by L. T. Hewitt
“I was always going to be a prophet, since my mother is Margery.”
“Is She the Chicken Who threw Those Animals down to Glix?”
“Yes, and I’m one of those Animals. Don’t worry, you don’t need to capitalise your pronouns when talking about prophets. The nouns you do, but not the pronouns.”
“Did I capitalise them? I don’t remember trying to do so.”
“Yeah, you had capitals for the initial letters of ‘she’, ‘who’ and ‘those’.”
“I didn’t even know ‘who’ was a pronoun,” Dave informed the Space Chicken. “I certainly didn’t make an effort to capitalise it.” He looked up to the Space Chicken. “Did I?”
“It must have been subconscious.”
“Space Chicken,” Dave said, “can I talk to you about something. Privately, I mean.”
“Of course. I told you earlier that you can, any time you wish.” The Space Chicken was about to suggest that they move away from the rest of the group, but (after looking around and seeing that no-one was listening and they couldn’t care less about the Space Chicken and Dave’s private conversations anyway) he decided, “Here’s good.”
“Space Chicken, I’m not from here. I’m a foreigner.”
“I gathered.”
“I believe I’m what you would refer to as an ‘alien’.”
“Dave, everyone’s an alien to me. And, believe me, the world seems far more alien to me than it does to you. What you talk about is being separated from your home by distance. No matter how far I could theoretically travel, I still wouldn’t get home. Where I hatched is a world that doesn’t even work within the same dimensions as this one.”
“I guess you’ve got more to worry about than I do,” Dave decided. “But I’m just so afraid of what they might do to me here if anyone finds out I’m an alien,” Dave said, his eyes alerting the Space Chicken to the small amount of terror behind them. “I can trust you won’t tell anyone. But I don’t know what anyone else will think. Is extramigration a punishable crime here?”
“Dave, I don’t think anyone would care. There have been cases of aliens here and I have helped them before, but there haven’t been any groups of ‘extramigrants’ arriving here before, at least not in large quantities.”
Dave was feeling more and more confident about his presence on the planet as he talked to the Cockerel. “Would you mind not telling anyone about my being an alien anyway?”
“Of course I won’t tell anyone about it if you don’t want me to.”
“Thanks,” said Dave.
“I’m guessing you’re from a planet where they haven’t had any confirmed alien visits yet.”
“That’s right. Although there has been a lot of speculation.”
“So it can’t be a very advanced planet, then?”
“I suppose it isn’t, really.”
“Do the people believe in aliens? What does the majority think of them? Tell me about the folklore of your planet, Dave.”
“I think most people are very skeptical, particularly when it comes to things like these. A lot of people believe, but they don’t think we’ll meet any. I’ve disproved that now. I’ve spent the past week talking to aliens. Why? Why do you want to know about my planet’s folklore?”
“Folklore is a terribly important thing, Dave. All humans are brought up on different forms of folklore so that these ideas become their earliest memories,” the Space Chicken said. “Am I right in thinking that you were raised on the notion that when you die your mind will leave this world and enter a different one?”
“Yes. Although I’m not sure if I believe that or not.”
“Well, whether you believe the idea or not, it’s important that you remember it.”
“Is it true, though?”
“That’s not for me to say, is it? Everything appears true within one’s own mind. And we are assuming, of course, that any form of afterlife would take place in a world very similar to the subconscious. I say ‘very similar’. What I mean is, that’s the only thing the afterlife is comparable to in this world.”
Dave was feeling a lot better after the conversation and could no longer take deep thoughts about life, the universe and everything. At least, not when they’re too intense. “I sometimes hope there is an afterlife. I’m not too concerned with the angels and everything, but I’ll gladly spend eternity amongst the clouds if it means ice cream remains permanently cold.”
“You’re a very odd person, Dave,” the Space Chicken commented.
“Why thank you.”
“We all are. That’s why we grouped together. It was bound to happen. It couldn’t be any other way. We’re all very odd people.”
