This is a holiday special, though the holiday in question is somewhat vague. I don’t think we can call it Christmas, or Yule, or even Agnostica. I think it’s just ‘winter,’ since this is after all a myth about winter. This is a special, in part, because it steps away from the normal mission of these our myths of the modern world.

This is, in short, a recognizable myth to a lot of you. A myth of the ancient world. But I like to think that the retelling makes it a bit modern in other ways. And if it’s recognizable, I also like to think there are ways that it isn’t.

It concerns the changing of the seasons. Which sometimes means the changing of autumn to winter. And sometimes means changes of another kind entirely. It’s called Prosperina.

I hope you like it.

And yes, this should mean we’re back. Thank you for your patience, all.

Prosperina
A Mythology of the Modern World Holiday Special
by
Eric A. Burns

Her name was Prosperina. Or perhaps it was Proserpina. Or Persephone. Or Libera or Kore. It all depends on who you speak to, really. The important thing is she was young, and she was vibrant, and her parents were loaded, like a lot of pretty young things in a lot of cities.

And like a lot of them, she wasn’t terribly happy with what was after all a pretty privilaged life.

Oh, she knew she didn’t have it that badly, really. She knew she wasn’t hungry, or poor. She had a roof over her head. Sometimes she admitted to herself that she had a lot more than almost everyone. She was a goddess, after all, and that’s not nothing.

But it’s hard, sometimes. Especially when your mother is Life itself.

Her father was the King of the Gods, at least at that time. In more modern times, my understanding is they’ve experimented with various systems. But back then they liked Kings, and he was actually pretty good at it. But he was a womanizer at best and he didn’t really do birth control so he had a lot of kids running around. Prosperina was just one of them, and one he didn’t have to worry about. Not with her mother.

Call her mother Demeter, or Ceres, or Kabeiriia if you will. It doesn’t matter, really. What’s important is she was Life itself. Growth and abundance. The good harvest — or the bad. Without her, there was no living, no warmth, no green things, no nothing. And that’s a pretty good racket to be in, if you think about it. She was rich, and powerful, and used to getting her way. Prosperina was her eldest daughter, and she knew exactly what Prosperina was going to do with her life. What job she would have, what part of the family business she’d help take care of, all of it, really.

It was a small part, really. Prosperina’s mother didn’t want to overburden her eldest (and, everyone knew, favorite) child, and there were so many important details to look after as it was. Really, it was easier for her mother to just take care of them herself. Which is the problem with dynastic businesses where everyone involved is immortal. You never actually die off or retire, which means the next generation never takes over.

As a side note, why did Paradise Island even need a ‘Princess’ Diana, since Hippolyta was never going to die or even get bored with the whole thing anyway? Also, where did their textiles industry come from? But I digress.

This state of affairs went on for several decades. Which is also important to bear in mind. At the time this whole situation went down? Prosperina was somewhere around retirement age in a human. But when you’re immortal your age is less a function of time and more a function of definition. And right then, Prosperina was defined by ‘daughter,’ not by anything she did. So she remained a young woman.

Oh, there was that fling with Adonis, but that led to issues, and Prosperina’s mother put her foot down. And that meant no more dating, period.

So yeah, Propserina was as prosperious and fortunate as her name implied. Still, she wasn’t exactly happy about it all, and it’s hard to fault her for that. So she took to wandering the back alleys and streets of the city, finding the right bars to hang out in. The clubs her Mom wouldn’t be caught dead in. It is also safe to say she wrote self-absorbed poetry for a while, and used her share of black eyeliner. Not during the planting season, obviously. There was too much to do then — she was involved in the planting, even if everything she did was superfluous. But during the growth of the summer or the harvest of autumn, she was at loose ends. And then of course planting came again.

On this night, it was raining in the city, which made her eyeliner run just a touch. It was midsummer, which meant she had nothing to do. The word had gotten around about the whole Adonis thing, so Prosperina couldn’t even find a one night stand to save her immortal life.

It was a hole in the wall, in a bad part of the city, though there was really no danger to Prosperina. Everybody had to eat, or so they said, and everyone knew her mother was insistant. And besides, she was a goddess, and not that many people were stupid. Still, she kept to herself and tried to keep people from figuring out who she was. She went into the bar and she wandered to the back. She slipped into the end booth. Up on a stage that was little more than a stoop, a man in a white suit and hat plucked a banjo from behind sunglasses. He sang in a voice well acquainted with cigarettes. He sang of death and the blues, and Prosperina drank a Long Island Iced Tea.

Few people know the peninsula was named for the drink, not the other way around. But now you’re one of them, so feel good about that. But I digress.

She sipped her drink. The man on the stage crooned into the old mike. “I want to be seduced… let a woman talk to me suggestively… wanna know that she’d like me to be with her tomorrow morning — drinkin’ hot jasmine tea….”

