The Fez Journeys On

by L. T. Hewitt

  “And where is the Great Oak?”

  ‘Well.’ The jam paused. Dave wasn’t good with surprises. He wasn’t good with travel. He wasn’t good with the location of the Great Tree. ‘It’s on top of the Fez.’

  When Dave and the jam opened the front door of the library to leave for the Fez again, they were greeted by a small being.

  “Fred Jr?” said Dave in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  ‘The Space Chicken has gone crazy.’

  “Gone? Now that’s peculiar.”

  ‘He has kidnapped a man named Michael Rowland Daffodil and is claiming the man is going to destroy the world, with no evidence to back this notion up.’

  Dave’s face dropped. “This may be quite serious.” He turned to his backpack. “The tree can wait. We’re going to the Space Chicken. Our list of missions runs thus:

  ‘1: Rescue Michael Rowland Daffodil.

  ‘2: Chastise the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack.

  ‘3: Go to the Fez.

  ‘4: Merge the jam sandwich with the Great Oak Tree.’

  The faceless Fred Jr looked quizzical. ‘Why are you talking to your backpack, David Gray?’

  “It contains a jam sandwich which holds the memory of one of history’s greatest minds.”

  ‘I see.’

  “Not yet, you don’t.”

  The three of them took the train from Carpe Yolu to the Nekken cliff of BongVe Bong. Each of the three regions of Britain had four train stations. Wales had a station in the Nekken-Shins corner, one in the Nekken-Luc corner, one in the Nord-Luc corner and one in the Nord-Shins corner. The same was the case for England. The same was the case for BongVe Bong. The same was originally the case for Island. However, since Island had separated from the mainland of Britain, there was much debate about whether or not that country was still considered part of Britain.

  The section of Island closest to mainland Britain (the Nord-Luc corner) was culturally closer to England, Wales and BongVe Bong and referred to by the archaic and possibly alien name of ‘North Island’.

  In order to travel between Carpe Yolu and the Nekken cliff of BongVe Bong, Dave, Fred Jr and the jam sandwich took the train from the England Nekken-Shins station to the BongVe Bong Nekken-Shins station via the BongVe Bong Nord-Shins station. The endeavour cost nothing and only required one ticket.

  When they arrived at the final destination, they walked the distance from the station to the cliff, where they found the Space Chicken engrossed in an argument with Michael Rowland Daffodil.

  “I’m telling you,” Michael Rowland Daffodil said, “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Oh, no, of course you haven’t, that wouldn’t be like you to reveal yourself this early, you could let me know all about your secrets just yet, could you, now?”

  “Space Chicken?” Dave said at he approached. The Cockerel’s feathers were falling out. He was pale and pink, his skin showing through what was once a rich and thick coat. “What’s happening?”

  “Dave?” His eyes were manic, red and bloodshot. “You’re here just in time, of course, for I have caught him in the act, discovered the secret, this treacher's going down this time, he thinks he can get away with destruction, but he won’t, I’ve captured him now.”

  “Space Chicken, what are you talking about? This man’s done nothing wrong.”

  “Thank you, Dave,” said Michael Rowland Daffodil. “I’ve been trying to tell him.”

  “What’s your name? Mike, was it?”

  “Michael Rowland Daffodil!” the Space Chicken squawed. “Not Mike. Never Mike!”

  “Why not?”

  “I quite like it,” said Mike.

  “You stay out of this!” the Space Chicken roared.

  “Space Chicken,” Dave said sternly. “You need to stop this. You’ve become isolated. You need to communicate with other people. Thinking to yourself is important, but you need to listen to other people.”

  “Why listen to other people? They’ll only lead you astray.”

  Dave’s eyes sadden slightly. “I know. I know people lead you astray. But you can’t ignore everyone. Otherwise you become this. People lead you astray, but you need a halfway house. You can listen to other people and evaluate their views. Listen to everyone, but you don’t have to agree with everyone. Just don’t cut civilisation out.”

