The Fez Journeys On

by L. T. Hewitt

  His distaste for trains made itself even more prevalent in his mind when all his pet peeves combined themselves into one mass of hatred in the shape of a human. This human – who was also a nutter – came and placed himself next to the Space Chicken.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot,” he said to the disgusted Cockerel, disgusted at the impossible injustice of being placed next to another life form of severely limited rationality. “I’ve been thinking, and I’ve come to the conclusion of who my favourite person ever is.” He paused for an uncomfortable while, during which he anticipated the Space Chicken’s response of ‘Whom?’ This never arrived, and so the latter nutter continued, “My favourite ever person was the woman who invented the train. It’s such a great idea and it’s convenient to everybody. There is nothing that anybody could ever find at all wrong with a train.”

  The Space Chicken found himself unfortunately compelled to talk. “What makes you think it was a woman?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You said your favourite person was the woman who invented the train. Why do you think it was a woman?”

  “Oh, well you just assume, don’t you? It’s one of those things where you automatically expect it to be a woman.”

  “No, not really. It’s a male-dominated world. It’s a sad fact, but we expect everything to be done by a man.”

  “You didn’t comment on my use of tense,” the human nutter said.

  “Why, what was wrong with it?” the Chicken nutter said.

  “I said ‘was’. That implies that I think either the woman – or even the man, as you so rightly say – is deceased or is no longer my favourite person. Either way, she – or he – is assumed to be no longer my favourite living person.”

  “Also, you implied that there is only one person named as having invented the train.”

  “Yeah... but the point is that this was a long time ago, so the inventor(s) is/are probably dead.” On a different note, he said, “Do you think God is a woman?”

  “When you say ‘god’, do you mean that as a proper noun, as the hypothetical definitive creator; or as a god, a figurehead looking over our planet or zone or ‘world’?” The Space Chicken heard the capital G, of course. He didn’t care. He wanted to make people think, and to do so for a nutter on a train would be a great achievement. If the Space Chicken made a significant enough difference to his audience, he would award himself a badge. However, this had to be approved by a board of eleven professionals, all of whom were the Space Chicken. The prophet was not spontaneously crazy; he had a rigorous and predictable selection process for all ludicrous ideas.

  “Any definitive creator would have to be a woman. No man could be organised enough.”

  “So organised it took billions of years to perfect a universe wherein all the creatures didn’t kill each other?” asked the Space Chicken, raising an eyebrow.

  “Organisation doesn’t mean perfection. It means being orderly enough that you can spend your time on something and know that it will eventually work. The Supreme Creator must be a woman, because women are orderly.”

  “Do you think such a place exists outside the Milky Way where beings are forced into specific roles and identities are created by gender?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think gods – i.e. generic, sentient creators – are gendered? Are the leaders of our planet female?”

  “I don’t know,” replied the Space Chicken. “I think Quack is a man. Although I’m not sure. Is it important?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Divine Why?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s the idea that God and His/Her existence aren’t important so long as we are moral and just.”

  “Interesting idea. I like it,” said the man. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was, again?”

  “I didn’t say what my name is.”

  “Oh. Well, are you going to say?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Maybe.”

  The human man looked shifty. “Well, you see, I’ve been studying people’s language recently and I understand that this is an issue of pragmatics. You see, when I say ‘What did you say your name was, again?’, you tell me your name!” he shouted, causing everyone on the train (everyone who wasn’t a nutter, that is) to look over at him in shock. Two people looked at him.

  “Oh, er, it’s the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack,’ he said, horrified by this sudden outburst.

  “Hmm, sounds familiar. Is there anywhere I might know you from?”

  “Um, perhaps from religious scripture?”

  “No, I don’t read any of that. You see, I believe in this concept called the Divine Why. It’s where—”

  “I know what the Divine Why is; I just told you about it a moment ago.”

  “No, you didn’t. I’ve known about it for years. I first heard about it from his man a long time ago whom I met on a bus. He was wearing this lovely feather coat—”

  “I think you’re thinking of me,” said the feathery Fowl.

  “No; you’re wearing fur. You’ve got to learn the difference.”

  “Anyway,” said the Space Chicken, keen to move off the topic, “what did you say your name was, again?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Okay.”

  “And why did you say ‘was’? I’ve always had the same name.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “When?”

  “Just tell me your name!” the Space Chicken crowed.

  “All right. No need to be impatient.” The man tutted. “My name’s Mike.”

  “Mike?” asked the Space Chicken, dumbstruck. “As in Michael?”

  “Yes.”

  “And tell me, Michael, do you have a middle name?”

  “Yes. It’s Rowland.”

  “And would your surname happen to be homophonic with a floral life form of the flowering bulb variety?”

  “Um... It’s Daffodil, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Aha!” the Space Chicken exclaimed. “I’m not going to let you get away with it as well. I can’t lose somebody Quack has sent me out to get after having travelled with them.” The Space Chicken stood up in a rage, but this lost its drama somewhat by the fact that he almost toppled from the movement of the train and subsequently had to grip onto the handrail for the rest of his speech. “I’ve failed so far at capturing people I’ve been told to find. Now that I have you, I’m taking you hostage.”

