Fiction Episodic

Satirical space opera inspired by Terry Pratchett

Emrys ducked and rolled in the narrow corridor, annoyed he couldn’t kick himself for falling into such a simple trap.

“Some wan wants to speak to youse about a Holly Dale,” The Great Gelt’s purser had told him. Like an idiot he’d allowed himself to be led into this deranged madman’s hands—hands that were even now lining up a lethal-looking wand as the man mumbled more powerful transformation spells, like the one that had missed his target and turned the purser, along with half of the corridor, into a large meadow of clover.

“Here’s your Number Two!” yelled Dierder, almost taking out Emrys’ teal eye as he shoved the metal wand out the portal pocket.

Like that would do any good! Emrys ran at the wall, a little up it, and flipped over, allowing the assassin’s spell to zip under him and hit the meadow of clover, transforming it into a confused flock of sheep and hopping mad squirrels. He threw a Minutesslow spell at his assailant, also missing his target, what with being upside-down and everything.

“Take it, take it!” yelled Dierder in terror, almost taking out both of Emrys’ teal eyes with the Number Two wand.

Emrys rolled towards a garbage hatch, then jackknifed into the steel tunnel, narrowly avoiding another spell as it flashed and fizzed, turning the mouth of the chute into a sizzling mass of atoms. Chaos magic!

Emrys grunted, landing in a smelly receptacle filled with socks and greasy robes. Gasping for breath, he almost wished he’d turned into an angry squirrel as he fought his way out of the container and found himself in the laundry. Regaining his breath, he stood trembling. He’d never faced a wielder of chaos magic before. Most wizards didn’t survive such onslaughts.

The heavy stillness of the seldom used room led to the heavy stillness of the ship’s hold. With the tramp ship at top speed and two days away from Camelless5, the only noise in the vast space came from the refrigeration spells.

The young wizard hurried toward what he hoped was the exit to the upper deck. Maybe the ship’s security officer would be able to contain the madman trying to kill him. Why was this crazy killer after him anyway? Did it have something to do with the thief Morag and the Knights Temporal? Or was it because he’d been in contact with old Graandas the unicorn, or because—? He paused at the hollow thud of footsteps descending the metal staircase. Old Lailoken had trained him well (even painfully at times) in the wiztial arts. He knew better than to rush up, shouting for help, when he didn’t know from whom he was requesting help.

Noiselessly, Emrys faded into the deep shadows under the stairs as he drew his sword. Old Lailoken had used the idea of chaos magic to scare a very young Emrys into learning his spells thoroughly. “Get it wrong and it will turn into chaos magic and take your limbs—or worse!” had been his foster father’s favorite saying. After years of hearing this, Emrys had finally pestered the wizard into telling him more. With a long sigh and a longer drink of mead, the old wizard told his foster son the little known history of how the Great Merlin had (probably) caused the Magiclysm with chaos magic, and how some thought they could reverse the effects one day. “There’s others, too, like the Order of Chaos, who persist in wielding it to gain and steal power. Asinine, the lot of them! Losing limbs here and there. Drinking fairy blood, and causing poor folk to question and fear their own eyes! If I ever catch you doing those things, my boy, I’ll disown you!”

An eight-year old Emrys, having never seen such a fierce look in Old Lailoken’s face before, looked no further into chaos magic (except for the occasional peek into the wizipedia). He didn’t wish to upset his kind father, nor did he wish to lose his limbs that were then growing longer and more agile by the day.

The dark wizard stepped confidently into the hold, his wand at the ready, licking fairy blood off the fingers of his other hand. The chaos spell in the corridor would have cost him an appendage only fairy blood could regenerate. “I knows you’re here, lad,” he rumbled, then laughed with menace. “I likes playing hide-n-seek. I always wins!” Turning at the clatter of a sword to his left, the killer grinned and stalked toward the sound.

Emrys hit his opponent on the back of the head with the strongest Dazed&Confused spell he had. As the wizard reeled, the young wiztial artist threw a tarpaulin over the killer and held fast onto him from behind. Panicking, the chaos practitioner cast spells wildly around, turning the ship’s hold into a colorful circus of lightworks with random portals popping erratically into and out of existence. The chaos wizard seemed unaware or uncaring of the fingers he was losing. The madness stopped at last when his final finger fell off and Emrys sent him head first against a quiet boar walking out of one of the temporary portals.

###

The Great Gelt’s security officer, a thaumutant with a shark’s pointy nose, tossed a scrap of cloth on the desk. Emrys’ eyes widened even as they watered at the sharp stench of animal dung and blood. He’d seen that sign before in the wizipedia. Two horizontal question marks mirroring each other with three extra dots adjoining them: the sign of the Order of Chaos!

“This came from your attacker. You know what this is?” The security officer’s accent was trans-galactic, hard to place, easy to understand.