“Well, you’re not a person, are you?”
The Space Chicken looked at him. “That’s another comment that may not be considered socially acceptable. Come on, it’s time we had a word with Quack.”
The Space Chicken had expected that Dave would barely be shocked by the idea of speaking to Quack. Given the talks they’d had, godly communication was hardly extraordinary. The Space Chicken was surprised, however, when Dave showed no shock whatsoever at the device which allowed them to call Quack directly, from anywhere and at any time. Even when you can talk to gods, having one on speed dial is pretty impressive. Being unaccustomed to an average Carpe Yolan’s lifestyle as he was, Dave supposed it was perfectly normal behaviour to have a chit-chat with a deity. “Wait, remind me,” Dave said, “can everybody talk to Quack, or is it just because you’re a prophet?”
“Anyone can talk to him. Not everyone has a phone that gets as good reception as mine.” The Space Chicken pressed a button on his phone to call the god and then another one to put his phone on loudspeaker.
“Hello,” said Quack.
“Hello, Quack,” said the Space Chicken.
“Hello, Your Majesty,” Dave said.
The Space Chicken ignored this. Or at least tried to. “That’s for monarchs,” he said. “Not for gods.”
“They serve pretty much the same purpose, don’t they? Acting as the head of a religion.” This comment the Space Chicken managed to ignore.
“Who are you talking to?” Clein asked.
“The Lord Almighty,” the Space Chicken replied.
“Oh, all right. I might join you in a minute if I can be bothered.”
Quack seemed to have gone off on a lonely tangent and was talking to himself. Dave assumed that this was to be assumed. “I often think that too… How does that work exactly? …I’m glad you’ve said that, because I had been wondering for a while.” Dave ignored this voice, owing to him not understanding a single thing that happened on this bizarre planet of Duck-god phones and Hedgehog Eggs. The Space Chicken blanked it. “What exactly do they mean by writing that… or even doing that?” More silence from the listeners. “”When you get one of those labels… and you peel it off… it just stays there, doesn’t it?” Another empty moment from the ignorant and the ignoring. “And when somebody goes along with it… and you just don’t have a clue what they’re talking about…” More silence, particularly from the Egg. “You know those times when everything just goes silent and it bothers you… Yes, I think they should be called Cantaloupes, too…”
The silence and suspense were eventually too much for the Space Chicken. “Er… who are you talking to?”
“I was talking to your son.”
“But he can’t talk! He doesn’t even have a mouth!” the Space Chicken said in exasperation.
“Wait. Is that egg your son?” Dave asked.
“Yes.”
“Who is its mother?”
The Space Chicken went an odd colour that, on a human, would have been red. “Um, I am.”
“Okay…”
The Space Chicken used all the facial muscles he could to try to recreate a frown. “Why? What did you think the Egg was doing here?”
Dave would have gone the same colour as the Space Chicken, were skin pigmentation not taken into account. “I though
t it was for your lunch.”
The Space Chicken gave Dave a look of disgust. “Getting back to the topic at hand,” he said, still staring at Dave, “why do you think you can talk to the Egg, Quack?”
“You know how gods and prophets can hear things that most people can’t, like spelling and punctuation?”
“Yeah,” said the Space Chicken.
“So I’ve come to understand,” said Dave.
“Well I can also hear the sorts of speech said by those who don’t have mouths,” said Quack.
“Can you hear other things in writing?” asked Dave. “Like typeset.”
“Yep. And, in case you’re wondering, the Egg talks in Arial, size 12.”
‘Could not you argue that people should be entitled to be free to do what they want, without being observed all the time?’
“Well, it is my duty as a god to prevent people from sinning, so they shouldn’t be too free.”
“Are you ‘talking to the voiceless again’?” the Space Chicken joked.
“Mock Not My Power!” the Almighty Quack proclaimed, not from the phone, but from the heavens themselves (although not so loudly that next door could hear). “I Hold A Fresh Supply Of Thunderbolts Up Here!”