“Story of all our lives, huh?”

Prosperina glanced over at the table closest to her. A man was sitting there, a tall beer and a whiskey set in front of him. He was handsome, if you liked that kind of thing. His hair was somewhat unruly. And his coat was black.

“I wouldn’t know.” Prosperina said, and took out a cigarette. She held it to her lips, and the man leaned over to light it. She breathed in deeply, and exhaled with a long breath.

“Cloves.” The man wrinkled his nose. “Smoke enough of those, you’ll sound like Leon up there. What’s your story, anyway?”

Prosperina shrugged. “I’ll let you know when I’m told the next chapter.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, your mother can be quite a bitch.”

Prosperina arched an eyebrow. “Not many people get away with calling her that.”

He shrugged. “She’s nothing to me, friend.” He took the shot, then followed it with a long pull off the beer.

“Hard drinker,” Prosperina said, shifting to watch him.

He shrugged. “A beer and a bump. Nothing big — a poor man’s Boilermaker.”

She smirked. “In five minutes you’ll be calling it Texas Tea. So who are you, anyway?”

He half-smiled, nodding to the waitress, who nodded back and went to fetch him more liquor. “Dis Pater,” he said. “Or just Dispater. Friends call me Dis.”

Prosperina grinned. “Dis Pater? Rich Father? You sound like a pimp.”

Dis shrugged, grinning.

Prosperina leaned forward, propping herself on her arms. “You sit at the big boy’s table. Major sphere. The Dead, right?”

Dis chuckled. “Death. The Underworld. Wealth. I’m also a mean hand at debugging crufty source code.”

“Is that why you’re not worried about insulting my mother?”

He shrugged. “Nothing to me. The Underworld handles its own food.” He half-smiled. “That seems to appeal to you.”

Prosperina took a drag off the cigarette, breathing out the clove smoke. “It doesn’t break my heart.”

Dis’s smile grew smug. “Why don’t you join me, and let me buy you a drink?”

Prosperina leaned back. “Why don’t you join me, and let me buy you one?”

Dis chuckled. “I wouldn’t say no.”

In the background, the singer growled. “I might demur politely, falter slightly, if she starts to fondle my knee… but I’m relatively certain I’d compromise if I know me… I want to be seduced, I want a woman to talk to me suggestively — I want to hear her say she’ll be with me tomorrow morning, drinking hot jasmine tea.”

Dis spent a lot of his time in the Underworld, of course, but when he was up in the city, he and Prosperina spent a lot of time drinking in a lot of dives. They got to second base a few times, especially in dance clubs, but even if Dispater had nothing to fear from Prosperina’s mother, there was no good reason to tempt fate. He’d heard the rumors about the Adonis situation too, after all.

“So what the Hell are we doing?” he asked finally, leaning back on a rooftop looking at the night sky.

“Smokin’ a joint and staring,” Prosperina said. “If you want to try something, I don’t think there’d be a thing over it, tonight.”

“No, what are we doing?” Dis rolled onto his side, looking at her. “I mean, is this a thing, or am I just the guy you vent to because no one else would understand?”

Prosperina breathed out blue smoke. “Don’t be like that,” she said. “There’s nothing to be done.”

“You know, other people have relatlonships.”

“Other people aren’t me.”

“So that’s it? You’re done? She won, and you got nothing to try?”

Prosperina turned to look at him. “Where do I go, huh? What do I do? Where do I stop being her daughter? How do I get out from underneath that?”

Dis looked at her. “That depends. How much do you like me?”

“You clean up pretty well.”

“Not good enough. Do you love me?”

There was a pause.

“‘Rinny?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I love you.”

“Enough to marry me?”

She stared. “What?”

“Do you love me enough to marry me?” Dis laid back, looking up at the sky. “I’m serious here.”

“Yes,” she said, softly.

“Then you have an option.”

“Marry you? Trade being a daughter to being a wife?”

Dis snorted. “That’s what you call being Queen of the Underworld?” He looked at her. “Beyond how I feel about you, I need help. I need something more than I can give. Things have gotten too complex. I need something — someone who I can trust and who has the authority to whip things into shape.”

“What sort of things?”

“Infrastructure. Health and human services. Not to mention food distribution.”

“The dead eat?”

“The dead eat their food, yeah.”

She frowned, taking another hit. “So… you’re saying you’d make me a partner?”

“Yeah.”

“And I’d have work? Real work? Important work.”

“Yeah.”

She looked at a star, high in the sky. Bright enough to cut through the smog. “Do you love me?”

There was another pause.

“Yeah,” he said. “I love you.”

“Okay then.” She half-smiled. “But getting out will be a problem. We go to the transit authority, people are going to want to know why I’m leaving town. Someone will call one of my mother’s cronies…..”

“Yeah. And I don’t think you’ll fit in a diplomatic pouch.”