  ‘Are you certain that taking a hostage is a good idea?’ Fred Jr asked.

  “Of course it is,” the Space Chicken replied to Fred Jr, causing the already dumbfounded onlookers in the train to become even more startled. “I’ve been preparing for this since Quack told me about you,” said the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack to Michael Rowland Daffodil. “It’s always good to carry supplies,” he declared, getting out a pair of handcuffs and locking one end to Michael Rowland Daffodil’s wrist and the other to his wing. The Space Chicken’s wing, that is. Michael Rowland Daffodil’s wing had issues of its own, not least of which was its lack of presence within the physical reality of existence.

  “Excuse me,” said an angry man in his twenties, whose furrowed brow gave the Space Chicken the impression that he didn’t much approve, and was angrily determined never to have to agree with the prophet again. “What do you think you’re doing to this gentleman?”

  “I’m abducting him,” was the Space Chicken’s calm and collected response.

  “You can’t do that! He has his own set of feelings. He has places to be, no doubt.”

  “I don’t, honestly,” said Michael Rowland Daffodil. “I’m quite happy to do whatever people want. Y’know, go with the flow, and all that.”

  “But this man is a sentient creature. Any other sentient creature should use its cognitive faculties to recognise this.” The train passenger was infuriatedly passionate, but his words were lost o
f the Space Chicken.

  “This man – Michael Rowland Daffodil,” the Space Chicken said. “He is evil.”

  “And so are you, from what I can tell so far.”

  “Well, Quack told me that Daffodil will go on to do bad things in the future. I’m eliminating him from the equation now, so there won’t be any problems later on.”

  The train pulled up at a station and the Space Chicken and Fred Jr left. The train passenger continued expressing his opinions, though no-one in particular listened – not even the human sitting next to him.

  “That is pretty much a summary of people today,” the stationary, passive human said. “They’re all intolerant of each other. They’re all rude. And they ignore all opinions except from their own. People these days are all the same,” the passive human declared, turning to the man next to him for further clarification. The passive human looked at the angry man’s name badge to see an increasingly common collection of letters. “Aren’t they, Dave?”

  Chapter 13

  “Clint, do you think we need help?”

  “I used to, but after our last journey to the Fez, I’m beginning to doubt we’re the more insane ones. I suppose you could argue we must need help if we’re making that journey again.”

  “I meant do you think we need help from Quack?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. The Space Chicken needs that sort of advanced mental rehabilitation, and he readily receives it. I’m not sure we’re in quite as dire a situation.”

  “What?”

  “Dave and Dave need Quack’s help, too. The Egg’s all right.”

  “I meant do we need Him to guide us in our travels and give us advice on what to do next?”

  “I know what you meant.”

  “I know you know what I meant.”

  There was a moment’s pause.

  “It’s kind of awkward having exactly the same things to say all the time, isn’t it?”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Another pause.

  “Do you think we should pray?”

  “That’s just what I was going to say.”

  “What should we say?”

  “We could ask Him for stuff.”

  “What do we need?”

  “Transport, I suppose. I’m fine walking for now, but we may need something later.”

  “Okay, then.” Clint clasped his hands in front of his face, once placed above the other, forming a pious digital bill. “Dear Quack. We might get tired. Teenagers aren’t designed for movement. Send us something. But neither of us can drive, so send us someone to drive for us. That’s something else teenagers need. Beak.”

  “Is that good enough?” Clein asked.

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  They waited a short while and nothing happened, so they concluded definitively that there were no gods.

  “Useless. Absolutely useless.”

  “I know. I thought there were gods. There was substantial evidence for there being gods, but they don’t respond.”

  “I’m turning atheist.”

  “Me too.”

  Just then, a bolt of lightning struck down from the sky, causing Quack great heartache. He channelled a voice down directly to the twins, which takes more effort than you’d think. For the passers-by, there was nothing extraordinary occurring, but for Clint and Clein the pious Word was thundering down upon them. He spake unto them: “What the Quack do you think you’re doing? Turning atheist! Of course there are gods! I’m one of them.”

  “Yes. And where were You for us?”

  “What do you mean? I was sending the Space Chicken on another minor task.”

  “Let’s hope this one doesn’t go wrong.”

  “What the Me do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing,” Clein lied.

  “The task I just set one of my valued prophets on was actually a mission designed to help you.”

  “Good. So You were listening to us.”

  “What?”

  “We asked You to help us, and You did. Like You’re meant to.”

  “I’m meant to? Why should I be assumed to have to help you?”

  “Because You’re a god. That’s Your duty.”

  “I don’t have a duty to do anything for you. I made you. Isn’t that enough? I am your Father.”

  “No, You’re not. Calvin’s our father. Mum wouldn’t get married to someone else, would she?”

  “I’m not married to your mother.”

  “What‽ What does that make us, then?”

  “It wouldn’t affect you in the slightest. You don’t have to be married to have children.”

  “But, still, we’re thankful that You responded to our request.”

