Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle: That Certain Gentleman

by John Theesfeld

  I used to sit in these very seats. For a long time, hours a day, at least 3 days per week, several weeks per year. I sat in these seats and listened. Sometimes I took notes. Sometimes I doodled. Then I moved on, out of the seat, out of the classroom, into the world. I lived my life, I explored, I experienced, I excelled. For years, over half of my time thus far, I spent out in the wild, collecting facts, proving hypothesis, cataloging species, adventuring in between all of the studious activities. I was only doing what I knew how to do best. And where did it get me? Back into the very classroom I started, just on the other side of where I once sat.

  It was all very dour to me in this very instant of gazing beyond the window and it was then, within this sullen state of mood, I realized this was the final chapter of my life.

  2

  As my mind flittered and thoughts fluttered, I began to think of BureauWorks and how they had soured adventuring and exploring. Everything was marked with a price, several auditors made certain all of everything was accounted for. TrustWorks attorneys would infest your itineraries combing through them with fine, shekking tooth combs looking for faults, creating non-existent problems from imaginations dulled by reading far too many law books written by men whom held but not even an ounce of wisdom in their feeble and ever-so litigious brains. Then there was CoinWorks; they would look at where costs could be cut, even if that meant setting up an expedition for certain failure. Paperwork and permits and fines and fees and headaches and stomach ulcers.

  I’m certain my audience that morning would have preferred a lecture more befitting of my reputation as an adventurer and explorer. Though, the problems that plagued a University man such as myself, constrained by the bureaucratic process, made not for a good lecture.

  I didn’t want to stand up there like a bitter old man making a mockery of his glory days like a clown.

  Fluttering forth...

  From a young age, I had a keen interest in the jungles. The grand jungles of Orbis were always just a great wonder of mine. With any free time at hand I would set off with an expedition into the southern Midland jungles, always discovering something new (or old, for that matter). Forgotten stone temples and shrines, perhaps; or, even a new strain of fungus or a new type of flower or plant. It was a world within a world, like stepping into a place that time had forgotten so very long ago. It was a dangerous place and one not to be ventured haphazardly. Sadly, though, it was rare that my expedition crew returned with me, often only a lucky few. This was, though, the dark reality of exploration. People often want to be regaled with tales of fantastical wonders, but they come few and far between the instances of unfortunate tidings.

  I once had a man plucked from line during a hike by an insatiable carnivorous plant. If memory serves me correctly, it was a Reticulated Pinneated Snatchel Grunter that made lunch of the poor sod. Another crewman veered far off from the group during a rest stop and was swallowed into a seemingly endless pit. Seemingly, I write, because we began throwing various items down into the pit, but we never heard them hit bottom. For all we knew we were just piling junk on top of an injured man.

  Ah, and then there was the entire group of graduate students I had introduce themselves to the Ma'ambi tribe forgetting that the Ma'ambi were cannibals. Somewhat confusingly, there is also a nearby tribe called the Mi'ambi, the two tribes were one in the same long ago before written language. At some point they split in two. Why they named themselves with such similar words, no one knows. Honest mistake on my part, really, and what's done is done. If they had studied the course material, they would have known the difference. An unfortunate way of flunking my course and dropping out of graduate school altogether. Such an awful waste. Students were often apt to err. You couldn’t expect a lad who made it a hobby of downing ale after ale interspersed with fits of whiskey for amusement to remember or take note of a lecture concerning a cannibalistic tribe. Who ever runs into cannibals? The uneducated sod with a filthy hangover growing from a fading inebriation who acts asinine and embarrasses himself before being stewed, that’s who. Now, I must make it a point to tell my students that you should never, in any way, meddle with a cultural body modification of a person we are working with or studying. This is not something I should have to tell anyone. (One does keep their hands to oneself, a very good rule all should follow.)