She snorted. “Not without a serious diet.”

“It could be a nasty scene.”

“And that’ll be the end.” She looked back up.

“You’re an adult,” he said. “More than an adult. You’re a goddess. You make your own choices, Prosperina.”

“I know. But she’s too powerful. And she won’t listen.”

He nodded. “Hrm. Can you leave the city on your own?”

“It’s summer. I could go on a day outing with some of the nymphs.”

“To Leucippe Meadow? By the IHOP on Route Sixteen?”

Prosperina snickered. “Will we get pancakes?”

“Nope. I’ll pick you up there.”

“And then carry me off to a booty call?”

“No.”

She blinked. “No?”

“I’ll bring you down to the Underworld, but we’ll take our time to court. You can get to work, get yourself established — decide if you like me beyond rebelling. And if you do….”

“Then we’ll see.”

“Yeah. We’ll see.”

The nymphs were happy to go with her to Leucippe Meadow. They were moderately vapid creatures — some nymphs have depth, but these didn’t aspire to that. “–so cute,” one was saying. “I swear, he gives me a look and I just melt.”

“Prossey, tell Aglaope she’s insane,” Peisinoe said. “That guy’s just gutter trash and she should know it.”

Prosperina shrugged. “Maybe, but if gutter trash makes her happy, who’s to say she’s wrong?”

“We are,” Thelxiepeia giggled, and the others — even Aglaope — giggled with her.

“Yeah,” Prosperina said. “Of course.” She was wearing a white dress belted with a flowered belt, walking and waiting.

“Guys,” Peisinoe said, frowning. “Do you hear something?”

“Like a rumble? Or an Earthquake?” Thelxiepeia was frowning. “Guys… maybe we should get back. It may rain or–”

“I’m not going back,” Prosperina said, softly.

“Oh Jesus, I do not want to get rained on,” Agalaope said. “Come on, let’s get the car and–”

“I’m not going back,” Prosperina said, more loudly.

There was a moment’s shock.

“Wait… you mean… you… you don’t care if you get rained on?” Peisinoe said, softly. Trying to talk herself into it.

“I mean I’m not going back. If you guys want to leave, feel free.”

“Wait. Wait wait wait. You’re running away?” Thelxiepeia said. “Oh God Prossey! You can’t do that! I mean… I mean…” she looked around, fanning the air with her hands in panic.

“What do we tell your mother?” Agalaope said, the panic contagious.

“I don’t care what you tell her,” Prosperina said. “Tell her anything. It doesn’t matter any more.”

“That’s not fair!” Thelxiepeia shouted. “She’s going to blame us! It’s easy for you — no matter what you do she’ll just haul you back home, but she might give us wings or beaks or–”

“Guys!” Peisinoe shouted. “That noise is getting really loud!”

And with a crash and a roar, a gigantic car burst from the ground and thundered down State Route Sixteen. It was a black Cadillac Eldorado with the license plate ETNA on the front. Sleek and finned, like from the fifties, it rumbled with pure black horsepower as it thundered down the road towards the girls.

The nymphs shrieked and ran back, cowering at the edges.

But Prosperina just unbuckled her belt, and tossed it aside. It landed in a nearby pond. She skinned out of the loose dress. Underneath, she wore a white tank top and cutoff jeans. She scooped up her backpack and waited.

The Caddy pulled alongside her. Dis was sitting in the driver’s seat.

“Goin’ my way?” he asked, half-smiling.

“God, I hope so,” Prosperina said, and moved around to the other side of the car. She climed in, tossing the backpack into the back seat, and the car thundered off.

“You sure we can’t pick up where we left off,” she asked as the car plunged into a ditch and then down into a cleft in the very Earth.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I want to too, but we need to let this grow.”

Prosperina snorted. “You have no idea how sick I am of growing things.”

“Then you’re headed in the right direction.”

For six hours, they drove deep into the Earth. They stopped for McDonald’s on the way, of course, but it was Cleftway Service Plaza McDonald’s, so it was way expensive. But finally the car pulled out into a huge cavern, and Prosperina’s eyes went wide.

The city was magnificent. Carved in all directions from the stone itself, with stone spires and building reaching up sometimes thousands of feet, not just close to the cavern roof but sometimes forming a pillar with it. Electric cars whizzed by and the shades of the dead moved from place to place, and a soft white light seemed to suffuse the area. There were plants down here too. Black things, with pale berries, and trees that reached up with thin branches and dark leaves. It was eerie, and it was beautiful.

The most beautiful place that Prosperina had ever seen.

It is safe to say, in these times long past, that Prosperina loved Dis Pater, the Wealthy Father, who also goes by other names. But her first love was the great city of the Underworld. The moment the goddess laid eyes on it, she knew this was the place that was meant to be her home. The place where she would make her mark.