  “Civilisation tells me that people aren’t equal, when I know they are. Everyone is just a mind, and there need be no hierarchy in that. Rich people aren’t born with superior minds. Everyone, of every race, wealth and species is born with a mind the same. They are all born open to new ideas and to beauty and to love. Society beats that out of them. If I say everyone is equal, I get told I’m a lunatic. And there’s so much stigma behind that. So many people using foolish labels to discredit arguments. I feel the pain of the world. And people make excuses. Civilisation attempts to justify the suffering, by saying lies like that people feel pain differently. Like one person’s death is any less significant than another’s. So when people tell me Michael Rowland Daffodil is innocent, when I know he’s not, why on Glix should I believe them? That’s why I’ve kidnapped him.”

  “You’re not being rational.”

  “Then you’re like the rest of them, telling me people aren’t equal.”

  “I know everyone is equal. I believe that. But Mike is innocent until proven guilty. He may be a good man.”

  “I agree with you, Space Chicken,” said Mike. “Not everyone is treated equally. Different species, genders and lovers are mistreated. And I will not stop in my efforts to end this injustice until the day I die or until everyone everyone acknowledges that everyone everywhere is equal. Hopefully the latter will come sooner. But I have done nothing wrong. I shouldn’t be held hostage for your anger and mistrust of the world. So many people out there are corrupt and dishonest. You just need to find the good people and find the good in people. I’m like you, lost and alone. But Dave, Fred Jr, Clint, Clein, you and I are good people, trying to make the flawed world perfect. Won’t you let me help you, not suffer for you?”

  “See,” Dave said. “He’s done nothing wrong. Don’t cut off your beak to spite your face. Don’t cut off your friends to spite our race. We’re good people. You can’t trust everyone. But when you find someone worth trusting, you need to cling to them and use them as your shield away from society’s harm.”

  “You’re right.” The Space Chicken fell to his knees. He lay down on the floor and took in the world once more. "Anyone becomes a criminal when left with no sensible voices. There are very few sensible voices left to listen to, what with people valuing the self before equality and compassion; thus, the world becomes ridden with criminals. It's a perfect circle."

  "Am I a sensible voice, Space Chicken?"

  "Sometimes, but I don't always know I can trust you. You don't care about any animals so much as you care about humans."

  "Well, naturally. Humans are people and I'm a human person."

  "And it's that sort of idiotic rhetoric which drives me into insanity."

  "But, it's true. I'm a sensible voice to listen to and I say that's the case, so it must be true."

  "How can I know whether or not you're a sensible voice, unless you're saying something I agree with. And how do I know what to agree with unless I listen to a sensible voice. It's an unsolvable paradox, and not one Quack can fix."

  "Why doesn't Quack write a book saying what's right or wrong?"

  "He tried that; it didn't work. So long as someone found one little element to quibble with, they dismissed the whole work. He went through listing groups of people who he considered equal, as is everyone. He said everyone's equal continually throughout the work, but aimed to list people as a rhetoric device to help readers endlessly grasp the concept. He ended up missing off one or two groups of people and was dismissed as racist by some and used as an excuse for racism by others. You know how it is. Anything other-worldly and not fully understood evokes the very huma
n notion to fear."

  "So, how can we know what's right or wrong?"

  "We can't. There are no set guidelines for us and we have to make up our own minds."

  "Why not search for something you strive for and stick to it?"

  The Space Chicken thought about this. "I aim for equality. I want everyone treated well and given all the rights they deserve and require, regardless of where they were born, what gender they are or are acquainted with, and what species they are. I prize equality above all else."

  "Okay. So strive for that."

  "But you've seen what happens. I want equality and am left on my own, so I become this monster. I can only work towards my goal knowing there are others who agree with me."

  "Then work with me. Work with all of us. Together we'll make a world where everyone's equal and fix the problems we encounter. We won;t stop in our quest until everything's perfect."

  "You don't get it. You believe your aims are more important than everyone else's. You believe that because you were born a human, rather than a beetle or a slug or a goat, you are more important than everyone else. You may value equality, but you still consider this a side issue in comparison to your own comfort in where you're located."

  "I don't."

  "All people are equal, no matter what. No exclusions, Dave, only complete, perfect equality is good enough."

