I did try to instill in him a sense of humanity the short times we were allowed to spend together. I’m uncertain what took and what did not, I can only hope he is mindful of his actions.
There was certain commotion amongst the crowd at the west entrance of University Square. Merely the undergarments of the gilded bunching and twisting upon learning that they would have to share their section of seating with Emperor Kyng Godd, and his fellow Gorillian advisors. It was only fitting that Kyng be invited to the send-off as a return courtesy and act of respect for allowing the young adventurers to take their route through Gorillian country.
I could see it was a certain anthropology professor who shall remain nameless and his wife, Mrs. Professor Adam Mathers, making the ruckus. Certain people still held the improper belief that Gorillians were a form of maldeviant or underdwellar, beastly and dangerous. It has been shown, that the average Gorillian is no different than the people fearful and complaining. Upon outward appearance, certainly there was a vast difference, but they held the same emotions and relished the same experiences as did any self-aware being. Some time long ago, from some odd ape being there was a change. A substantial change. Over time, the change caused us to go one way and Gorillians the other. Still people see them as underdwelling maldeviant monsters.
In my younger years I spent time with Gorillian monks; adhering to their lifestyle, learning their meditative techniques, finding several ways of preparing seavenly tea. Gorillian monks do little other than meditate and enjoy seavenly punctuated by meals prepared fully of vegetation, cuisine fresh and wholesome. Emperor Godd was far removed from the monks I lived with, though. He was hot-tempered and would flare up at the slightest hint of disrespect.
From the commotion, I heard Mrs. Adam Mathers gasp in the way one might expect an old gilded ninny to respond, “Why I never!”
A shout rang back from the crowd, “And you never will, either!” Followed by a short burst of laughter, including a chuckle from yours truly. Harold even felt it was worth a knee slap.
I was glad to see such decorum amongst the proud and virtuous of the upper class. The hypocrisy of the gilded who took pleasure in looking down on those who were less fortunate. Instances like these had me realizing that when the gilded complained of the slovenly, they were just dogs barking at other dogs. Mrs. Adam Mathers, I learned later, referred to the Gorillian leader as a glorified monkey bear and a pest like that of underdwellars destroying crops. Kyng Godd simply replied, “Dear madam, we come down from the same tree as you. And if I am an underdwellar, you are my parasite.”
He, along with his three advisers, then sat down in their seats in front of the complainants, front row. Their larger stature was not taken into account by the seating committee. Each Gorillian could have used a chair half a size larger than what was provided to their seating arrangements. While leg room was clearly not an issue being in the front row, perhaps a few properly sized chairs would have been in order for the men responsible in brokering a deal between various Gorillian tribes, metros, and sects in allowing the expedition to traverse Gorillian lands into the Harodditty Jungles.
That certain anthropologist, whose wife was quite visibly perturbed, fought himself into worrisome shambles some months prior as he was removed from a Gorillian relations committee. Seems this gentleman advised to cut a swath directly through Gorillian lands, while laying down track and rails behind them and claiming it all for The Monarch while TransMetros and RailWorks reap the rewards.
Perhaps the person in charge of seating was, in fact, just an all around joker.
The noon sun revealed itself from behind a few clouds. Chatter amongst the patrons evened out. Boredom grew. I noticed poet laureate, Kristophar “The Fiendish” Molokov, possibly preparing a potential piece of prose or poetry. The man was obviously lost in his own head. He scribbled in his notebook in spurts, often getting distracted by the random airship overhead. He feared some of the larger ships, cowering by his companion, Renee Scheffhart; then giggling uncontrollably as it flew out of sight. A strange man, indeed. I didn’t quite care for his presence, for he was fairly malodorous, but even more so, he was just an obnoxious twit.