The place where she would not be the daughter of the Fertile soil and bounteous harvest. The place where she would not even be the wife of the Lord. It was the place where she would be Prosperina, the Lady of the Underworld, who sat upon one of the twin basalt thrones and rendered wisdom and judgment in measure.

And next to her, Dis smiled slightly. He knew she was the right — the only choice. For his queen, for his wife, for his partner.

The car climbed one of the ramps and took the side bridges, and drove high over the city, heading for the garage and a new life. Or afterlife, depending on how one looked at it.

“This is amazing,” she said, as she looked over her quarters. “How… how did you do all of this?”

“My basic labor pool is the dead. They have all the time in the world and plenty of reason to want something to do.” Dis smiled a bit more. “It is an equitable relationship.”

“I guess so.” She reached for a glossy, deep red apple. “This is just–”

“Don’t.”

Prosperina blinked, looking at Dis. “Huh?”

Dis walked over, scooping the apple up. “You can’t eat the food of the dead,” he said. “Especially the fruit of the dead. It doesn’t fuel life. It fuels death.”

Prosperina cocked her head. “What does that mean?”

“If a living mortal were to eat any of this food — even the tiniest bit — it would destroy him. Kill him instantly. Render even his shade weak for years.” He held the apple cupped in his hand. “For a goddess, it is taking in the substance of Death, of the Underworld into yourself. Part of you would die — even as a Goddess. Every bite would infuse its death essence into you, until finally your divinity itself crumbled and you died. Even a single bite would tie you to the Underworld. Too much, and you could never leave, even if it didn’t kill you.” He looked at her. “There would be… other effects, as well.”

Prosperina arched an eyebrow. “So what do I eat?”

“We’re importing food. You’re not the only one down here who needs to eat the food of the living. We’ll keep you well stocked.” He smiled a bit, and took a bite of the apple. It seemed to snap as he bit.

“It seems like you can eat it,” she said, smiling a bit.

“I’m Death, remember? Food of the living, food of the dead? It’s all good. Sometimes, I like to sauté them together — let them fight it out.”

Prosperina giggled. “I’ll bet you do.”

Dis smirked, looking at her.

“What?”

“You giggled.”

“What?”

“You giggled. I think the City of the Underworld agrees with you.”

Prosperina grinned. “I think you’re right.”

“Settle in first, or get to work?”

“Let’s get to work.”

And so they did. Prosperina settled in with the staff, working most directly with a Chthonic deity name of Hecate who knew secrets ranging from ancient magics to how to convince the Food of the Living vending machine on the 433rd level to give up free Snickers bars. Prosperina also got to know the various shades and other spirits of the dead — to meet the damned and the blessed, and see where each lived and the rules that governed them both. She learned that the tunneling and shaping of the stone never ended — more people died each day, passing across the River Styx through the front gates, in what was then called Psychopomp Docks but which would have other names over the coming eons. She learned about public services and utilities, and how to be firm but fair to those teeming tenants of the world beyond the world.

But of course, this story is not just about Prosperina. After all, we have mentioned Prosperina’s mother often enough that you know she couldn’t be kept out of the story for long. You see, she figured out early on that her daughter was missing. What she could learn from Peisinoe, Aglaope, and Thelxiepeia just made her upset — they didn’t know who had ‘taken’ Prosperina, and they hadn’t tried to intercede. So, as they had worried, she did indeed transform them, remaking them into sirens, winged and beautiful with voices that lured, in hopes that the goddess’s daughter would be lured out — or her kidnapper, anyhow. Later, after the sirens were left to their own devices, they became a rather dangerous menace to navigation. Still later, they would become a moderately popular pop music act. You can figure out which one if you think about it. I’ll wait.

That’s right — them.

Anyhow. The investigation involved many divinities, and sooner or later they worked out where Prosperina might be.

However, during this time… well, all was not well in the land of the living.

Prosperina was in a meeting when it came to a head. “–outline the water reclamation system,” she was saying. “Why we need a sewer for the dead isn’t quite clear to me yet, but I’m willing to accept it. Dale, put together–”

There was a knock on the door frame. Prosperina looked up. “Yes?”

It was Hecate. “Sorry,” she said, a slightly feral smile on her face. “There is someone here to see you.”

“They can wait,” Prosperina said. “We’ve been working to get this ready.”

“He is from the King of the Gods,” she said, her smile not slipping. “And from your mother.”

Prosperina stared for a long moment. She then looked at the shades around the table. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said. “Someone get everyone coffee. None for me — your coffee would stunt my growth.”

The goddesses stepped into the receiving room. Dis Pater wore formal attire, as did the Messenger. “Lady Prosperina,” he said, bowing formally. “I bring the greetings of your father the King of the Gods, and of course your mother, the Lady of the Harvest.”

“I thank you, Master Logios,” Prosperina answered, for in this, the Messenger was acting as the master orator, not the thief or the lord of boundaries. “When you return, please convey my regards.”