Emrys stammered. “Or…ord…”

“Order of Chaos.”

Emrys nodded, feeling cold and numb.

Hard gray eyes squinted at the wandman. “Now why would such an illegal, diabolical organization destroy half the integrity of this ship trying to kill an innocent young wizard like yourself?”

“I…I don’t know. And I’m so, so sorry about the dead sheep and escaped squirrels. I’ll do all I can to help.”

The security officer, Manfred according to his badge, nodded. “That you will, boy. You were darn lucky that chaos wizard was dumb enough to run into a boar. That’s the problem with them, you know. Can’t tell real from illusion in all that chaos.” Manfred shook his head. “Lucky, lucky boy.”

Emrys decided such a man was better off believing he was fortunate. He felt trying to explain further would only earn him another hard gray stare plus more trouble.

“The mechanic in D-Section needs help in removing some mutton from the hull and plugging it with putty. Take the mutton down to the galley, and maybe the captain won’t jettison you out the airlock.”

Emrys hung his head and sighed, but was grateful nonetheless for the man’s kind tone. It was going to be a long two days to Camelless5 where he might finally find some clean air and clean clothes. The environment could only be healthier, allowing all of them, especially Parchment (after the trauma of being torn in Orcadia), to convalesce. Hanging onto that thought, Emrys gave Manfred his thanks before setting off for D-Section.

###

Emrys stepped off The Great Gelt into the small secondary spaceport of the most famous giant backwater planet. The primary spaceport on Camelless5 was closed indefinitely, or so he’d been told just minutes before, along with the fact that it was probably because the Hundred Yard War was still waging.

“Says here—” began Dierder, all good cheer from beer accompanied by cold mutton.

“Shut up, Dierder.” Emrys coughed into the light dust storm, holding his arm up to his nose and mouth, wishing he’d never set eyes on Camelless5. He’d already scared away a nasty-looking navy and yellow serpent spitting at his boots as he took his first step off the gangway, while something much like a scorpion was attempting to pincer his bootlaces.

Endless red dunes rolled into the rapidly approaching horizon. Emrys blinked his already crusty eyes. Was even the horizon hostile in this place? No wonder the crew of The Great Gelt was staying onboard, catching squirrels or chewing on them.

“Says here—”

“Shut up!” Emrys, coughing into his cloaked arm, looked around in despair. Not another soul was in sight. He fumbled for The Mostly Illustrated Guide to The Resting Places of The Great Merlin.

It was then the sandstorm arrived, swept him up, and twirled him away.

###

An interminable, painful, dust-filled, spluttering, thirsty time later Emrys fell out of the suddenly clear Camelless5 sky to land with a thud at the feet of a camel. Unconcerned as only a camel can be, it stepped delicately over the prone young wandman as it proceeded on its way.

Emrys weakly rose on his elbows only to collapse face-first into the sand. With a groan, he rolled over. After a minute, he spat out red sand and coughed.

“Says here—”

“Water!” gasped Emrys, heaving himself upright. “Water!”

A mug of clear, sparkling liquid appeared from his portal pocket in Dierder’s six-fingered hand. Emrys took the cup weakly. He threw its contents over his face and hair. In a stronger voice, he said, “More!” as he handed the mug back to Dierder. A second mug appeared in short order. Emrys gulped it down. Sated, the young traveler took stock of his surroundings.

Waves of dunes framed a cloudless light-aubergine sky with a giant orange sun and small pale pink moon. A slight breeze played with the larger sand grains, producing a sound like the rattle of raindrops against glass. Nothing else disturbed the deaden hush.

“Where are we?” asked Dierder, breaking the silence as he turned pages of The Social Planet guide.

Parchment crept out of Emrys’ shirt pocket, fluttered around, and dipped back quickly as the young man took in the situation.

“Nowhere,” whispered Emrys, feeling his heart drop into his soles, wishing he was back on beautiful, green Orcadia with beautiful, straightforward Silverbirch, and far from chaos-magic-wielding killers. Why was he cursed so—ever to search for the Wholly Pale, whatever that was. Lurching from one impossible situation to the next, never knowing True—

“Whatsa matter, you? Sittin’ in the middle of the road. Holdin’ up traffic!” yelled a hornlike, unfamiliar voice.

Emrys looked up, then to his right. A long train of camels curved around the spur of the dune he lay on.

“You gonna sit there all day holdin’ up honest folk, or am I gonna have ta get down offa my ride and move you?” yelled the camel-driver with a bugle-shaped mouth below little piggish eyes.

Emrys, depression vanishing, scurried and half-slid out of the way. The man sniffed angrily at the stranded wizard before urging his mount forward. Rolling Emrys a look of disdain, his camel continued on its way, the lead in a very long train.

“Like I was saying,” said Dierder. “Camelless5 is renowned for its long camel trains, the most common means of transport on this planet. It’s also home to the Rockmetal troll tribe, the only other beings to colonize its hostile desert climate.”