  "I understand. I see, Space Chicken. I'm not as selfish as you think I am. I do value equality. I just need other people to help me. No-one can fully exist in any level of comfort on their own. I need people like Clint, Clein and you, and even Michael Rowland Daffodil, though I barely know him yet, to make me a good, compassion person. Don't judge me before I had a chance to open myself up to judgement."

  "Okay. I'm sorry. I shouldn't call you selfish."

  The Space Chicken looked around at the desolate and hopeless landscape.

  "Now, shall we get started on crafting utopia?”

  Chapter 45

  Arthur Cardigan revelled in his fame. They loved him in Gaul. Quack had looked through notes to find another task tantamount to restructuring the politics of a country. He found that Arthur needed to bury a lettuce.

  “Please run that one by me again.”

  “I’m not sure why,” Quack said. “And I can’t explain it. But I’ve got it here in My notes that you need to bury a turnip.”

  “No, a lettuce.”

  “You just buried a lettuce down by the Nord coast. Next, you need to bury a turnip.”

  “Anywhere specific?”

  “Yes. There’s a mossy patch in the middle of Foxchester.”

  Arthur found this location and also managed to find the turnip. It’s amazing how many items at a market can talk.

  Foxchester was a quaint town, with grey and buff decorative buildings, and a sloping high street which climaxed in a large mossy protrusion at the centre of its self-devised plaza.

  “So what I’m doing here,” Arthur explained to the turnip he had just bought, as he placed it in a hole he had just dug in the moss patch, “is handing you over to another possessor.”

  ‘Sure, whatever, just shovel compost onto my face.’

  “Where is your face?” Arthur asked.

  Then the thoughts came back. Not the thoughts about the turnip or Quack, but objective thoughts about himself. The thoughts about his life and legacy and the horror of what was to become of him.

  ‘What do you mean, where is my face? It’s right ‘ere where I’m talking to you from. Or are you mental, or summin’?’

  Arthur furrowed his brow and held the turnip in front of him. “Tell me, are you supposedly one of the smartest creatures on Glix?”

  ‘Me, sir? No, sir. The other bits are all righ’, though.’

  “The other bits?”

  ‘Of course. You didn’t think it was just me, did you?’

  “I don’t understand.”

  ‘I am a vegetable. A nat’ral plant product, injected with the presence of a mind. ‘Ere are many others like me, but I am an individual.’

  “I don’t understand. I’m burying you so that you can absorb the being, the life and the culture of Foxchester.”

  ‘Yes. You ob’vously do ge’ i’, don’t you? But a great person ain’t made by just seein’ one town. Well, perhaps if they study the cultures of different towns… But ‘snot ‘bout travel ‘s’bout knowledge. A genius don’ come from knowin’ one fact. You’ve got to know everything about a country if you want to know anything about it. Y’ kno’ ‘at all righ’, don’ you?’

  “Don’t use commas and apostrophes next to each other; I get confused and think you’ve just splashed ink on a page.”

  ‘You confused by me? I’m a turnip. How much more basic a life form can you get?’

  “Actually, a turnip isn’t a life form itself, but part of a plant.”

  ‘See wh’ I mean? I don’ even know wha’ genus I am.’

  “Again, ‘genus’ is a group referring to a whole organism. A plant is part of a genus, but an individual turnip holds no position in this scheme—”

  ‘Quack Sock, if I don’ know this stuff, ‘ow can I be ‘spected to be one of the smar’es’ bein’s? The jam’s quite intelligent an’ we got a pretty wise pota’o.’

  “Don’t tell me I’ve got to find those as well.”

  ‘Course not. You gotta hide ‘em.’

  It stung again. The sharp pain of reality. Arthur knew it was just his future, but it hurt so much just to remember he was alive and would have to live it.

  “Oh, I have to track down a Potato as well.”

  ‘It’s a potato, not a Potato.’

  “Where is it?”

  ‘D’you know Carpe Yolu?’

  “Yes. I’ve been there many times. It’s got a good library there. But, then again, where hasn’t? Everywhere worthwhile has a good library. Yes, I love Carpe Yolu. I’d be happy to locate a potato there.”