  Stiffs in suits who keep track of numbers have turned my work into statistical analysis. According to BureauWorks Department of Financial Loss (title shortened here as their official name goes on for at least 18 more departments/groups/sub-sects/offices), that for every successful expedition I have, from a crew of 10, 1.3 men die. That is on average. For every unsuccessful expedition I have, an average of 8.7 men die (those .3 and .7 fellows are usually augmented with the very finest, hand-crafted, clockwork limbs and parts).

  What determines a successful or unsuccessful expedition, though? According to the BureauWorks Study #3344klw85 (of Dr. Arthur Monocle's Expedition Success/Loss Analysis Report Sponsored by BureauWorks Department of Financial Loss and BureauWorks Statistical Analysis Group), there are variables and references and notations and a full archive of Numbers Runners reports and a lot of other interesting information that’s taken into account, but it was all tantamount to the flip of a coin.

  There was that awful volcano. According to the initial research, if my Mt. Upton expedition with a crew of ten was successful I would lose one of my crew and another would possibly lose an eye or hand. Now, if the Mt. Upton expedition was unsuccessful, 8.7 men would die. Petey Birch died, and Hefton Scheffield had his leg lopped off BELOW the knee, thank you very much. Barely 1.25 men lost; I believe their report has been filed under “Further Research” for now.

  The Mt. Upton volcano I found to be a most troublesome expedition. Troubling after the matter, but troubling nonetheless. The University had taken advantage of me to find a gem mine on behalf of MineWorks. I was young, only 27, but really old enough to know better. The two men assigned to me were geoscientificals. I was told they were visiting professors and needed me to transcribe and decode an ancient map that, if read correctly, would lead to a tribal cavern, a potential cultural treasure.

  I call it an unsuccessful expedition, at best. A confounded debacle, in short. As it turned out, the tribal cavern that would supposedly include ancient relics was the location of a gem mine. The map was a forgery. They knew I’d have no part in assisting them in tearing apart tribal grounds for a bit of coin, so they had the map copied and the transcriptions altered. Not enough men died according to their statistical predictions, though, to call it unsuccessful. Certainly, MineWorks considers the expedition successful. They gave me a medal as an award for my services.

  And MineWorks drilled deeper; a gigantic, overwrought piece of hell with a drill bit the size of a modest house bore deep into the mine. The GearWorks Steam-Powered Rotary Bore Model Eight was a hulking mass of power that tore rock to shreds. I wasn't there for the mining operation, but I've talked to survivors. I’ve been told that the giant drill boring into the mine punctured the volcano releasing molten lava, creating fissures throughout the entire area. The ground cracked and splintered for as far as the eye could see.

  Some 800 men and their families lived in the metro built atop of where the mountain swallowed them up. “Carrchester, a metro built on riches” was how it was referred. Now it was “Carrchester, a metro no more.” There were, I believe, 78 survivors. This, BureauWorks doesn't factor in as unsuccessful since a profit was made in gem stones and other minerals.

  Frustrating, but that's how things worked, it seemed. In my time since, things have not bettered. It came down to the expendibility of lives: if a life was worth X, how many could an expedition and following profit-incurring project afford to lose. It always worked out in favor of whichever Works organization was acting as sponsor. Often times, assessments were skewed for profit.

  Years of bureaucratic tomfoolery. It was all this that made me retreat into lecturing, I realized. The utter tomfoolery tha
t was “sign here in triplicate; and thumb print here, here, and here” which turned into an expedition team that involved a team of auditors and several daft-minded bureaucrats had effectively pushed me out of what I loved doing. What I looked at as bringing culture and histories together for the betterment of mankind, the coin chasers looked at as an opportunity to swindle and exploit.

  And now my damn knees were bothering me.