“Does the guide say anything about the Hundred Yard War?” asked Emrys, transfixed by the row of camels plodding steadily pass.

“Not much. Just that it only lasted ten years.”

“But the main spaceport is closed! Did The Great Gelt’s crew lie? Were they that anxious to get rid of me?”

Dierder sighed. “Reckon so.”

Emrys said nothing as the train continued past. Then, “Where’s The Mostly Illustrated? I managed to shove it in there, didn’t I?”

“Hit me on the head with it, you did.” Despite his surly tone, Dierder passed Emrys the book.

“Thanks.” Emrys grabbed the book and began swiping. “And Dierder, I’m sorry.”

Dierder grumbled, then said, “Might want to ask some directions to the nearest town unless you’re planning on camping out here for the night.”

Noting the lowering sun with the beginnings of a creeping chill, Emrys spoke with the next camel-driver who came by, running alongside the animal as the train moved on.

“CopperNeedy is closest. You head back that way along this dune. Two dunes over you’ll come to a rocky patch. Turn left and walk for about two hours. You can’t miss it. Ask for Neptunia at the Swagbag. She’ll set you up good. Say Nelson sent you over.”

Thanking Nelson profusely, a lighter-hearted Emrys clutched his book and set off for CopperNeedy. Three hours later, in a dark and almost featureless desert full of rustles, hisses, and scratchings, he turned back, realizing he must have missed the town. Four hours later, swearing to never trust the directions of a camel-driver again, he stumbled into a hole that dropped him into the underground mining town.

###

“You staying at the Swagbag, then?” asked the whiskered wizard sitting across from him at the JonODear Pub, the only pub in town.

Emrys nodded. “It’s the only hostel in town, isn’t it?” He took a bite of surprisingly good bread covered with even better stew.

The wizard, whose name was TamTam, inclined his head. “Good thing you didn’t mention ol’ Nelson. Him and Neptunia go way back—but not in a good way, if you get my drift.” He winked.

Emrys nodded, not interested in the personal stories of camel-drivers and hostel owners. He looked around the vast warm pub, noisy with miners and craggy trolls rumbling away together, most draped in lime-green and taking turns on a large stage with the words “CarryOnKey” on it. Emrys wondered what key they were meant to carry, as it certainly wasn’t any musical note he could identify. The music, if it could be called such, definitely had the grind of rocks in it from the troll’s vocalizations. Was this the soft-rock the locals mentioned? He slipped some of the local brew (also much better than expected) to Dierder, then took another bite of stew.

“What brings a young wandman like you out to CopperNeedy?” asked TamTam. “You don’t look like a regular swagman, miner, or lover of soft-rock.”

Emrys swallowed some beer. “I’m on a quest for the Wholly Pale.” He focused on the whiskered wizard who frowned thoughtfully.

“The Holey Pale? The Holey Pale…Is that some kind of cheese? They make some very good cheese up Curdle’s Way.”

Emrys stared hard at the local wizard, trying to divine if his leg was being pulled. The old man stared back innocently.

Emrys hung his head and sighed. “I’ll have to look it up someday. I don’t suppose you know where Cowerupyerhed is? It’s one of Merlin’s resting places.”

“Ah. I see you’ve been reading The Mostly Illustrated,” said TamTam. “My mam had a copy. Was going to take us on a trip around the known planets and take in all the sites all the way to Anthropolis, only she got hit by a space-rock on the first day out. Didn’t even get to the spaceport.”

“Sorry for your loss.”

“Ah, these things happen. She was lousy at steering a broom anyway.”

With enthusiastic applause from the crowd, the duo on the “CarryOnKey” stage brought their song to an almost harmonious end. The man skipped off the stage and downed a lager while his troll friend ponderously made his way down the rock ramp.

“So, you’ve been to Cowerupyerhed then?” asked Emrys eagerly. “Is it far?”

“Nah, nah. Not far at all,” said TamTam, beckoning to a floating beaker for a refill. “Maybe three days through the WhatAbore Desert on a train and another day down to the coast. It’s just a hop, skip, and jump from Malarkey, really. You can’t miss it.”

Emrys sighed and hung his head. He’d need a guide for sure. “So how do I—”

“Pity you can’t visit it just now.”

“Why?” Emrys’ teal eyes bore into the old man.

“It’s this Hundred Yard War, you know. You’d have to travel right through the war-zone.”