  “Huh‽ What request?”

  “We asked You for transport and now You are sending it. Cheers.”

  “Listen here,” Quack said sternly. “I made you to begin with, and most planets’ populations would see that as being enough for a god to do. I am helping you because I want to, not because you told Me to.”

  “Okay,” said Clint. “But, either way, we’re very thankful.”

  “Thank you. I don’t ask for your sacrifice, I only ask for your gratitude.”

  Chapter 14

  ‘Where am I now?’ the jam asked.

  “You’re in a sandwich. And I’m putting the sandwich in a plastic box for easy transport.”

  ‘Are you taking me to the Great Oak Tree?’ the jam asked excitedly.

  “I thought You said it hadn’t been planted yet,” Dave said, furrowing his thick brown brow.

  ‘So that’s a no. Can we try to seek out the Acorn at least?’

  “Yep,” Dave said resignedly. “That’s where we’re headed. “You and me all the way. I’ve been settled a few days and off I go on another journey. But I’ll be happy to travel along with You.”

  ‘You realise you don’t have to capitalise my pronouns, don’t you?’ the jam asked, with both parties well in the knowledge that Dave wasn’t aware of such a fact.

  “I wasn’t sure. I thought I could slip it in and you might not notice.”

  ‘Dave, I’m a jam sandwich. It’s safe to assume that when a person’s senses are sufficiently unused that the being itself becomes maladroit, they can at very least hear punctuation. Just like many writers.’

  “Don’t throw intellectual words in there just for the sake of it. Maladroit? Seriously?” Dave sighed. The word ‘maladroit’ brought back a very specific memory of himself aged 10. Dave had been an unhappy and quarrelsome child. During one lesson where the students had been trained in the basics of punctuation, Dave commented that he sometimes felt it necessary to provide an additional comma after the penultimate item in a list for clarification. Mr Gray, his teacher had said, as bland as you are, I at least count this as among your few admirable qualities. I feel I can rely upon you to have nothing of any worth to say. You, Mr Gray, are the epitome of the word ‘maladroit’.

  When he asked what the word ‘maladroit’ meant, he was met with the response, Mr Gray, if you do not know what the word ‘maladroit’ means, I shall take that as definitive proof that you are maladroit. You’re exactly the sort of frightful person who would use a dictionary.

  “But thank You anyway,” said Dave to the jam. “I will use Your information in the future.”

  ‘You’re doing it again.’

  Dave sealed the plastic box, semi-hoping that this would prevent the jam sandwich from being able to communicate with him, but half-thinking that this wouldn’t be the case and full-knowing it would be a far duller trip with no-one to talk to.

  Grabbing the rucksack he had taken with him across the country a week before, Dave unzipped the largest section, shoved the box inside and, closing it and slinging it upon his shoulder as he walked, went to the door. The bag was now adorned with three felt badges – one from each of his Glix’n pseudohomes. The first badge, which had been attached to the bag when he received it from Glinda at Monterey Jack General,
was the hospital insignia, showing a brown squirrel with a yellow underside holding a staff. The second badge showed merely a question mark. It appeared that Old Man Tales had suffered a bout of insomnia several days earlier when the Fez-followers had stayed at his house. The elderly gentleman had got up in the night and cross-stitched the punctuation before applying it to Dave’s bag as a memory – or rather a lack of memory. The third badge Dave had found in a box in Oprah and Calvin’s hallway. As they had been refurbishing their house, they had emptied out their apothecary drawers into boxes, with the intention being that they move the old items into the new drawers of their new apothecary when it arrived. They did so almost immediately when the replacement furniture came, and Dave volunteered to help them unpack the boxes and pack the replacement drawers – as is only polite to offer when residing in a fellow human’s abode. The image was of a burning Oak Tree and Dave wondered what it meant. He thought perhaps it might tie in with the question mark of Old Man Tales’s badge, but couldn’t see how.

  Dave asked Oprah what it meant and she had no idea, nor where it came from, but offered to teach Dave how to sew it onto his bag with the others. Glix’n sewing was pretty much the same as on Dave’s home planet. Dave didn’t know how to sew on his home planet, so this was useless knowledge he didn’t know. The benefit of ignorance, it seemed, was that it rarely meant learning something once, let alone twice.

  Dave’s bag was the emblem of everything he had experienced on Glix. The badges were the safety spots where he had been able to put his baggage down long-term without the fear of its long-term detachment from Dave and Dave’s travels. But, for Dave, nothing that was long-term ever lasted particularly long. He had been hoping to stay on the burning tree badge a little while longer, but now he had to move on. Perhaps he would return to Oprah and Calvin’s home some day. Perhaps he would find some new badge as his home. Perhaps that place would have a longer-lasting long-term. But, for now, he was resigned to the material between the badges. Dave had done enough staring out the door and thinking. It was time to start acting. And, for the second time in a few weeks, Dave stepped out the door and on a journey to an object he couldn’t locate.

  Chapter 15

  As Dave wandered once more through the streets of Carpe Yolu, he was thankful for the opportunity to give the city a second viewing.