The Fiendish once held me in what I’ll refer to as a conversation for lack of a better term, for the conversation was very one-sided. We had been introduced at a Monarch-sponsored gala. He rambled on about his terrible poetry and then demanded he write a poem for me on the very spot about my work and life and the very essence of my being, as he put it. He only got insofar before he was lost for a rhyme with Monocle. I suggested canonical, if he could work with that, but he shushed me in a flamboyant manner with both hands as he rambled through a cornucopia of non-words sounding like Monocle. He stood there in front of me with his eyes closed and muttered utter gibberish in a dense mumble. As it became endlessly awkward and I came under the suspicion that he wasn’t coming back from nutter limbo, I slipped away without notice.
Geraldine and Harold chatted away about something and I checked my pocket watch. Soon enough this would start and soon enough this would be over. We were here as a courtesy to Dean Wormfodder, merely a symbolic nod from the old to the young.
“Do you think he’s funding this expedition?” Harold leaned over and asked, his eyes darting towards the direction of Rotterdam.
“With this much fanfare, I don’t think he would remain an anonymous donor. He likes his name tossed about in speeches and conversation, all over The Gazette,” I balked in return. “I still think this is an entirely staged spectacle.”
“For what purpose, you old coot?” Harold didn’t always enjoy or have patience for my little conspiracy theories.
“This. All this excitement. For what? These three men to go into the jungles?” I laughed a hearty chuckle.
“It’s good for The University, Arthur. Just keep reminding yourself of that. If it’s good for The University, it’s good for us.” Harold had undying faith and hope in this institution, always ending any disagreement we had over The University with such a line. Harold always meant well and I was always overly critical of decisions made in haste while the decision makers had their craniums fully implanted within their own backsides.
“What do you know about them?” I asked Harold vaguely.
“The chaps being sent off?” Harold seemed confused.
“Indeed.”
Geraldine chimed in swiftly, “The big guy on the left is Atticus Holding, plays rugby for the school, his focus of study in engineering. The skinny fellow in the middle is Devon something, studies ancient languages, mathematics. Gentleman on the right is Endleman Whit, natural sciences, devilishly handsome.”
“Thank you, Geraldine,” Harold smiled politely. “They really are fine young chaps, Arthur.”
“I don’t doubt it.” And I didn’t. “I’ve had the pleasure of having Endleman in a few of my classes. He’ll do just fine out in the field. Have you seen Advisor Travis, perchance?” I asked Harold as I looked over the audience, once more.
“I believe he went on a fact-finding mission of sorts,” Harold said.
“Already so soon? I thought that wasn’t for another few weeks.”
“I suppose the trip was moved up due to the escalations in Chasm City.”
It bothered me to think what tragic shape The Chasm had come into in recent months. The Chasm had always been a place where there was a continuous, pervasive sense of open frontier and wonderment which was slowly being replaced with a sense of choking claustrophobia and brooding fear.
“Did you see The Fiendish, up there?” Harold changed the subject, knowing full well I had taken notice. “Perhaps he’s finally found something that rhymes with Monocle?”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath.”
Dean Frodderick Wormfodder made his way up the stage and to the podium, the band presented his introduction with a burst of attention grabbing music, I do believe Aun Wasturchet Mushi. It was an obvious choice in light of the Gorillian guests of honor. Wormfodder took to the stage
noisily. Here was a man who had fought in more wars than history had recorded and had some sort of scar for each.
“How much of him is machine at this point?” I wondered to myself. His knees were held in place with cumbersome braces, like vice grips holding his knee caps from drifting down into his shin region. His shins having long been replaced with metal rods, spring-loaded and hinged to these vice-grip knee holders. I wasn’t sure what was happening with his feet, he was always wearing those military boots. I supposed they too were clockwork, but of what design, I could only imagine.
I looked at the old man’s boots. I wondered what appendages fashioned by an engineer were good enough to fool the eye so (most people were surprised to learn his legs were sheered off below the knees). When I’ve spoken to the man face to face, I never thought to look at his feet. For what purpose? Were they, in fact, just a further advancement in automaton feet slapped onto an old man to keep him afloat? “How much of this man is left at this point?” I clearly remember thinking, wanting my brain to produce an empirically based answer of some satisfaction.
