Engines of Empathy (Drakeforth Series Book 1)

by Paul Mannering

  ‘Go! Go!’ Drakeforth waved frantically. I started the car and we drove off down the road.

  ‘What do we do now?’ I navigated us through traffic, checking for following cars and the green and yellow flashing lights of the police.

  ‘Head out of the city. We can lay low for a few days, then when the police have given up the search, we can come back, apply the patchouli oil to the desk, discover the truth and end Godden’s reign of terror.’

  ‘It’s hardly a reign,’ I said.

  Drakeforth wrestled with his coat pockets in the restraint of the seatbelt.

  ‘Ha!’ he declared eventually, holding up the bottle of oil.

  ‘If that’s the only patchouli oil in existence, we need to keep it safe.’ I frowned as Drakeforth twisted the cork out of the bottle. The car filled with the thick scent of lavender.

  ‘You said he looked trustworthy!’ I yelled.

  ‘He had a beagle!’ Drakeforth exclaimed.

  ‘What has that got to do with anything?!’

  ‘They look at you in a way that says you can trust them! Damned deceptive dogs!’

  I gritted my teeth and drove on through the city. I couldn’t just disappear, not even for a few days. The police would be curious. It was their one fault. Besides, there was—

  ‘The desk!’ I yelped, slamming on the brakes. Behind us a chorus of polite coughs rang out as other drivers sounded their horns and swerved around us.

  ‘We don’t have time to go back – besides, the vault door should hold,’ Drakeforth said while peeping furtively through the window.

  ‘But they will open it, and take my desk away!’ I felt an overwhelming sense of panic. By running away we had given up the one piece of evidence that Drakeforth was relying on to prove his theories.

  ‘I would like to see them try,’ Drakeforth said.

  ‘They seem to enjoy that kind of challenge,’ I said. ‘So we should go back right now, give ourselves up and hope they let us stay and watch.’

  ‘The agents of the Godden Energy Corporation will be instructing the police. The authorities will have no choice but to hand us over to the GEC and you can imagine what will happen then,’ Drakeforth said with grim certainty.

  ‘They’ll apologise for the misunderstanding and you’ll be escorted back to whatever therapy environment you escaped from?’

  Drakeforth didn’t reply.

  ‘So where are we going?’ I said eventually.

  ‘The green stuff, we head towards it.’

  ‘The green …? You mean the countryside?’

  Drakeforth shivered, ‘Nature. By its very nature, it is vile.’

  ‘I need to make a phone call, my office will be expecting me in tomorrow.’

  ‘Wage slave,’ he said dismissively.

  ‘Yeah, it sucks owning a car, and a house, and being able to afford things.’

  Drakeforth may have sulked, at least he didn’t speak again until dark, when I pulled into one of those roadside hotels with a restaurant where they offer home-style food and throat-singing karaoke entertainment.

  The fellow behind the check-in counter regarded us with deeply ingrained suspicion. A parrot beside him was secured to an iron bar perch by a heavy chain around its ankle.

  ‘We would like a room,’ I said.

  ‘Roaches!’ the parrot screamed and I jumped at the sudden outburst.

  The man behind the counter smiled warmly, ‘Certainly, madam. Would you like a single twin or a shared double?’

  ‘Single twin,’ I said.

  ‘Shared double,’ Drakeforth said at the same time.

  ‘Raaaaaaaaats!’ the parrot squawked.

  ‘Look, we’ll take whatever is available. It’s only for one night,’ I said.

  ‘Sign here,’ the man said. ‘Big as houses!’ the parrot cried.

  ‘The bird was a souvenir from my cousin. He went off on some wild treasure hunt in the foreign tropics. Reckoned he found a map in an old book,’ the man continued.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said, signing the register unintelligibly.

  My credit stick was in my pocket and normally I used it to pay for everything. Drakeforth grabbed my hand as I handed it over to the man at the counter.

  ‘We would like to pay cash,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ The cashier and I asked at the same time.

  ‘Cash,’ Drakeforth said slowly. ‘You do accept cash don’t you?’

  The man scratched his jaw and looked perturbed. ‘Never been asked,’ he admitted after a long moment’s thought.

