by L. T. Hewitt
Chapter 35
Arthur Cardigan had firmly established his role as a prophet. In the two Ombres since he had arrived at that time, Quack had sent him on innumerable missions and tasks, ranging from the minor – arranging for Ronald Barthy-Scrumdent to get his mid-morning cup of tea (and, in fact, considerably energy-consuming task, requiring Arthur to make train journeys to get the right sort of yaks’ milk and BongVe Bong Boofeys’ milk – and in the right ratio – and ten decateaspoonfuls of sugar, all the same brand, and all from different newsagents’ stores run by people named Pete – provided their surnames didn’t begin with consecutive letters of the alphabet or end in any letter before T) – to the major – travelling to another country to establish a reform of the electoral system (hop in a wormhole and you’re there).
What he still hadn’t come to grips with was the future; he was infinitely worried about that: there were infinite reasons to be worried. He could prepare himself as much as possible for what lay ahead, but that didn’t mean he would cope.
Currently, Arthur Cardigan was sitting at the table with the council of Gaul as they went about deciding how the law should be laid down. Politics was dull, mainly because it was childish – that is what Arthur Cardigan had decided. He didn’t view what he did as politics: instead it was an act of opposition to most of the current politicians. Most of the problems in politics arise because fools ask questions where the answers are already obvious.
“We need to tackle the issue of factory farming,” said Lord Rory Tyre. “Is it right to grow animals in sheds to get meat?”
“No.” Arthur said it loudly and bluntly. After sitting through a dozen lectures that essentially all asked whether or not being evil was good, he could no longer stand the elderly men’s ‘intellectual queries’.
Lord Tyre turned to him. “You say no. Why is that?”
“Because what you’re asking is ridiculous. Of course factory farming is wrong. Your entire approach is childish.”
“Well, you just started a sentence with a conjunctive, I’d say that’s pretty childish.” There were several sneers.
“There’s nothing wrong with that. You just used a comma splice.”
“No, I didn’t, it wasn’t written down, I can’t of.”
“Can you not hear punctuation?”
“Right, that’s enough of that,” the Wisewicker of the Grand Gaul Council said. “This is meant to be a Political debate. You can take your English grammer somewhere else. I suggest England.”
“Sorry,” said Arthur and Tyre. Arthur continued, “Factory farming is not right, if we wish to live in a world where people are treated equally. Which I’m beginning to suspect is not your wish at all.”
“Of course we want that,” the Lord Tyre said, pretending to be offended. “This is a democracy, after all.”
“Is it?”
“We want equality. We just don’t want everyone to have equality, or else it would become worthless. Like money.”
“Factory farming is wrong. In what way could it ever be deemed acceptable? And, even so, what purpose does it serve?”
“Well, we need some way to get meat. It’s essential for us.”
“No, it’s not. Humans need protein, which comes from plants and fungi. By growing crops to feed to animals, then killing those animals to get their flesh to feed to other animals, you’re inserting a load of middlemen.”
“But you don’t get meat to feed to animals, you get it for humans,” Lord Rory Tyre lied.
“Humans are animals!”
There were more sneers. Then Lord Tyre said something that really got to Arthur: “Quack wanted it.”
He had no idea where it had come from. It wasn’t true, of course. Quack, and the idea of contraextraplanetary beings, had developed a massive cult. It was universal. The world adored the exploration of other worlds, other ideas and – particularly – the exploration of ideas about other worlds. In Greece, they had their own ideas about gods and goddesses, perfectly compatible with the theories about God and Quack. The believers and admirers of all these ideas spawned many writers. These writers incessantly wrote books on what to do with the question of Other Beings. The natural conclusion they came to was that we should all live in peace and harmony, we should treat every creature on Glix as a beautiful expression of life, in graceful acceptance that acting upon our own greed in a world which means nothing to the universes beyond but causes harm and the disruption of peace to the close-at-hand, seen by more than just eyes.
The greatest writer of pious philosophy, Iosev, had once stated that the only way any animal can achieve anything is to make sure everyone’s chances at survival and success are equal. Anything opposing the survival of others, he deemed to be wrong. That was the solid foundation of rational thought on Glix.
Of course, there was no evidence for any of this. When finding oneself on a rock, one invariably questions how one arrived there. Without outside information, without having read the works of Iosev, anybody will suppose the notion that someone placed them there. For some thinkers, this idea sticks. For others, it passes. Whether the idea of gods stays or goes in one’s mind is purely down to chance. However, the advancement of civilisation means than different influences affect different people differently. Some people will grow up in a world where their closest friends and relatives believe one idea or another, and so are more inclined to believe these ideas.
There is no evidence one way or another on the matter or life outside the universe. So, logically, claiming to be certain on the matter one way or another is unbelievably foolish. For most people, these strange meanderings end with childhood and the lack of interest in something which cannot be researched. Some people write books about their ideas. Some people don’t. The burden of proof lies on the person making a claim. As there is no proof, to make a definitive claim about gods is evidently the stupidest mistake anybody can make. And Lord Tyre had just done so.
Quack wanted it.