I often caught myself staring at the precision clockwork craftsmanship that was Wormfodder’s arm, a completely mechanical marvel (and, in a pinch, has been known to be removed and used as a weapon in whiskey-laden rampages born from disputes concerning rugby, of all matters).
There were fine tunings in the arm that allowed movement just so, just the right amount of give and take with springs, hinges, and gears. A small wind-up key built into the watch on his wrist allowed for tension-adjustment within the finger joints. I believe this was the 27th iteration of Fordderick’s arm. The last 26 variations had either been destroyed beyond use or, the rare case, when it was just time for something new and slightly more advanced.
As Wormfodder took center stage, he was handed a speaking cone to amplify his voice. The cone was that of a deep burgundy color, this I remember because the entirety of the object obscured the old man’s head, like an eclipse, flapping gums and rattling dentures at the epicenter of the giant sound piece.
“Hello and good day.” His voice carried fairly as he started off, a light chattering of teeth barely audible, “I would like to welcome you here on this fine afternoon to this gala send off for these fine young men. As I say, the adventurer of today shall become the gentleman of tomorrow.”
He rambled on about the virtuous explorer, forever treading into the underbrush without fear of what resides within. He spoke of the undiscovered countries, the unrealized potential of vast swaths of land, and other such tomfoolery. Wormfodder was a fine man, but he often got carried away in his obsession to conquer, or as he put it, incorporate. Where he found virtue in the incorporation of indigenous tribes, advancing their very own well being (his philosophy, not mine, do remember), and pushing these peoples in the direction of technology, others, such as Admiral Emerald, followed by example, yet missed the point of actually developing services for these people through various Works organizations. It was a difference of generations, but one pushed by the elder, yet developed by the latter. No one was certain to blame. I suppose there was a difference between the preservation of culture while forcing evolution and advancement, regardless of the overall benefit of the people, and the near-complete obliteration of a people with disregard to history. (For the record, I taught from a school that believed in interaction and cooperation in education between our Clockwork Foundation and the various tribal groups of our lands.)
Wormfodder’s introduction moved from the topic of exploration and education to introductions and no one was left unaccounted for. The introductions dragged through into some unplanned ramblings concerning a brothel in Eastern Bay and then Admiral Elliott Emerald took to the stage, the speaking cone brushed aside. He then rambled on. I believe he was hoping to rally the crowd to war and have students drop out of university right then and there to sign up with The Royal Huntsmen. He was an obvious and transparent sort.
The Admiral was followed by a dreadfully trite and uninspired poem from Kristophar ‘The Fiendish’ Molokov. Followed by a brief announcement regarding an update on The Chasm which was that there wasn’t an update. The band then played The University Marching Song, Winding Up To Go To War. And finally intermission.
Mingling was not my idea of a pleasant way to spend time. Though, there was food laid out and I felt a bit peckish.
I studied a cracker with the ova of some ocean dweller perched atop like a gooey wad of miniature beads. Geraldine stood by, eating fruit slices shipped in from somewhere exotic, perhaps eastern Southland.
“Just eat it,” she scolded me beneath her breath and I popped it into my mouth. It tantalized my palette as I imagined it would, like a greasy, briny glop of goop with a texture I’d be imagining the next time my system acquired some ailment which caused me to thrust my innards outwards.
As I chewed ever so delicately, trying desperately to keep the substance from touching my tongue, a weird balancing act between my cheek and teeth before I was able to swallow, who should I find to my side, but a Minister of Decency, Lord Grunderson.
“Hello, Arthur.” He’d say in an even tone and at a modest auditory level.