  ‘You should try it more often,’ Drakeforth took the man’s hand and pressed some crisp notes into it before curling the fellow’s fingers into a clenched fist around the money.

  ‘Feels good, doesn’t it?’ Drakeforth said. The cashier nodded slowly as if savouring a new sensation.

  We ate at the in-house restaurant. I chose the macaroni and cheese; Drakeforth muttered something indistinguishable and ordered the tater-tots. A silence fell over the table. We sipped sodas and listened to a heartfelt and entirely flat karaoke throat-singing rendition of the classic love song made famous by Minnie and The Deli Bags.

  After dinner we retired to our decidedly average suite and stood staring at the large double bed with love heart pillows.

  ‘You could sleep in the car?’ I said.

  ‘So could you,’ Drakeforth threw himself onto the duvet, adjusted the pillows and started to work his shoes off. I was too tired to argue, instead I went to the bathroom, took a shower and collapsed into bed in my t-shirt and undies.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Drakeforth said from his side.

  ‘Night,’ I said and switched off the bedside light. We lay in silence for several interminable minutes.

  ‘You are quite the most frustrating woman I have ever met,’ Drakeforth declared to the darkness.

  ‘Why? Because I refuse to bow to your ridiculous demands? Let’s not forget that it was you that came barging into my life, upsetting everything and suggesting that my parents were killed because of the living oak desk that has been peacefully in my family for generations.’

  ‘You confound me. You perplex and challenge me at every turn.’ In the dim light Drakeforth rolled over to face me. ‘You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t believe. You have heard the timbre of the wood. You appear to accept the overwhelming evidence of the great conspiracy that clearly lies before us.’

  I glared at the ceiling, ‘I accept that there is a mystery to be solved. I accept that you seem to enjoy causing all kinds of chaos. I accept that the case of my parents’ passing could do with some analytical review. I’m still not sure how this equates to the Godden Energy Corporation being the source of all evil in the universe.’

  Drakeforth sighed. ‘I could try and explain, but I fear you would never understand in spite of my most earnest attempts to educate you.’

  I sat up and stared at him in the near dark. ‘Drakeforth, while it is obvious to me that you were once a poor excuse for a zygote, I have had no choice but to be dragged into this … this … pantomime of a conspiracy hypothesis, and now you accuse me of being difficult?’

  ‘If this was a sense-media show, we’d passionately embrace now,’ Drakeforth said. My mouth fell open. I could feel him smirking in the gloom.

  ‘Of all the conceited, self-assured, snorkel-breathing teapot painters!’

  ‘See, you really do like me.’ Drakeforth grinned until I hit him in the face with a pillow.

  Chapter 6

  Awakening in the strange surroundings left me feeling confused and disorientated. The hotel room was dark behind the closed blinds, and the other half of the bed lay empty. I dressed quickly and peered out through the gaps in the blinds. At least Drakeforth hadn’t stolen my car.

  I found the room’s audio-only phone in a drawer on top of a Codex Arturis. I dialled my office. My manager, Boag Constant, answered the phone without saying anything. I waited for a moment and then remembered he had taken a vow of silence for a month.
It was meant to improve his active listening capabilities.

  ‘Hi B, it’s Charlotte. Look, I’m going to be away for a few days. It’s a family emergency.’ The phone beeped a short number seven keypad tone at me.

  ‘Seriously, Boag? It’s an emergency. I’m out of town. I didn’t have time to—’ I was cut off by a long three tone. Clearly my sudden need to take leave would be a discussion point at my next performance review.

  ‘See you in a few days, B.’ I hung up. Any appetite for breakfast slipped further down my priority list. I ached in every joint and the slivers of daylight in my eyes felt barbed. My nausea spiralled out of control as I dashed for the bathroom.

  Sometime later I woke up on the bed again and registered that Drakeforth had returned, armed with warm bagels and softly bubbling tea.

  ‘I found you passed out on the bathroom floor,’ he said without apparent concern. ‘Morning bagel?’ I shook my head and he bit into his with relish. ‘I’ve found the solution,’ he continued with his mouth full.