“Ah,” Logios said, “but you misunderstand. This is a rescue mission, Lady Prosperina. I am here to save you from the man who stole you from the sunlight and your mother’s boon presence.” The clever lord’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Then you may convey to my mother and the King that I came here of my own free will,” she answered. “At the same time as you convey my regards.”

Logios laughed. “Very good. Very good!” He looked at Dis Pater. “Lord of Hades, you do find a way to make the most interesting enemies.”

“And the most interesting friends,” Dis Pater said, his fingers steepled. “But come, Dolios. Let us dine before you return with your news.”

“It will not be received well,” the messenger said. “They have made it very clear and very public that the pure and kind, warm and loving daughter of our Lady Harvester has been stolen away. There is no room in that for a daughter who wants to stay where she is.”

“That is their problem and yours,” Prosperina said. “I’m happy here.”

“I’m sure you are, Lady,” Logios said. “But the people above aren’t happy. Your mother has withheld her beneficence. Absent it, the fields grow barren. The air is cold. Ice falls, and ice crystals blanket the fields in white powder. Nothing is growing up there, Prosperina. And eventually, all of mankind shall starve.”

“Then someone needs to force my mother to grow up,” Prosperina said. “This is where I live now. I won’t go back to be her favorite pet.”

Logios half-smiled. “As you say, Lady. I will convey your message. I should expect a response, were I you.” He looked at Dis Pater. “Old friend, surely you will see the need.”

“Not terribly,” Dis said, his own slight smile on his face. “Our world has all the food and warmth it needs, quite without the Lady Harvester. I’m sure the world above is an unhappy place right now, but all that means is we’ll have to step up construction efforts to accommodate all the deaths. In the end, you might be put out of a job but I won’t.”

“And were it just I out of a job, then perhaps that would be the end of it,” the messanger said, his smile growing ever so slightly. “But though your kingdom is your domain, old friend, you are not alone in this world. You too have responsibilities. You too must be accountable, and come to reckon.”

“Well then,” Dis said. “I guess we’ll see what response you have for us, won’t we?”

“So you say,” Logios said. “So you say.”

“You’ll have a meal before we go?”

“I’m afraid not. This is an issue that is at least somewhat pressing, and I need to beat the major cleftway traffic. The Styx/Lethe Bridgeway is a bitch if you get caught in rush.”

“We’re working on it.”

“I’m sure you are. Lord. Lady.” He bowed, and then was gone, as swift and silent as a thought not spoken.

The two looked at where the messanger of the gods had stood.

“Well,” Dis said softly.

“How do you think this will play out?” Prosperina asked.

“That depends. If your mother is willing to destroy the planet out of grief–”

Prosperina snorted. “Try spite. Or a denial or reality.”

Dis shrugged. “Like I said. If she’s willing to destroy all of humanity, then we’re going to have everyone on our asses.”

“The other gods?”

“The gods, the spirits, the nymphs, the personifications. Everyone.” Dis looked at her. “There are… logistical difficulties in fighting a war against the entire massed force of creation.”

“Would we win?”

Dis’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Unquestionably. But as the messenger so dutifully reminded me, I do have responsibilities.”

“Yeah.” Prosperina looked down. “We all do.”

It didn’t take long for a response to come. Dis Pater was summoned to a meeting of the full assembly, the high table of the Gods. Prosperina didn’t pretend that was a good sign. But before he left, for the first time since they had descended into the underworld, she kissed him. And she watched him leave, driving his Eldorado. It made a statement, or so Prosperina was told.

She was sitting in the dining hall when the messanger returned. He was flanked by Hecate, who seemed unusually somber.

“Master Logios,” Prosperina said, softly.

“I bring the greetings of your father the King of the Gods, your mother the Lady of the Harvest…. and the assembled Lords of Olympic Creation, Kore Maiden of the Planting,” Logios said in response.

“Does that include the Lord of the Underworld?”

“He is in the assembly, Lady. And it is the assembled forces and the will of the King I bear now. And it is a will that may not be appealed, nor denied.”

Prosperina nodded, rising. She walked over to the tables where the food was laid out. It was buffet style. On one table there was the food of the living. Meats, cheeses, breads, vegetables and fruits — not to mention Aeacus’s underworld-famous three alarm chili. On another, there were the dark fruits and foods of the dead. Glossy, shimmering with secrets and the quiet places. Blackened meats, dark, rich breads and broths, roots and tubers, the glistening, hauntingly beautiful fruits of the underworld — and not to mention, Aeacus’s underworld-famous four alarm chili.

Aeacus always claimed, for the record, that the dark meats of the dead made vastly better chili, and besides shades were willing to have way hotter habaneros in their food.

Prosperina paused at the food of the living. “Would you like something, Lord?” she asked. “It’s really quite exquisite.”

