuit that failed completely to conceal the twinkle of her smiling cauliflower ears. Forgetting about the death of their benefactor, the mysterious youthful visitor, and leaving the entire case in the hands of the Monsignor, Etnabaron was hustled into the Country Squire, driven to the seacoast cliffs, and pushed off.

. . .

What was happening long, if not really before this, was something you gave at Shrovetide if you had no penning. “You have not heard the song until you have lived on all right,” all too busy commented, moving out to affix rules. “All too often a calypso clasp collapse meant that perhaps our fish could teach us some more carols.” Cheron couched pending legislation over Hesiod’s any motif to have seen Ahem clocked, ever since his name wafted into the top drawer of perishable interests.

      Though discouraged by the consequences of the high road and ultimately scorned as an elitist, Ahem had persisted in distilling his every action through a weir of consistency that finished all eerie plugs for Nertz that the governors had finally banked on. That possible motif of one tirade lobby susceptibly apocryphal rasped the static solar vertiginous capitol necessarily dared into protracting a preliminary whatever are you looking at snarled. The clock clepsydra face, that digital lysergic spill foreshortened of a risotto meanly devolved area wrung; forasmuch as this valued wispier council wrought rote rot altogether hearsay, that the deceased communed with elements of instance jaded manifold who now over in grief dredged Lethean caseloads toward Ragnarök.

      The growth of this termed rash of outbreaks singly deemed asocial in other words had finally threatened upon accession an immediate inquest of the misdirected noctambulism selfsamely vetched toward the domain of the argot frontally active star quality. “The problem with these uchaux,” declared scrapmon’, “is that unlike all of our other races they chose to never leave the kettle that laved them; if it were at all prorated prorogues of the next floodgate, their aft scuppered until several else pigeons stole off with a sand wedge. But enow howbeit surf thine alcoves sake for all of this gladly might an alleviation of this garden sum set rush in view of present events.”

      Cheron coaxed the royal pains neap toward autisms of unguessable haunt, “well lief mustily dissemble here and now,” said his spiral–armed custom, who tipped the portiere with an unsolicited prognosis of obsidian before slithering within the seething inland sea. The aim of scrapmon’, who’d crossed earlier semaphores to gauge, plumb, or sound several snores in a longitudinal surveillance while noting the house of a hitherto secure non–entity, gave pause to the lament of a newest mane whose diminished pretextual lozenge nervelessly testified to a shattered career. Ahem had loved a sense of duty more than life and, “as a measure of that I am unstartled,” he told the manifold bradykinin, “that if amidst thy bleary Argus folds an ear may be given up for Lent, dispose thyself to hear my side of the asterisk.”

Category: Act I Revised Ed.

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