  ‘Good.’ I reached for the tea and used it to wash the sour taste of bile from my throat, life and strength returning to me as I drank.

  ‘This is the answer,’ Drakeforth announced, holding up a pamphlet.

  ‘“I Am An Arthurian, Ask Me Anything”,’ I read. ‘Drakeforth, did you get religion with your breakfast this morning?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. There is an Arthurian Monastery an hour’s drive up the highway. It’s the perfect place to hide out and acquire some patchouli oil.’

  ‘Do they have patchouli oil?’ I could feel the hot tea slowly gluing the fractured segments of my brain back together.

  Drakeforth opened the pamphlet and read aloud, ‘“Empathic Energy is a curse against all humankind. Instead of giving life to machines, we should be valuing the lives of those that truly live. Your appliances do not have a soul. They cannot be saved by the word of our Lord Arthur.”’

  ‘Just how are we going to infiltrate a cult?’ I got my feet on the floor and felt the blood flowing into them. I felt I might even be able to stand sometime today.

  ‘“The Monastery of Saint Detriment provides a visitors’ centre and regular spiritual retreats. All are welcome to come and hear the truth of Arthur. The monastery has expansive gardens where many rare and exotic plants, vegetables and beneficial herbs can be found.”’ Drakeforth slapped my thigh with the folded paper.

  ‘We, my dear, Pudding, are going on a spiritual retreat.’

  *

  The drive became quite pleasant as we left the highway and wound our way up through forested hills. We saw no people, except for the occasional house nestled back among the trees. I often felt I should envy the people who chose a remote lifestyle, until I remembered how a few days without the technological comforts of home would drive me nuts.

  According to the pamphlet Drakeforth insisted on reading aloud, the Monastery of Saint Detriment was the historical site of a battle between warring factions of the turbulent Feather Wars six centuries ago. Hostilities broke out after the country became obsessed with a new and revolutionary invention: the duvet. The price of imported goose down caused bedspread prices to inflate out of control. In school we were taught the details, which I vaguely recalled involved taxes, trade routes and naval blockades. However, all this essential knowledge had paled in comparison to the more important task of getting Gobi McOwlskin’s attention. Gobi did end up taking me to the senior dance that year but he left with that most hated cow, Lysteria Esconce. At school on the following Monday I learned he had thrown up in her lap during the drive home, so it all worked out the end.

  The complex stood behind high stone walls. We pulled up and left the Flemetti in the visitors’ parking area outside. Having studied the canopy of the tree I parked under, Drakeforth declared himself satisfied that it would shield my car from inquisitive surveillance satellites.

  As we walked up the steep road we passed signs that quoted the words of Arthur and his disciples. Messages like, ‘There are none so blind as those that cannot see’ and ‘You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him think’ had been the subject of theological scholarly debate for over a thousand years.

  Entire sub-faiths and splinter groups had been formed over the interpretation of the meaning of many of the prophet’s attributed quotes and lessons, hundreds of which made up the many Tellings of Arthur.

  We approached a booth near the gate and were greeted by a woman with golden hair looped around her head like a turban. She looked up from combing her equally luxuriant waist-length beard as Drakeforth explained we wished to take a tour and meditate on the mysteries. She smiled and opened the gate. Thus we entered (according to the Revised Haphalian Interpretation of the hotly debated Dingo Stanza of the Fourth Telling of Arthur) the last resort for a sane mind.

  *

  Tourism is not an activity that comes naturally to me. I don’t like to wander about new places taking lithographs of people doing their jobs or going about their everyday lives. I feel self-conscious, imagining how it would feel for me if someone in a cheaply printed souvenir T-shirt and over-sized sunglasses came into my office, snapping pictures and asking me how the laser printer represented my connection with my ancestors.

  ‘What a phenomenal edifice this is,’ Drakeforth said addressing a brood of chickens bathing and scratching in the dirt.

  ‘The monastery is nine hundred and ninety-eight years old; or, as our Lord Arthur teaches us, it has not yet been built and has always been here.’ This comment came from an older man in a sun-faded brown robe. He wore the long beard and hair of an Arthurian monk, even though his locks now only skirted his bald scalp and cascaded down his back. They dragged in the dust as he strode towards us.