“So that’s what lightning really is?” asked Crazy Dave, curiously. “Are you saying that thunder and lightning stem from the anger of the gods reflected upon civilisation as the cruel outlash of punishment upon people unworthy of greatness – or, indeed, survival – on their planets? So every victim of lightning has, in fact, been the culprit?”
“Sounds like Crazy Dave is going to be our elderbeard before long,” muttered Clein, joining into their conversation briefly from over on the bed.
“No,” said Quack, “they’re not necessarily culprits; lightning usually happens by accidental built-up static energy in the water vapour of the atmosphere. But I can throw thunderbolts if I really want to and if I’m angry…” he added and trailed off.
“Sounds like Quack might be our elderbeard, actually,” Dave joked.
Nobody laughed.
“Quack is a god,” Clint said objectionably. “He’s meant to be an elderbeard.
“Oh.”
“Quack has always been looked up to as a noble and respected figure. If anyone’s an elderbeard, it’s Quack,” Clein said.
“Clein and I are half you age yet we still know that blatant piece of general knowledge. How long have you had to learn this, exactly? I mean, everyone on the planet knows that.”
“Not everyone,” he muttered.
“Okay, okay,” said the Space Chicken, awkwardly, trying to break up the argument, “let’s not get into violent discussions about people’s backgrounds. Everyone’s different and that’s wonderful.”
“Although some of us are differently wonderful in the wrong ways,” said Clein.
“Shut up!” shouted Dave.
“Calm,” the Space Chicken with prolonged, hushed, serene, calm vowels, “caaalm.”
There was another one of those awkward pauses.
“So…” said the Space Chicken, “when are we going to set off in the morning?”
“I really want a lie-in,” Dave pleaded. “It’s nice and relaxing to lie-in at hotels.”
‘Me too,’ the Egg said telepathically.
“Okay then, let’s have a nice, long lie-in,” said the Space Chicken, after thinking about his own needs.
“Oh, well,” exclaimed Clint melodramatically, “it’s good to know you’ve taken everyone’s opinion into account on this matter.”
“Why, what was your opinion?” asked the Space Chicken.
“Well,” said Clint, “I would quite like a lie-in in the morning.”
“That’s what we just said!” Dave shouted at him, striking up another (but essentially the same) argument.
“You want to start the ball rolling again?” Clint’s eyes flared. “‘Cause it is on, brother!”
“All right!” said the Space Chicken, breaking up the brief, outlandish quarrel. “So it is settled, then: we lie in tomorrow—“
“No!”
The Space Chicken uncaged a strained sigh.
“You haven’t asked me what I think,” Clein pointed out.
“But you’re identical to Clint in every way!” said the Space Chicken.
“What, so you won’t accept my opinion?” The injustice shined through in his voice.
“Well, no… yes— well, it’s just… I thought you would have the same opinion as Clint because you’re kind of the same person.”
Clein was scornful. “That’s a discriminative stereotype directed at a minority. I’m appalled at you.”
“Sorry, Clein,” the Space Chicken said remorsefully. “When do you think we should get up in the morning, then?”
“Well,” said Clein, “I would quite like a lie-in in the morning.”
The Space Chicken was flabbergasted.
“We can lie in, as long as we stay for the buffet,” said Dave.
“Okay,” said Clein.
“You do know that the Egg just spoke, don’t you?” said Quack.
“No, of course we don’t! Now stop going on about Your freaky ear for inaudible voices,” the Space Chicken said angrily.
“Don’t turn your rage upon Me! I am a god and can I remind you that I know all of you better than you know yourselves and I can tell you information about any point in your lives. I know an awful lot about all of you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
“Crazy Dave, for instance; you have a very interesting past, present and future. You—“
Beep.
The Space Chicken switched off his phone.
“Don’t bother. I’m bored already.”