  A Gazette journalographer once asked me what the trick to my longevity was, seeing as most of my colleagues and others in similar lines of work didn’t prosper so well beyond senior-hood. I did agree that while rare, one could find the pirate, explorer, outlaw, gunman, adventurer, plunderer, pillager, axeman, swordsman, blade juggler, expeditionary, tinkerer, exploder, gaster, maker, scuttler, fighter, bruiser, brawler, racer, flyer, pilot, or gentleman swindler well into their years. My longevity, though, has been pock-marked with loss and tragedy just as it was punctuated with spectacular moments of wonder. For every give, there is take, I do suppose. I tried explaining that life wasn’t an endurance race. My longevity was nothing without experience. I also had to attribute the company in my keep to my longevity. One does not prosper under the languish of dunces and fools.

  3

  The halls of The University were hushed; nearly all of the classes had been excused for finals, though a random few were populated with students taking their exams. I found that a good reminder for when finals were still in session was the occasional outburst of a pupil, their mind snapping due to the pressure and tension built up within their own head-brain, and a scream would echo throughout the hallways. My colleague, Harold Smalls, and I would often match each other, he who guessed most accurately the number of screams during finals was owed the equal amount of coin by the other.

  By the end of finals one became accustomed to the random shriek of a student perilously hanging to the edge of sanity as their gray matter churned and bubbled, either giving way to the intelligence within, or the madness.

  Walking to my office, though, the silence was blatant; I became nervously aware of the sound of my tweed rubbing against itself, the clickity-clacking of the soles of my shoes against the marble floor, the crinkling of my papers in my briefcase.

  And then something else.

  Somewhere behind me in the distance grew the sound of misguided purpose. Footsteps that struck the marble with such efficacy and anal retentiveness. Their echoes reverberated with deep meaning. There was only one man I knew who could walk down a hallway so seriously and with such drive. Therefore, I knew my time was about to be lost to the wind.

  I heard the bark of my name, "Monocle!" from down the hall. It sounded like the muffled bark of a large, toothy dog. The pace of the footsteps increased, the sound of the voice gained clarity as he neared.

  "Ah, Monocle!" He would say in a full blustery bark.

  Admiral Elliott Emerald, a highly decorated war veteran who proudly lived by some sort of social and cultural rulebook written by the upper echelons of the Royal Huntsmen, albeit, Huntsmen of the old guard. He fashioned himself to these guidelines to the point that he took it upon himself to rewrite and edit said rulebook to be more practical and logical. Needless to say, no one else followed by that rulebook, nor does anyone really seem to be aware of it either. It is a rulebook understood only by the Admiral. We just live in what he deems to be the lawless, impractical, stupid world. The strictest of the strict find even him to a bit of a downer. Even Wormfodder, a man old enough to be the old guard’s father, finds him to be a hot-aired buffoon.

  I've been in the position of having to explain something to Admiral Emerald in the past and I have learned to never start an explanation with "Imagine," because the man possesses an imagine-less brain. He doesn't daydream, he audits.

  For instance, you might need to explain to him why a strategy will not work on the battlefield as war explodes all around, men dying in your very lap. And you'd like to say, "Imagine our brigade is..." But you're cut off mid-thought and lectured as to why the battlefield is no place for a man drawn to flights of fancy. And eventually everyone is captured by opposing forces, put into hard-labor slavery, and now the "book learn-ed one" must emancipate everyone from this troublesome predicament.1

  Indeed, I do say. A little imagination can go a long way, or at least save your arse from Hendwhali aboriginal tribalists. The cannibalistic kind, no less. While trapped in eastern Northward, deep within Red territory. Less than favorable memories.

  The poor Admiral really doesn't understand a single thing any of us normal people do. Going to see the world? For what purpose? What's the point? That area and those people were documented years ago! What a waste of time that can be used for much better purposes. He would go on and on like this to no end. Unless it needs to be conquered or put under lock down by Royal Huntsmen Brigades, he didn’t understand it thusly and it can not be explained to him. Stubborn, joyless man, free of wonder and astonishment.

  "Monocle," he once declared, "Monocle, I'm not sure I understand you. I'm not sure I even like you. I don't know anything about you, nor do I care, to be honest. In the future, if I do not acknowledge you, please do understand." And that was it. Just passing each other within the halls of our esteemed University. I believe at the time of that encounter I was dressed in the tribal garments of the Lokschmee: bright feathers that created an ornamental headdress, some face painting, feather leggings, a loin cloth. While odd-looking I may have been, there was no reason for him to be downright nasty.