“But—”

“Ah,” said TamTam, leaning in close to Emrys. “They say it’s all over official-like. Had the Guild Committee come to ratify the terms and whatyamacallit, even. But New East Cudbear had to go and extend its territory, didn’t it? Fencing off hundreds of thousands of yards laid end to end from its official backdoor and claiming it as their backyard! Naturally Western Cudweed wouldn’t stand for it, claiming it was their ‘outback.’ And when they discovered all that rock oil and the magitallic deposits…” He took a sip of beer as Emrys stared at him open mouthed. “War it was within a month. That was eighty years ago. It’s good for the economies, they say…” TamTam’s eyes were growing wilder and his voice higher. “But you ask any swagman, troll, or wizard on the street and they’ll tell you what’s happening to the land out there with all that magic rolling around, destroying any soft-bodied thing and keeping us hard-working prospectors out of pocket! It’s only them that’s military wizards that benefit.” TamTam took another swig and calmed down. “Mark my words; it’ll be the death of this planet if they don’t stop soon.”

Emrys could have cried. His head flopped into his hands, covering his eyes. Of all the rotten luck!

“Ah, don’t look like that, boy. There’s prettier places to be seen within a day or two of us. There’s—”

“Is there no way, no way at all, for me to get to Cowerupyerhed?”

“Well, there’s the old Magic Carpet Company, but Neptunia says they were all conscripted last week for the war—”

“But, I thought the camel trains were—”

“Ah, you must have one of those outdated The Social Planet guides. Are you a writer for them?”

Emrys shook his head. TamTam looked disappointed.

“So, no other way?”

“Well,” said TamTam, appraising Emrys’ blue and silver cloak. “You a war wizard?”

“No.”

“Too bad. You could have volunteered for either side and gotten a pension for it, too.” He gave Emrys another doubtful look. “If you could win over the Rockmetal trolls at their next Gathering, they may be good enough to sneak you in and out of Western Cudweed.”

“I thought you just said no one gets in or out of the war zone.” Emrys wondered if TamTam was speaking in his cups, or pulling his leg.

“Ah, no one does except the Rockmetal tribe. It’s their spiritual whatyamacallit being exercised and all that.”

“But—”

Before Emrys could voice his next question, a large ametrine troll beat him to it by asking TamTam for a duet. With a farewell wave, the delighted TamTam turned from Emrys and engaged the troll in animated conversation about which song to sing. Forlornly, Emrys watched them go.

“Well,” said Dierder. “Doesn’t say anything in the guide about how to win over Rockmetal trolls.”

“Anything about their Gatherings?” Emrys’ eyes roved over the pub-goers, hoping he could find another helpful local.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s very strange. There’s only a very small note about the trolls.” Dierder cleared his throat then read out loud, “The troll tribes were the first to colonize Camelless5 soon after the Magiclysm, enduring great hardships in doing so. Whole troll tribes were eroded by twistas and other bad weather, their grains merging with the sands of the dunes. Many believe the spirit of the planet, known as Alluvia, is now one with the tribal consciousness of the remaining trolls—a belief recognized by the Camelless5 governments.”

Emrys made no comment as he tracked a slim figure in an emerald green cloak. It couldn’t be, could it? Not Morag the thief who’d torn a piece off Parchment. His heart ran cold, then hot with anger. Sliding out of his seat, he meandered as casually as possible after the green cloak, weaving amongst swagmen, wizards, and large trolls of every quartz.

“Emrys?”

“Not now, Dierder.”

TamTam and his partner began a slow, surprisingly melodious song. Half the patrons were swaying and clapping along. Emrys lost sight of the emerald green cloak when a line of trolls swayed slowly across his path. True to his luck, when his line of vision was clear once more, the unsettling figure had disappeared.

###

Neptunia was less than pleased when Emrys insisted on upgrading to a private room. “We don’t care for them that’s got false hairs,” she’d declared, removing a carrot-stick from her mouth, then popping it back in, looking at him through slit eyes.

Emrys decided she meant “airs” and persisted. No way he was going to sleep in one of the dorms now that Morag was probably in town and most likely staying at the Swagbag, too. Dierder had told him he was being paranoid, but Emrys refused to take the slightest risk of having Parchment ripped in two, or worse—quartered.

###

The wandman walked down a narrow stony side-street less cavernous than the main street where the Swagbag stood, then turned left into a little shop with a large sign stating: Humphed Tours. Emrys read out loud the smaller letters proclaiming: “Your uniquely tailored once-in-a-lifetime travel experience.”

Dierder made a disbelieving sound. “Does that mean they expect you to die somewhere along the way?”

“Hahaha,” was Emrys’ reply.

Parchment, wrapped safely in a cloth envelope and pinned to Emrys’ pocket inner, rustled in agitation. He gave it a reassuring pat, then pushed open the door to the tour company’s office.

“Hello!” sang the door, and it would have added more if the receptionist behind the counter hadn’t thrown a boot at it.

“Yeah?” greeted the guy in an extremely unhelpful tone, combing his long blond hair with a stubby-fingered hand.

Five minutes later, after the receptionist had stopped guffawing at the idea of winning trolls over, he gave Emrys a neatly printed parchment with some directions to a specialist tour company, then went back to combing his hair and looking at himself in the mirror.