  ‘Luvly place is Carpe Yolu,’ the turnip said. ‘The potato’s in Borg.’

  Chapter 46

  Clint and Clein stared in amazement at the shoot. Or perhaps at the Shoot.

  “How does it work?”

  “Well,” said David Gratton II, “the Fez is one great life source. It’s rarely considered this way, but hope is a form of life. I’d say killing hope is equal to extinguishing lives. The Fez gives people hope, and provides them with pleasure and reason in their lives. Given the great elixir that is the Fez, it’s no wonder that it’s possible to grow a seed from it. After all, you can grow cress from wet toilet paper.”

  “I usually discard my toilet paper once it’s been used,” said Clint.

  “That’s what I meant,” said Two. “Wait, did you say ‘usually’?”

  “You’re saying a tree can grow from anywhere?” Clint asked.

  “Trees are the purest and most powerful form of life. Trees can live forever if nothing kills them.”

  “You can hardly call cress a tree, can you?”

  “The point remains,” David Gratton II said, “that many plants are immortal. This one appears to be particularly significant, having taken its life force from that greatest of all immortalities – the Fez.”

  “The Fez isn’t immortal. It will end and die when some wretch steals its innards. Of course, that wretch will be me.”

  “Or me,” said Clint.

  The three looked at the sprout for some time further.

  “You know,” said David Gratton II, “the tribes of the Triangle Islands believe the seeds of plants – such as acorns or conkers – are representative of the punctuation we use. Every time someone uses a full stop or comma correctly, a seed falls and life grows. But when they’re used out of place, the Trianglers believe, a plant dies. They were the first people to recognise a link between language and the natural world.”

  “And – by the looks of it, Two – Clint is the first person to recognise a link between the sea and hunger,” Clein said, as he went to join Clint’s picnic.

  �
�Actually, that link has been established for a long time,” said Two, but the old man was ignored.

  Clint and Clein pulled some flesh sandwiches out their rucksacks. “Do you want one?” they asked Two.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m a vegetarian.”

  “What is it with people being vegetarian?”

  “It’s a very healthy diet.”

  “So I hear.”

  “You live longer if you’re a vegetarian.”

  “How long have you been alive?”

  “I’d rather not going into it.”

  “But surely it’s not good to limit what you eat.”

  “It isn’t; I’m not.” David Gratton II pulled out a large sandwich filled with all sorts of cheese, cucumbers, tomatoes and lettuce, all of which was drizzled with mayonnaise.

  “That doesn’t look healthy.”

  “It’s not too slimming, I’ll grant you. But I could drink a bottle of cooking oil and still have a better diet than one who eats a flesh steak.”

  Chapter 47

  Trouble in paradise?

  Give it a rest.

  youre a vegetarian theyre not it doesnt add up well

  I hate vegetables!!!!!!!

  It’s nothing to do with vegetables.

  Yesitdoes:it’sgot‘vegetable’inthename.

  I just don’t want to hurt anyone.

  Wuss.

  man up and take some ownership

  Do!!!!! (!!!!!) you even have a sense of pride?!!!?????!!!!!!

  Whyareyousuchapatheticwimp?

  You need to kill!!!! to survive!!!!!!!

  Where is the logic in that?

  shut up number two

  You’re worthless.

  You’reinferior,remember?

  R-e-m-e-m-b-e-r-?

  remember

  Leave me alone. I am David Gratton II and am proud to be me.

  You have nothing to be proud of.

  youll disagree with people all your life

  You always find someone who hates you.

  B-e-c-a-u-s-e e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e h-a-t-e-s y-o-u a-n-y-w-a-y-.

  Why do you (!!) even bother!!!!!!!????!!!

  It’ll get better. I don’t need to listen to you. I know I’ll get better.

  Whatever helps you cry less.

  Chapter 48

  “Mike, I am deeply sorry for having kidnapped you,” said the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack. “I hope you can forgive me.”

  “Well, it wasn’t very pleasant,” Mike began, “but what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t forgive you?”