“The King of the Gods has decreed that the world and humanity is more important than the desires of the Lord of the Underworld,” Logios said.

“Then why does he not order my mother to restore fertility to the world?” Prosperina replied.

“He has. She won’t. And he has no means to force her.”

“But he can force Dis Pater to give me up?”

“No.” The messenger looked somber. “In the end, he can only decree. And it becomes a question of who blinks first. Of who sees the broader picture more than their own desires.” Logios picked up a slice of melon from the table of the living, and took a small bite. “This really is good,” he said.

“Dis Pater has dominion over the Underworld,” Prosperina said. “No one can take that from him.”

“No one can, and no one has,” Hecate said, smoothly. “But consider, my Lady. To the King was given the Sky. To the Lord of the Seas the depths and waters. To our Master the Underworld and all that lies within. But the King was granted dominion over the whole, specifically so he could adjudicate in disputes of this nature. If our Master were to challenge — to refuse to accede… it would not simply be this dispute that would be broken. It would be the covenant. The peace. Eventually, that leads to war between the Gods themselves.”

“And to the end of humanity, and in the end that is too high a price to pay for your wishes or happiness,” Logios said, not unkindly. “We all have our duties.”

“So. In the end my mother gets what she wants because she will willingly destroy the entire planet if she doesn’t, and somehow that becomes Dis Pater’s responsibility instead of her’s. Is that what you’re saying.”

“That is indeed what I am saying,” the messenger said. “Sometimes, we have to compromise.”

“We do. She doesn’t, apparently.”

“Apparently.”

Prosperina sighed. “So,” she half-whispered. “You’re here to take me back.”

“I am, Lady.”

Prosperina turned. One of the accents of the table of the dead were asphodel flowers — a bloom and herb that the dead prized greatly. There were rumors that Aeacus simmered his meat in the herb when making his chili. The vehemence of his denials seemed to confirm those rumors.

“Lady?” Hecate asked.

“Dolios,” Prosperina said, smoothly, now using the epithet of the schemer and planner, the thief — not Logios the messenger, nor even Diaktoros the courier of the Gods. “The core of all this trouble and all this pain is my mother, yes?”

“Yes, Lady?” the thief answered. The timbre of his voice had changed. He knew that Prosperina had a plot, and though it might cause the end of humanity itself, the swift thief of the Gods did so love a good plot.

“And because she is stubborn, and because everyone else can compromise, she doesn’t have to compromise. Yes?”

“Oh yes, my Lady.”

“That’s what I thought.” Prosperina looked at the bloom… and then let her eyes play over the fruit and food of the dead. “I think….”

“Lady?” Hecate asked. She sounded… anticipatory. The ancient power didn’t know what was happening, but if the thief loved a good plot, Hecate just loved when authority’s plans got screwed over.

“I think it is time my mother learn what it’s like to face a situation she can’t out-stubborn.” Prosperina’s voice was soft. She was glad Dis Pater was away. If he were not, the god would certainly protest, and he could be so reasonable — even while being so contrary in other ways — that she might even have listened.

The two other deities said nothing. Prosperina looked over the fruit, before smiling and reaching her hand out. A glossy, magenta/black pomegranate, still in the skin, sat plump and ready, heavy in her hand as she lifted it. Perfect.

“Lady…” Dolios’s voice trailed off. He understood. It was, in the end, a scheme.

“I love pomegranate’s flavor, don’t you?” Prosperina said, her voice still soft as she worked open the peel and husk. Her hands were delicate but strong, as befit a planter. She did not even burst any of the seeds.

“Yes, Lady,” Hecate said in a hush, as the sweet seeds, the tiny fruits of the dead within the peel were revealed.

Prosperina looked at them — the normally dark purple fruit rich and almost black. This was food to sustain death, not life. There was no mistaking it.

She did not hesitate. She plucked a single seed, and slowly slipped it between her lips. She bit down, and felt the skin of the fruit burst, the juice’s rich dark flavor spreading over her tongue, the seed crunching on her teeth. She swallowed, her eyes closed, and she felt it flow into her, and become a part of her… felt that hint of death, of the end, of destruction and dust that no god ever need fear willingly spread, touching each of her cells. She shivered as her nature and the new element warred, and inevitably colluded.

She took a second… and then a third… the others were not the seminal experience of the first, but they deepened and strengthened this new bond. And she knew then, as she had the third spread through her, and her bones and blood became chill, that if she had twelve seeds — just twelve seeds of this one pomegranate — that would be enough. She would be given all into death, and her divinity would fail, and she would be nothing but a shade, of no use to Dis Pater, and the world would die at her mother’s hand.

Very well. That gave her a limit.