“Lord Grunderson,” The food in my mouth caused me to mumble as I nodded him a greeting. A speck of cracker flew from my mouth as I tried pronouncing the S within Grunderson. The tiny crumb landed on his lapel which he brushed off in quite the typical manner you would expect from a fussbudget.
“I did read your latest editorial, Arthur.” He picked at vegetables from the food platter, he was a slow, droll man and spoke in blocks, “If you decide not... Not to make the edits that The Communications Ministry... On behalf of The Ministry of Decency... Has suggested... In the future, I will have no choice... Other than to suggest to The Gazette that you not be published... In their periodical.”
I could hear Geraldine snickering behind me.
“Oh, but you do have a choice!” I finally swallowed the spawn of who knows what, “You could, in fact, close your fool mouth shut and allow my work to speak for itself and let the people decide.”
I could tell he was clamming up and I knew what to expect next. And as any predictable bag of hot air he repeated the following, “I will certainly not close my mouth shut-”
“Fool mouth.” I corrected him.
“As a Communications Minister for The Ministry of Decency, I will decide what the people enjoy.”
There it was. Ever so aggravatingly, there it was indeed. “How do you know?” I asked simply.
“How do I know what?”
“How do you know what people will like?”
His cadence picked up to that of normal speech, most probably due to the burst of adrenaline as a result of being confronted, “Well, if I think something might offend a citizen, I’m certain to intervene and remove-”
“But how do you know if it might offend a citizen?”
“My dear, sir,” he scoffed, “I receive correspondence from our citizens every day! I think I know peoples’ sensibilities.”
“How many letters claiming offense do you get?”
“Oh, plenty.”
“”But how many? Approximate.”
“Well...”
“How about you give me a specific example of a correspondence in which someone took offense, if you can.”
“Ah, well, I did receive complaints about a piece that ran two weeks ago concerning burlesque shows.”
“Just the one?”
“Well, yes.”
“I will allow you five seconds to leave my side, at which time I will box your ears.” I pulled my pocket watch from my vest pocket as Lord Grunderson looked at me like I was mad, “I implore you, you’ve infuriated me with your narrow-minded consternation and need to turn trivial matters into spectacles of grand wastefulness.”
“Well, I will be taking this up with the Board of Public Grievances.”
“Under what reasoning?”
“I’ve been offended by a valued member of The Univer
sity system, a public servant, and would like you to learn from the error of your ways,” he huffed.
“I see.” I held my hand outwards and looked to find the second hand upon the watch face, “5... 4...”
“You can’t be serious.”
I handed my umbrella to Geraldine, “3... 2...”
Lord Grunderson was becoming visibly weirded-out as he frantically turned and walked off rather quickly.
I took my umbrella back from Geraldine as she truncated the event, “Now you’ve violently threatened a minister.”
“I wouldn’t have hurt him, dear Geraldine.”
“What happened at one, then?”
“You would have stopped me.”
“Doctor, I had no intention of stopping you.”
That would have been awkward, I thought. Slapping the ears of a Decency Minister before a crowd of the most affluent and powerful of his own peers. In situations like these Geraldine was often sweet enough to take the time to talk with bystanders and explain to them, through bear-faced lies, that I was off my medication. Not that I often committed acts of violence, but rather was caught in a situation that was beyond explanation and bedfellows with bewilderment.
I stood there with Geraldine commenting on the guests who crowded the garden courtyard. We silently mocked the gilded, but our laughter was blatant as I mimicked a stodgy old fellow, his nose up-turned with an air of sheer arrogance.
I took notice of my nephew headed our way.
“Good afternoon, Uncle Arthur.” Mr. Tsue spoke with a repressed jovial tone when he spoke to me. He once confided in me that he found me to be a very strange and funny man. He wouldn’t dare smile even upon a pretty girl, shyly, subtly, mysteriously. He was all business, but somehow I tickled his funny bone. I wasn’t aware he had one, let alone that it could be tickled.
Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle: That Certain Gentleman Page 7