  Now he caught me just as I was upon my office door.

  He held his pipe in his hand, gesturing with it, "Ah, Monocle! Yes. I would like to be briefed on your next four expeditions, as soon as time allows. You are required to do so, to me, your Clockwork Foundation representative and Royal Huntsmen Admiral, Sir Admiral Elliott Emerald. Please do have my office commander assign you a block of time."

  He always had to give his full title. Always. Like the chimes of our glorious University clock tower, Haverthorne Tower Sponsored by SteamWorks, Admiral Emerald would dutifully announce his presence. (Though, it was of wonderful use when you were within earshot, but out of sight, and you could slip away without being noticed - a talent, a skill, and an art.)

  "Ah, Admiral Emerald!" I would always respond, the most subtle of mocking he could not pick up. "Indeed, Admiral Emerald! So good to see you in such fine form after the last battle." I condescendingly brushed the dust off his big, wide, almost comically-large admiral uniform shoulder pads. I polished the big, goofy medals on his chest. Both of them.

  I leaned in and whispered, "You know, between you and me, I really think you were looked over in the medal department, if you understand from where I am coming." Knowing full well what a cowardly and yellow bastard he was. In theory, he was a hardened soldier. In practice, he was a bumbling, incompetent arse.

  The Admiral leaned back and away, he grumbled, "Ah, Monocle, yes, yes. I believe, well, it doesn't matter what I believe, but you are most undoubtedly correct. By clockwork, you are an educator, after all, I need not tell you..." He turned, his mind wandered and his feet followed.

  I started to slip away. He certainly did not need tell me. I certainly didn’t want to listen.

  He mumbled on, "Or rather a professor, I should say. Walk with me, Monocle!" He immediately began his stride thinking I was to follow him. He continued to drone on in his big grumbly, self-centered, Royal voice as he tapped the ash out of his pipe. "You know, Monocle, education is a great thing. And for one to be educated, and I think you would agree, Monocle, is...." His voice echoed and trailed off into the expanse of the hallway as he moved farther away. And I don't really think he noticed me slip into my office.

  I guess he hadn't received word that I was now semi-retired. I had no further expeditions to brief him on. Absolutely nothing. I would have our department secretary schedule a time with The Admiral’s office commander for me to come in to schedule a meeting with The Admiral only to reschedule at the last minute. Just for fun
and just to be difficult.

  I entered our office, as it was designated outside on the door: Dr. Arthur Monocle, and below my name, Dr. Harold Smalls. (Our names, I would like to add for posterity and the record, were in order of alphabetical reasoning and nothing more. Harold jokingly complained about this to our Ministry of Communications Complaint Department Representative, which in turn lead to a rather embarrassing series of court appointments. Harold jokingly demanded that if his name not be above mine, that it at least be twice the size. They took this complaint seriously and the matter is still pending.)

  “Good morning, professor,” a voice squeaked from behind stacks of books on Harold’s side of the office.

  “Geraldine?” It sounded like Dr. Smalls’ assistant Geraldine. I peered over the stack to find Geraldine elbow-deep in notes. “A little light reading to perk up the brain, perhaps?”

  She remained unamused and glared at me.

  “Professor Smalls has me going over these books and it’s turning my brain to absolute gruel,” Geraldine whined, and rightly so. The books were heady and numerous. The subject matter covered vast subjects and various topics.

  I began examining the reading material, muttering through the collection, “Anatomy... physiology... gears? that’s different... surgery? what on orbis do you plan to do with this?... steam mechanics... implications of consciousness... and projection? Paraphenomena? What is this? The Eternal Blackness by Dr. Leonard Ramses Hobbleton? Oh, my, what are you reading, dear girl?” I stifled my abrupt laughter.