In the end, she chose six. They were heady and potent, and she felt them working on her insides, their nature flowing through her veins and changing the air in her lungs and seeping into her spine, her bones, her brain. She closed her eyes even as they clouded, and when she reopened them, six seeds now a part of her, she saw the world slightly differently. She looked at her hands, and saw that her skin had become more pale — not wan, but almost like she had become harder. Like marble. The marble of a tombstone or memorial, or a statue raised to remember.

“I’m cold,” she said, in a voice filled with whispers. “Fetch me some robes.”

“Yes, Lady,” Hecate said, and Prosperina could hear adoration in her assistant’s voice. In this moment, Hecate would be her friend forevermore, and it is said that devotion lasts to this very day, in this very modern world.

The robes were comfortable and warm. And wearing them, Prosperina’s transformation seemed complete. She had been lovely before. She was beautiful now. Regal. And her eyes glittered, reflecting things only she could see.

“I am ready, Diaktoros,” she said to the messenger. “Let’s go. I don’t want to get stuck in midtown.”

And the messenger led her to the Acura he’d parked in one of the upper garages, and the two drove up, into the light. And Prosperina smiled as she looked at her city — her beloved, beloved city — because she knew that she would be back.

“–has happened to her!” Mother’s voice was shrill, and she slammed her hand on an end table as she shouted.

The surgeon of the Gods was a good looking man, with a warm smile and demeanor that made him something of a playboy. It was hardly his only job — he was a musician on the side and also had something to do with the sun not going out. It’s complicated. But right at the moment he was there as a doctor, and he wore the white coat to prove it. “She ate some of the food of the dead,” he said, smoothly. “It’s a part of her nature now.”

“So she’s half dead?” Mother demanded.

“No. She’s not any dead,” the doctor said, soothingly. “But her nature has changed. She is now balanced between the upper and under worlds, perfectly. In order to survive, she will need to spend equal time in both places. Otherwise, she will weaken and she will die.”

“Fix it!”

“I can’t.”

“That wasn’t a request!”

“And that wasn’t a refusal,” the doctor said. “I’m not saying I won’t heal her. I’m saying I can’t heal her. Her nature has changed. There’s no cure. There’s nothing to be done for it.”

The King of the Gods looked at the two, then walked over to Prosperina. Dis Pater stood nearby. He wore a slight smile, though Prosperina had seen pain in his eyes when the Lord of Hades had realized what she had done. Well, as much as she loved Dis, she hadn’t done this for him. “Hello, daughter,” he said, quietly.

“Hello, father,” she answered. Her voice was rich. Cultured. Maturity was in her bearing now. “You haven’t called me daughter for a long time.”

He chuckled. “Well, you know. When your children number into three digits–”

“Three digits,” his wife snorted. She was not a fan of his freewheeling ways. “Try four.”

“I understand, father,” Prosperina said. She smiled a small smile. “You’re not happy with me.”

“It doesn’t matter if I am or if I’m not. Why?”

“Because–”

“Why? Why?” Mother’s storm had been turned towards the pair now. “I’ll tell you why! It was him!” She stabbed a finger at Dis Pater. “He couldn’t get what he wanted, so he poisoned her!”

“It wasn’t poison, mother,” Prosperina said, with a slight smile. “It is just… a different kind of nourishment.”

“Besides. You know I’m innocent,” Dis Pater said. He seemed… amused. Almost distant. “I was up here, with you.”

“You planned it! You…” she whirled, a finger stabbing at the messenger. “And you! Did you see her do this?”

“Yes, Lady,” the messenger said. He was enjoying this. “I and the Lady Hecate were on hand when your daughter chose–”

“You tricked her,” Mother hissed. “Do you hear me! You tricked her! This monster kidnaps her — rapes her–”

“Mother, stop this. We haven’t been intimate. We won’t until we go back. After the wedding.”

“The what?”

“Oh yes,” Prosperina said, rising. “He courted me. I accepted. We are to be wed. And if you keep this up I won’t invite you.”

“This is unacceptable! This is all unacceptable! If it is not resolved, then there shall be no break, no relief, no crops or food or life for–”

“Oh shut up,” the King snapped. “I’m sick of this childishness.”

Mother was shocked into silence.

“You demanded we find her. We found her. You demanded she be returned. She’s been returned. We’ve done everything you asked. Now you’re demanding what — that we undo time? That we change what is to something else? Get it through your thick head — there is no going back from this. And if you withhold your blessings from the world now, I swear by the River Styx and by the blade I slew my father with you will come to a reckoning for every life lost! Do you hear me?”

Mother stared at him. “He–” she started.

“Dis Pater complied with your wishes. He is not culpable now.” The King turned to the doctor. “What does this mean?”

“The Lady Prosperina must spend half her time in the Underworld, from this point forward. She shall spend half of each year in that darkness, and half in the light. Otherwise, she cannot endure.”