Arthur’s face went red. It burnt, it hurt. How could people be so ignorant? But he had to be calm and form a sensible, structured argument, based on fact. “I know Quack! Why would He want that?” Anger alters the best of us.
“Fine, then. Not Quack, maybe, but God wants people to eat meat.”
“If God wanted people to eat meat, would He really make it only obtainable by killing another animal?”
Arthur was beginning to lose hope. Nobody understood him. Nobody appreciated what it was to care. Every action must benefit humans, was the common view, and only humans, and only the best humans, at that. But what had happened to morals? Good – undefinable though it may be – should be the foundation of all actions. Why? There is no explanation. But good is the target. If we don’t aspire to good, things aren’t happening; they’re just moving.
When all at once a golden ray shone. A female figure burst through the doors on the left with a positive air of compassion. “I agree with you,” said Rachel Treen. “I care. And I’m pretty certain that a great many other people in here agree with you, too. We live in a Gaul dominated by fear. It’s time to change.”
Chapter 36
The Space Chicken ran along as quickly as he could, longing to see the Fez on the horizon, but knowing that Michael Rowland Daffodil had already opened it. He was David Gratton. The Space Chicken knew that, whether Gratton opened it or the twins did, the result would be the same. That was logical. But what logic also said was the exact opposite: that Gratton’s opening the Fez would end in peril – this was inevitable, and nothing the Space Chicken or the twins could do would change this. Under one interpretation of inevitability, the twins would not be able to open the Fez, since future history dictated that David Gratton was the one to do so. However, if the twins successfully detached the Fez from society, there was no chance of this happening, so there would have to be theoretical (and eventually practical) alternatives. If the twins opened the Fez, it would prevent the popularly proposed future from taking place – it would break the prophecy
and so counteract the peril; if the twins opened the Fez, it would mean that Quack’s prediction of David Gratton opening the Fez and bringing about a country which would end Britain was untrue and so the twins wouldn’t destroy the world. If David Gratton opened the Fez, something awful would happen. Logically, if the twins opened the Fez, something good would happen. Logically, if the twins opened the Fez, something awful would happen. The logical conclusion reached by the Space Chicken – or another logical thinker, logically – was that, David Gratton definitely meant something awful; with Clint and Clein it was 50:50. The Space Chicken preferred the latter option.
But, as he reached the top of an incline, the Space Chicken spotted – to his astonishment – the Fez travelling in front of them.
“Oprah sold the house,” Michael Rowland Daffodil explained when they got nearer. “Clint and Clein are free to take control of it now.” The Space Chicken looked up and saw Clint and Clein perched on the side of the Fez, kicking and thudding the buttons, sweeping their hands and feet across to achieve the maximum area of pushing, all of which resulted in cracks, pops and clicks as mistakes were replaced by new possibilities. A large proportion of the surrounding collection of Fez-followers was looking at the twins in annoyance.
“So they have the Fez now.”
“Yep. And I guess they won’t let anyone else have a turn.”
The Space Chicken (nervously, tensely, cautiously and trepidatiously) relaxed. Though just a little. “So, I suppose that means they’ll be the ones to open it?” The Space Chicken had done sufficient harm to language to break ties with his mother. The conjunction that bonded the Space Chicken to Margery was withering away, and his providing a question mark at the end of an indirect question was no help (though no hindrance, in his outward-looking eyes). “David Gratton is no more,” he pronounced, over the sound of a celestially ringing telephone being gallulally ignored. And that is a very interesting and difficult sound to speak over.
“Who’s David Gratton?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Eventually the ringing and the ignorance became too much for the Space Chicken, so he answered his phone.
“I expect you know why I am calling,” said Margery.
“Yeah, yeah; I put a question mark in the wrong place.”
“Since then, you have made another mistake.”
“Go on,” the Space Chicken sighed.
“I am not convinced ‘gallulally’ is a real word, let alone one that can be used to describe you.”
“Of course it’s a word!” the Space Chicken snapped, offended. “How few dictionaries have you read?”
“You know perfectly well I’ve read every known dictionary at least three times.”
“Then look through one of those dictionaries – I would refer you to your memory if that were of any use – and see what the word means for yourself.”
“I would do,” Margery explained, “but ‘gallulally’ is not in any dictionary, nor are any of its hypothetical derivatives. Would you care to define the word yourself?”
The Space Chicken attempted to sneer, but found himself at a lack of tact and sophistication, something Margery would later describe to her friends as a ‘compound failure exposition’. “If I’m being honest,” the Space Chicken said dishonestly, “I think the word really speaks for itself. It doesn’t need a definition, does it?”
“Yes, it does.”
“It means ‘chicken-like, -ish’.”
“Perfectly articulated⸮” Margery said sarcastically, taking great pleasure in the opportunity to use an irony point. “You are not a chicken. That was just the closest universary approximation we could get for your appearance, and then we capitalised it to exaggerate the distinction.”
“Just because I’m not galline, doesn’t mean I can’t do things gallulally.”
“There you go again: coining neologisms. There are enough words in the Glix’n language without you making up new ones for people not to understand.”
“You would stifle my creativity, wouldn’t you? What with you being a grammar tyrant and all.”