“Glad he wasn’t going to take you on your once-in-a-lifetime experience!” declared Dierder. “He’d be combing his hair from here to Malarkey!”

“Some people,” said Emrys, edging his way nervously past several maidens with coy smiles and burning eyes, “like to look good.”

Dierder muttered something under his breath.

A short walk down another cooler, damper street, sparkling with pyrite, brought Emrys to Marcus Outdoor Outfitters. A delivery gnome dodged past him while Emrys, in turn, side-stepped an elf with a shaking tin and an obnoxious voice.

Inside the outfitters, all was roomy, pleasantly lit, peaceful and quiet. Lime-green swathes of material or jackets were draped across troll and human mannequins alike. Swagbags, boots, camel panniers, and other travel necessities stood on tasteful display.

“May I help you, sir?” A dapper man in shining boots, a large hat with cork bobbles, and a lime-green robe appeared noiselessly at Emrys’ side.

“Er, yes. I was told this was the place to book an outing to the Rockmetal Tribe Gathering.”

The shop assistant took in the teal-eyed wandman from head to foot. First he squinted then he let his gaze become unfocused. Eventually, he said, “A moment, sir. I shall check with the tribe to see if they are accepting visitors for the next Gathering. Please feel free to peruse our range of desert survival robes while you wait.”

“Er,” said Emrys as the assistant turned to leave. “Do you only have them in lime-green? Are there no blue or silver garments?”

The man gave Emrys a bemused stare. “Certainly, we can tailor you a survival robe in any color. Most prefer lime-green as it is easier to spot in the sand, should you get lost.”

“Why,” asked Emrys, “would I be needing one of your robes when I have a perfectly good cloak?”

“Certainly, you do not need one of our survival robes. But they are currently the only means of surviving a twista, the great unpredictable windstorms so common in these regions. If you are caught in one it would blast the skin and flesh right off you.”

“I’ve already survived one of those in my cloak,” declared Emrys proudly. “It twirled me all the way from the secondary spaceport to just outside CopperNeedy.”

The assistant looked surprised, then said, “Fascinating, sir. That is indeed a wondrous cloak. However, there were no twistas in recent months. I believe you are referring to a sista—the twista’s smaller counterpart.” So saying, the man made his noiseless way to the back of the store.

Dierder chuckled. “Got to love this place. Personally, Emrys, I’d go with the lime-green robes.”

###

Two days later, Emrys found a camel waiting for him at the entrance tunnel to the town. Three trolls were rumbling a conversation with the assistant from Marcus. Emrys walked awkwardly, also clad head-to-soles in lime-green survival gear worn over his blue cloak. He greeted the Marcus man.

“You’ll be needing this, sir.” He flicked open a little box held in his hand. Inside nestled two spiral shells attached to a long cord. “They cover your ears, sir, so you may easily understand your guides in high winds.” He nodded to the three trolls who nodded back.

“Thank you.” Emrys attached the shells to his ears and, with the help of the shop assistant, clambered onto his camel.

“All set?” rumbled the first troll in what Emrys hoped was a friendly voice.

“Eh, yes.”

“Very good, sir. Have a pleasant journey, and please let me know if we may be of service in any other way.” The Marcus man stepped back, patting the carpet-like hair of Emrys’ mount, raising a miniature dust cloud.

“Alright,” said the first troll. “In three, two, one.”

On one, the three trolls filed gracefully into a single line, Emrys and his mount between two of them. The trolls rocked gently, then rolled forward in a graceful motion, allowing them to move easily through the red sand. Emrys, jostled at first by his mount’s movement, found himself swaying to the same rolling motion in time. Growing more comfortable, he noticed the trolls’ footwear was rounded at the back and front, allowing for easy rocking and rolling. Soon, soothed by the smooth movement, Emrys fell asleep.

###

Around a campfire, only slightly brighter than the pale pink moon and surrounded by the hush of the deep, sandy-dune desert, Emrys swapped stories with his troll guides. He couldn’t make the grinding sounds that made up their names, but it didn’t matter. They were an easygoing trio. He liked them, especially when they laughed, sounding like the rumble of thunder on Broceli294. They laughed most at Graandas, looked concerned when Emrys told them about his need to reach Cowerupyerhed in his quest for the Wholly Pale, then appeared alarmed at his close brush with the chaos wizard.

“That’s bad mojo,” said the second troll. “Badly meant magic turns our home into a wasteland. Kills our Mother and our bonds.”

“The war?” asked Emrys.

All three nodded slowly.

“We gather and we honor our Mother, our spirits, the universe. We make the sounds of creation so our Mother hears and remembers to create a better world,” said the third troll.

“You come to honor Mother?” asked the first troll.