Chapter 18
They went downstairs to the lunchtime buffet (they had had a very long lie-in) to see what was available, possibly as a substitute for breakfast, or as a form of brunch.
“Looks nice,” stated Dave, as he started to pile food onto his plate.
Soon everyone was stocking up on the necessary energy-providing food for their journey to the Fez. Or just stocking up on unhealthy food for their own pleasure. The Space Chicken took the top off a boiled egg and began to eat it. He then ate the inside of the egg, too.
They sat down at a table in the dining room. It was a pleasant room, with classical brown, patterned wallpaper and rustic tables and chairs. It gave the instant effect of homeliness. It also had the instant effect of making every member of the group wonder if they should even bother continuing with their Fez journey. Alas, each of them individually (apart from Clint and Clein, who fundamentally had to share all their knowledge with each other) decided that they had better carry on with the journey and not let the rest of the group down. That way, they could relax afterwards, even if they didn’t open the Fez, and they would still know how things would have turned out, and wouldn’t have to worry later about how things could have been. The Space Chicken had always thought that it was always best to do the thing he was planning to do first, then sleep later, and never have to think about the opportunities they left behind. If ever there came a day when everything he set out to do was done, he could perhaps relax then. Many people across the universe have a similar idea, summarised in the phrase ‘I can sleep when I’m dead’, although the Space Chicken thought this was a horrible concept; he doubted very much he would ever be lazy enough to die. In short, the group’s intention was that they would go ahead with the proposed trip to the Fez, so they would never have to worry about what could have been. Although they would soon be troubled about what could have been anyhow. Their best option was to stop at this point, spend the rest of the few days in the hotel, then return home, perhaps allowing the Space Chicken to carry on with his task, however fruitless it may have seemed. Still, the group decided to go ahead with their trip to the Fez, despite it apparently serving no constructive purpose.
After they had each gotten over their own separate – yet identical – mental worries, they started
to explain how their conversation had been last night, in the presence of the Almighty Quack, to Clint and Clein (who were only involved partly).
“So we were on the Space Chicken’s mobile phone, talking to God,” Dave laughed in recollection, “and—”
“That’s ‘god’,” the Space Chicken muttered, “with a small ‘g’.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he muttered back. “So we were talking to the lord… about when to get up in the morning,” he continued. “Genius.”
“Sounds good,” said Clint.
“We only joined in for a sentence or two, as you may have noticed,” said Clein. “There was a really interesting passage in one of the hotel’s daily books about what happens when a man teases an alligator.” The Space Chicken and Dave looked at him in horror. “I think it was called The News at Thirteen.” Dave didn’t ask. The planet had two moons; he thought it was safe to say they probably had a different way of keeping track of time, and a different method – and approach – to delivering current events.
Returning to the original topic, the Space Chicken said, “Yeah, I suppose it was mainly just me, Quack and Dave. You two were clearly preoccupied and there was little contribution from Crazy… Where is Crazy Dave?” pondered the Space Chicken, but he pondered no longer when the aforementioned Dave arrived with a plate piled high with mountains of the River District’s Finest Mint Cake. He had already finished one bar.
“Whoa,” said the shocked Space Chicken. “That cannot be good for you. You really need to think about your health; you’re not going to live forever,” he reprimanded. On a marginally lighter note, he said, “I am of course. I’m the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack.” It was one of the most bragging statements ever uttered by a prophet.
Clein was confused. “I thought you were the Pater—”
“No, I’m just the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack for now, thanks!”
“But you have that little, flying egg-thing.”
“Oh, yes. That,” he said coldly, deeply offending the small Egg and making him cry on the inside.
“Have you even named him yet?” asked Dave.
“No. And I don’t want to. He’s not my son.”
“It must be odd being a prophet,” Clint stated as a question.
“Yeah, it is. But, being immortal, you’ve got to get used to these sorts of changes. Which brings us back to our first point,” he added and looked towards Crazy Dave like an overpowering mother. “You’ve got to look after yourself – you’re not going to live forever.”