  ‘I am brother Hoptoad,’ he said by way of introduction.

  ‘Did you know,’ Drakeforth ignored the elder and spoke directly to me, ‘That Arthurian temples and monasteries pay no tax? All this … lunacy … is nothing but a grand tax evasion. A phenomenal edifice of fraud.’

  My toes curled with embarrassment, ‘Please excuse my friend,’ I said to the elder Arthurian.

  ‘There are no excuses, only moments,’ the old man said gently.

  ‘We’d like some spiritual enlightenment please,’ said Drakeforth. He could have been ordering a wheel of cheese.

  ‘Enlightenment is a journey without a destination or a starting point,’ the brother said. I have to admit, that struck me as quite profound.

  ‘So how do we get there, then?’ Drakeforth asked.

  ‘To find yourself on the road, you must first know the road.’ The wizened monk moved off. We stared at the baby pink back of his head until he stopped and looked back. ‘That means you should follow me,’ he said, and moved off again. Drakeforth and I fell into step behind him, sending white-feathered hens scattering in avian hysterics.

  We passed all the signs of lives spent doing chores for the sole purpose of generating enough energy to get up in the morning and do it all over again. Men and women, all wearing the brown ankle-to-neck robes of the faithful, toiled in and around chicken coops, pig pens, vegetable gardens and cow stalls. Each one of them had the long hair and beard that are a core symbol of the Arthurian faith.

  I saw a woman straighten up from hoeing a row of pineapples and pull her beard down to give her bare chin a good scratch. Of course, fake beards, I thought. Fortunately Drakeforth didn’t notice.

  Our guide led us inside an octagonal building with a domed roof of twenty triangular sides forming half of an icosahedron. We wiped our feet on a large hessian mat with the words ‘The Journey Of A Thousand Days Often Begins With A Good Breakfast And Then Having To Go Back Because You Left Your Packed Lunch On the Kitchen Table’ woven into it.

  The building’s circular interior was lined with carved stone panels depicting the great moments in Arthur’s life and the miracles and wisdom of his many Tellings. The bare floor featured a highly polished spiralling pattern of smooth wood. Staring at it, I coul
d almost feel the caramel-coloured timber swirling like a giant lollipop beneath my feet.

  ‘These panels, they show Arthur’s many miracles?’ I asked, trying to show interest.

  ‘Yes. They are the sacred tiles depicting our Lord’s work,’ the monk replied.

  ‘How tedious,’ Drakeforth muttered.

  ‘There is a form to sign, a donation to be made, and then I will guide you through an orientation.’ The old man spoke softly but his voice carried well in the acoustically tuned hall. We passed through a hanging curtain of soft cables that I furtively hoped were not braided from human hair and found ourselves in a smaller, crescent-shaped chamber that curved around the inner hall.

  Hoptoad directed us to changing rooms where, he said, we should put on the white robes provided and remove any metal personal items and technology from our persons and place it in the hemp-cloth bags provided. Drakeforth slung his robe over one shoulder and strode off looking quite gleeful. I took the offered robe and went more cautiously. This entire place was so heavy with peace and thoughtfulness I felt the slightest whisper might echo like a shout.

  As we returned to the antechamber in our new wardrobe Drakeforth asked, ‘What about the hair and beards?’

  Hoptoad smiled. ‘Only those who are ready to devote their lives to Arthurianism may take that final step to occlude their identity and become one with his holy Barba.’

  ‘Surely it is the lack of oneness with any barber, holy or otherwise, that puts you in such a sorry state of grooming?’ Drakeforth said.

  ‘The word is “Barba”. Look it up if you like. Please complete these forms. By signing them you agree to partake in the rites and rituals of the spiritual retreat we offer here. You may leave at any time, but any donation is non-refundable. All we ask is that you respect our beliefs and ponder the teachings we provide.’

  ‘That should be fine,’ I said quickly before Drakeforth could make it worse. ‘How long does the retreat take?’ I added, filling out a form with the pencil provided.