Emrys nodded gravely, wishing he could do more to help this tribe—their home too. Though he was a little concerned he didn’t know what was required of him. It seemed too rude to ask, so he didn’t, saying instead, “The best way I can.”

For a moment, his three companions sat in appraising silence. Then the first one boomed, “Good, good! I think you will please Mother very much!”

Their laughter was good-natured. Emrys laughed with them, feeling his spirits lift higher than they had since leaving Orcadia. When his companions crooned a melody into the night, Emrys wished he could sing too. He drifted off to sleep later feeling safe, almost coddled by the sense of peace around him, almost as if he were back home.

###

As the camel and trolls rocked and rolled towards the Gathering, Emrys saw the shimmer of a great ward. It enclosed an immense circular area towards the foot of eight dunes. At regular intervals, rising in semicircles, were little flat areas laid in rows. Alone, close to one end, stood the largest altar he’d ever seen—a giant slab of blackest basalt. For the first time, Emrys felt a tremor of unease. Had he gotten himself into an impossible situation again? But he liked the trolls. They disapproved of chaos magic and badly intended magic. They wouldn’t hurt anyone, would they?

His three guides led him to the entrance, a break in the ward. Through it, a steady line of trolls, camels, and people streamed.

At the gate, the first troll showed five pieces of flat, transparent mica to the guard then said, “Camel plus one.”

The guard nodded, casting an eye at Emrys and his mount. He used a little needle to tap on each piece of mica before nodding to the right. “Mounts over there. Ablutions and food to the right.” He handed back the mica pieces to the first troll who rolled in, followed by his little band.

Emrys parked his camel at a stall while his friends waited.

“This is your pass,” said the first troll. “And this is where we leave you. Go up Dune Four. Your place is halfway along Row Two. Someone will come for you when it’s your time to honor Mother. Good luck, my friend. May Mother hear you well.” The three trolls nodded their goodbye, leaving a slightly bewildered Emrys. Even Dierder was quiet while Parchment lay unmoving in the strangely charged atmosphere.

###

Emrys, still feeling trepidation, watched the rows along the dunes fill with visitors and trolls as the sun lowered. On the great altar, some trolls set up giant magitallic canisters. These grew a brighter green after sunset, illuminating the arcane activities on the altar with a lurid green light.

He grew more and more nervous as a sense of anticipation from the crowd grew stronger and stronger. What had he gotten himself into this time? Dierder remained quiet while Parchment rustled in agitation. Emrys patted it in reassurance meant more for his benefit than for his pet. Around him, trolls, some with their survival robes off within the safety of the ward, sparkled and glowed faintly in the moonlight.

An hour after sunset, the Gathering began. First, a stately rose-quartz troll ascended to the altar, then stepped to the front. A clap of hands, the stamp of a foot. A clap of hands, the stamp of a foot. The next beat echoed around the Gathering as trolls and visitors alike took up the rhythm. Emrys wondered at the fact the dune he was seated on didn’t collapse.

The clap of hands, the stamp of feet.

Emrys found the beat irresistible. He clapped his hands, he stamped his foot.

The troll on the altar began to hum, a deeply soothing melody. It both elated Emrys’ heart while making him want to tear with emotion. Emrys couldn’t say how long the song went on, only he now understood what the term “a religious experience” meant.

The last note faded into the hush of the desert. For a heartbeat or two, all was stillness, all was perfection. Then the crowd howled with elation, Emrys adding his own voice. The large sandy strip between the altar and the seated gathering began to change. Green, verdant grass rose, speckled with wildflowers and herbs. The crowd cheered and clapped for long minutes. The rose-quartz troll bowed before leaving the altar. The magitallic canisters grew brighter, then dimmed. Emrys realised the magical runoff was being stored instead of polluting the desert.

The next offering came from a smoky-quartz trio. A gentle tapping of feet introduced the song. A jaunty wind instrument, long and curved, wove a melody. The vocalist began to croon of love, loss, and love again. The crowd lit little squares of oil-soaked cloth, which they waved slowly in the air. Mother heard, sending roses and greenery.

A joyous Emrys laughed out loud. He had it! He knew how to make Mother hear him. He only hoped she’d like it.

###

EXTRACT FROM EPISODE 4

**This series is no longer in production. I left Ficton Vortex and the series as they did not promote the series (or any series), and did not distribute the book widely as they initially promised.

I wrote the first of a proposed story about the young wizard Emrys Lailoken in 2018 and 2019. Although set in the Fiction Vortex storyverse, this collaboration features many unique ideas of my own including magitallic metal, Planet Cameless 5 inspired by the Aussie outback, and the paper librarian guardian that’s inspired by a Japanese myth.

inspired by living in Yulin, China, and by Odd Thomas

“So, let me get this straight, Ryan. You’ve come to the second biggest country in the world with the second biggest population in the world, looking for your soul-mate—while you’re gonna be living in a monastery…in the desert? That’s like looking for a needle in a haystack in a tornado. Think maybe, the numbers are against you, pal.”