“I prefer ‘linguistic socialist’. It has a much nicer ring, do you not agree?”
“What’s your point?”
“If you insist upon doing so, could you at least have the decency to perform future actions Gallulally?” Margery hung up.
“Space Chicken?” asked Michael Rowland Daffodil. The Celestial Cockerel could tell Michael Rowland Daffodil wouldn’t ask anything but his attention. Begrudgingly, the Chicken turned to the man, but – seeing his blank gaze fixed upon the horizon – he followed the turn through 300º.
The Space Chicken saw the focus of his companion’s attention in their own reflection on the horizon, a blob in the distance. This was of great interest to Michael Rowland Daffodil and the Space Chicken – the latter because it was the sole interest of the former, which was interesting. It was also an interest of Fred Jr’s, but this was a willing interest, and wasn’t of interest. The far-off blob was a red smear, and seemed to the Space Chicken to be a contemptible smudge on the canvas of BongVe Bong.
“Look at the Fez,” pointed Michael Rowland Daffodil. Well, technically he can’t point words; he pointed and said them, though he pointed and said them with such force that they implied a direction more pointedly than the finger with which he pointed. Out of a curious cocktail of etiquette and intrigue, the Space Chicken looked back at the Fez, which he couldn’t locate; looked at Michael Rowland Daffodil; saw the outstretched finger; followed through, and fixed his eyes on the red blob he had just stopped looking at in order to look at.
“Ah,” said the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack.
Chapter 37
Two men ran and one son flew and pretty soon, the mis-matched drew discovered they were much too late to save their siblings from their fate. They travelled very quickly, but two eighteen-year-olds with no limitations will push buttons indefinitely. The Birds and Michael Rowland Daffodil caught up slightly during the moments Clint and Clein’s fingers began to ache. The Space Chicken and Michael Rowland Daffodil had spent all their lives running; Clint and Clein had only pressed buttons on the Fez once before: those with more practice can generally do things with greater efficiency. Clint and Clein felt the joints in their fingers begin to freeze up, while the Space Chicken and Michael Rowland Daffodil only strengthened their abilities to run by using the muscles required endlessly. Neither party would give up in this unintentional, co-operative battle. Little by little, the men slid away towards their goal and the twins slowed down.
“Do you need to get back to the Speedvan?” Michael Rowland Daffodil asked. “Is that why you’re running?”
“Time-travel’s very complicated. That Speedvan’s part of a loop. It’s a past version of its present self. Basically, if anything goes wrong with it, life as it is now will never have happened and a lot of people will very probably cease to exist. Also, if a butterfly gets involved it will be infinitesimally more complicated.”
“‘Infinitesimally’? Is that really necessary?”
“I just told you the world is about to end and that’s you concern?”
“I think language is always pretty important. I always think important language is pretty.”
“You sound just like my mother.”
The twins were now within shouting distance. The Space Chicken and Michael Rowland Daffodil attempted to do so.
“Clint! Clein!” the Space Chicken squawked. “Stop what you’re doing.”
The Fez made headway on its steady incline.
“We’re doing exactly what you told us to do,” said Clein. With each button they pressed, the Fez got slightly higher up the hill they were currently ascending.
“And what’s that, exactly?”
“We’re taking the Fez away. We’re hiding it from the public and making certain no-one else can open it.” Higher and higher it rose, a remarkable effort for the tremendous, towering cage. “There’s no danger in that.”
“There’s great danger indeed. If anything should happen to the Speedvan, it would rewrite the course of history, and – quite probably – destroy the known world.”
“We’ll look after the Speedvan, don’t you worry. And the Fez, too. All we’re going to do is travel around with it and make sure no-one can open it but us. You can have the Speedvan if you like.” Clint and Clein were as two noble warriors riding the mighty Fez up, up, up, and to glory.
‘You have to stop now,’ Fred Jr said. ‘We need the Speedvan back so that it may safely be returned to your mother; if you do not, you are you are bringing peril into the scenario.’
A butterfly landed on the Space Chicken’s helmet. As an extra-dimensional being, the Space Chicken infrequently noticed a difference between the trivial words spoken by one species and those spoken by others. It is only the upbringing of different creatures which teaches them to forget some words and sounds while remembering very few. Indeed, most creatures of the Milky Way find it no more difficult to learn a new language than to memorise the words of a short poem.
As such, the Space Chicken had not only an impeccable language-learning ability, but also – in most cases – automatic communication with every species on Glix. The animals off Glix were only ever-so-slightly harder to talk to. The butterfly looked at the Space Chicken and the Space Chicken looked back. The Space Chicken asked politely if the butterfly would mind asking Clint and Clein if they could have the Speedvan back.
The butterfly flew over to the Fez on the top of the hill. As it flew, it planned out its speech, so that by the time it had reached the box and landed on one of its buttons, it had time to say, ‘Look...’ before the Fez jumped a metre in the opposite direction and the butterfly flew into the wind.
“Don’t worry,” said Clein. “Nothing’s going to go wrong.” The Fez fell off the Nekkenmost cliff in BongVe Bong and into the sea, obliterating the Speedvan on the rocks below.