I wasn’t about to argue with the loquacious, tall driver who insisted on being called Tony. Out on the edge of the Gobi Desert, I was less certain of the conviction—no, the compulsion—that had brought me this far. Everything had seemed so clear and simple back home. Driving along, even the desert didn’t look the way I’d imagined. Instead of rolling orange sand-dunes stretching away into the horizon or long empty stone-strewn plains of grandma’s old encyclopaedia photos, all I could see was sparsely vegetated hillocks clutching their shrubs like someone with a phobia of mice spotting some furtive movement down a shady corner of the room. The former sand-dunes exposed ankles of sand hinted at their former beauty. Any other time I’d have been charmed by this arid landscape and its implied offering of adventures, but just then, I felt…weird. And with only the cabbie to talk things through…

Six days ago I’d left home—left Grandma. No use pretending I didn’t already miss her, even if we hadn’t parted on the best terms. I mean, I was doing this more for me, not her. Right? Don’t get me wrong. Grandma’s not one of those perpetually controlling emotional blackmailers or manipulators. She’s usually quite cool about our mutual freedom to do and be ourselves. Except for taking Arnis lessons, this is the only thing she’s requested I do for her. Yes, those were her italics, not mine. And with that look in her eye, I’d be a bad grandson to have said no. At least she didn’t try talking me out of my translation studies. Besides, all things considered, her advice was generally good and her suggestions excellent. She always found a way to kill two birds with one stone.

I looked up at the sky and felt better. The crystal clear indigo was almost the way I’d imagined it’d be, with a high band of strato-cirrus winding along for a few kilometres bringing to mind a giant dragon laying claim to its territory.

“Where’d you say you’re from?”

I hadn’t yet. Tony’s English still surprised me even though I’d heard him speaking for almost an hour already. He sounded almost exactly like the cabbies back home and even his car was a yellow VW Jetta. His coal-black eyes fixed on me. I’d been taking too long to reply, as usual. “New York,” I said, omitting: by way of Peru and Johannesburg, by way of Ottawa (Canada) my home-town.

“No kidding, man! I was in New York for three years studying English. Best way, I found, was taking and driving cabs. Was the best, man, the best! But, you know, I missed the old place. Nothing like being out here. Just the desert and the sun. Real sun. Not that pale stuff you get in NY. So now, I have the best of both worlds—the desert and driving tourists around. But you know what I miss? Do you know what makes me go nuts at night just thinking about it?”

I shook my head, sure it wasn’t the subway or Central Park.

His thin face filled with longing. “Pastrami on a nice hot bagel with double pickles and cream. And a double doppio. Man, what I wouldn’t give for those just now!”

I didn’t hide my astonishment. To find such conversation in, well you know, the middle of the Chinese desert. Then again, what else might we talk about? “So, you get many tourists out here?” I tried, guessing ‘tourist’ would include anyone living more than fifty kilometres away or who were resident for less than ten years in the region.

“Yeah. Well, a bit more than you’d think. Enough to make a living…”

My interest piqued. Was that a hint of shiftiness? I sat up straight, putting our heads at the same level, and assessed him again.

He changed topic quickly. “So, you here to find your soul-mate or are you just kidding? ‘Cos I gotta tell you that’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Really?” I’d heard crazier, especially from Grandma and Wilfred.

“Yeah, really. Yeah. I mean, leaving New York for its millions of babes for this?” The cabbie used both hands to gesture. Sensing the loss of its reins, the car accelerated towards the stony verge of the dust road.

My mouth dropped open. Should I scream a warning? But Tony was already wrestling us back into the middle of the long wide, empty road. No other vehicle had passed us since leaving Mizhir. No other vehicle was likely to, though the odd donkey cart plodded obliviously by as we zipped past, missing them by inches.

I considered Tony’s answer from his perspective. “Well, I guess it does sound kinda crazy, but it’s true. I’m here to find my soul-mate.”

“Why, man? You into all that hippy, new-age stuff?”

“My grandma told me to.” He wasn’t far off the bat in describing her, though.

He stared at me, disbelief and pity plastered on his face. “You do everything your grandma tells you to?”

“Yeah.” Now, that I thought of it.

“How old are you, man? Like five?”

I slouched down and went back to meditating on the sky, judging the tone of the conversation would only sink further. I sensed Tony’s glance at me. He shook his head, then turned up the music, singing along to AC/DC for the rest of the two hours it took to get to HuiShan—Black Mountain.

* * *

I climbed out of the yellow cab somewhat deafened, eardrums tender and bruised. Tony dropped my two bags at his feet and waited for payment. I counted out the agreed amount in Yuan and thanked the man formally. Grandma always said being polite cost you nothing but could gain you the world. Though, to be honest, I think I’d seen enough of the cabbie’s world to know it didn’t sit well with me.

A monk, in traditional robes and a bun, was already racing down the mountain, zigzagging down innumerable stairs. He waved and called delightedly to me when he was about half-way down the last flight. I stood almost in a stupor following the descending figure’s progress, turning back once to watch the beige column of dust from the retreating yellow cab rise against dark angry clouds. My first day in the desert and I was going to get caught in a thunderstorm!

Amazed, I turned back to the mountain, then looked up to find the monk, still excitedly making his way down, had made little apparent progress in reaching me.

The mountain appeared foreboding now, made more so by the fading stormy light. A rarity in this region, Black Mountain was formed on an intrusion of basalt—just like Edinburgh Castle, my first-year knowledge of Geology told me. But what the hell was it doing out here in the sandy, shale-strewn, sandstone-only region? No other mountains or hills were visible. Black Mountain was the only one rising majestically, and somewhat ominously, up to touch the sky in this particular dust-bowl. Lightning danced around me. The strengthening wind smelt of damp earth. Rain was approaching fast.

The monk, taller and thinner on the ground than expected, greeted me enthusiastically in rapid Chinese which I found incomprehensible even with my formal Mandarin. He picked up one of my bags and indicated we should begin the climb up at once. I nodded, smiling through my uncertainty, hefted my backpack onto my shoulders and followed the cheerfully prattling monk up those steep stone-stairs winding dizzyingly up. Naturally, the storm hit before we made it up to the precincts of the monastery. Naturally, I spent my first night on Black Mountain on the Staircase of Waterfalls, buffeted by high winds, shocked by lightning, deafened by thunder and pelted by large unforgiving raindrops. At least, I was in the comfortable, cheering company of Liu Su, the abbot of the monastery, though I didn’t know it at the time—like I didn’t know so many other things pertaining to my life.

* * *

I’ve only been down the mountain three times since my first arrival. It usually takes about two to two-and-a-half hours going down and anything between four-and-a-half to eight hours coming up, depending on your load, the weather and the vagaries of the mountain. I swear every time I’d travelled down and come up again, the route was slightly different. The record for the longest ascent was held by a very quiet hulking monk called Hu Ling. Hu’s not big on talk so no-one knew the reason for his incredibly long ascent time. He’s also known for his almost perpetual sweet smile which was wiped off for a few days after his record ascent, or so they whisper. The second longest ascent was held by Sherfu Lui Su and myself with our overnighting on the stairs during that violent storm a year ago. Except for being miserable, cold and hungry, I can’t remember more about it.

Now, I was being sent down the mountain again, and because this wasn’t to be my trip back home, I couldn’t help feeling just that teeny bit resentful.

I’d asked, naturally. “Why me?”

“Because you are fledging and because you speak English,” said Li Huang.

That was all I knew: that I was off to meet an English-speaker.

Though I’m not prone to sulking, I indulged in it for part of the way down. The rest of my thoughts were apprehensive. I hadn’t spoken with a native English-speaker for almost a year. How strange would it be after only monastery talk in Jin, and Mandarin, and Grandma’s eccentric English. The rest of the time I pondered my instructions—the major reason for my burgeoning resentment. These were so simple a child could have followed them: ‘Lead him up the mountain. Let him take lots of beautiful pictures. Do not speak much; you don’t have the information they seek.’ As if I hadn’t laboriously been transcribing the history of HuiShan into English these past eight months! I probably knew more about the mountain and its history than anyone else save Sherfu Lui Su.

The day suited my mood: the sky a dirty faded cream hinting at a dust-storm which might arrive whenever it felt like. All the colours were equally wishy-washy echoing the colour of my robes, the material (for some inexplicable reason) having lost its blue-grey colour much faster than any other thing on the mountain. Loud and soft thoughts raced through my brain, some remarking on the beauty around me, some taking note of changes to the Stairs since I last made my way up it, but mostly a big debate and speculation about what was going on at the monastery. Why wouldn’t they tell me? Maybe I could help.

All that thinking brought me to the foot of the mountain much earlier than anticipated. I seated myself on the first (or the last) step, depending on your viewpoint and drew designs in the sand, resigned to the wait. I wasn’t the best artist, but moving my finger in the hot sand was peaceful, meditative. I felt I could breathe again after the strangeness and tension at the monastery.

* * *

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EXTRACT FROM EPISODE 1

Time contraints have prevented me from adding more episodes, but I will slowly comtinue the serial as it forms the glue to other works in progress. Linked work includes Situation No Win.

I wrote the first part of this story as a writing exercise in 2011 when I was still living in Yulin, Shaanxi Province. The desert, skies, history and people coloured this story. I wouldn’t have been surprised if I had run into Ryan R or any of the other characters at one of the temples or on the trip to Xi’An.