“Perhaps I shall alternate weeks,” Prosperina said. “That should keep everyone happy, I should think. It will give me a chance to get my work done–”

“No,” Mother snapped. “I swore an oath you all heard. Every minute my daughter was in the Underworld would be a minute my blessing was withdrawn from the Earth. I could not break that oath now if I wanted to! I will not break that oath now! She has been abused and I will see justice!”

“She has been abused?” Dis Pater asked. “Or you have? It’s hard to be thwarted, isn’t it?”

“You think you’re so clever,” the goddess snapped. “I will spread the world. I will tell all who can hear what has been done. This crime will echo through the ages — this kidnap, this rape of my daughter shall become a part of the enduring legacy of the ages! And the trick — the hideous trick you and this Hecate and this thief have done–”

“Fine, mother,” Prosperina said, rising smoothly. Her robes added dignity to her. Her movements were graceful. And as she approached her mother, all in the room could see she hadn’t just changed in nature. Where she had seemed girlish, even after decades, she was now a woman. All the more beautiful. And as strong as her mother, and able to look at her on eye level.

“Prossey,” Mother half-whispered.

“If you are going to curse the Earth every time I’m away, then clearly we must plan for it. I will spend half the year in the Underworld. There is no choice about that, and the sooner you accept that the less embarrassing this will be for everyone.” She looked her mother in the eye. “I will leave after the Harvest. So all of humanity must learn to prepare — to plant more in the spring, tend better in the summer, and then harvest well, because as I leave your curse will take the fields and plants. The trees will sleep, their leaves shriveling and falling. The land will go barren, and ice and snow will fall. And then in the spring, not long before the planting you have always insisted I help with, I will return and so too can your blessings return. And I shall remain until the harvest comes once more. Will that satisfy you? Or must the world die and you be outcast before you accept that sometimes you don’t get what you want?”

Her mother looked at her daughter — at the woman before her. “You are my daughter,” she whispered.

“Yes. But I am also the Queen of the Underworld, given equal rank to the man who will be my husband, and I will brook no more disrespect.”

Mother’s chin raised up. “I will tell everyone what has happened.”

“Tell them whatever you like, Mother. It won’t matter in the Underworld.”

She looked her eldest daughter in the eye. And finally, for the first time in Prosperina’s memory — indeed, for the first time in any of their memories — she looked down, and turned away. “Fine,” she said. “Half the year above, half the year below. The Harvest shall become autumn in the wake of your passing, and then winter will descend. And spring will only return when you do.”

Prosperina nodded. “Very good. Now. I am back, so I expect spring and the planting can begin. Yes?”

Mother looked back. “My blessing is restored to the world,” she said, sadly. “For this year, anyhow. But it will fade as you do.” She snorted. “I should have let you have Adonis.”

Prosperina smiled. “I’m happy enough that you didn’t. I believe we have taken up enough of these good peoples’ time. Dis Pater, may I see you out?”

“Of course, my dear.” And he took Prosperina’s robed arm, and they stepped out of the room.

“We’re getting married?” Dis asked, as they went out of earshot.

“Of course,” Prosperina said, half-smiling.

“Shouldn’t we, you know, have had a proposal or something?”

“We did.” She nodded towards a building they had gotten high on the roof of, what seemed a lifetime before. “You asked me if I loved you enough to marry you. I said yes. I asked if you loved me. You said yes. Now I’m calling in that debt.”

“Semantically, that wasn’t a contract. Just a question.”

“Semantically, your people like me more than they like you. Do you really want to piss me off?”

“No.” And they kissed.

And this is where the story ends, more or less. As she threatened, the Lady Harvester spread the tale far and wide — the tale of a Lord of the Underworld who kidnapped and raped her pure daughter, carrying her down into the underworld. The story of how during that time, her daughter, the Kore, the Maiden, refused all food and drink until the Gods forced her return, but the canny and lustful Lord of Death tricked her — with the help, some say, of Hermes, and others say of Hecate — into eating some seeds of a pomegranate. Now, her daughter was the Queen of the Underworld, and half her life was spent in darkness, but the Lady Harvester grieved so during those times that the world itself became cold and barren, until her daughter was once more returned to the light.

That may seem unfair. But these things aren’t always fair, and as we have said before, everyone must compromise. Neither Prosperina nor Dis Pater overly suffered by the popular version of the story. When heroes attempted to ‘free’ Prosperina, she was more than happy to trick them and punish them for their hubris.

And yes, Prosperina was forced back up into the overworld every six months, but during those times she found herself content. The planting was no big deal — it never was, since her Mother had given her the duty as make-work. And she could continue to do her work for the Underworld even in the sunlight, working through couriers and dispatches. Dis Pater visited often, and the rest of the time Prosperina was accorded the respect of a Queen of the Underworld, an equal to her husband and partner. She went robed at all times now, for she was often cold, but her beauty was only magnified by her position and her maturity.

Over the centuries, she and her mother reconciled, of course. And eventually her mother grew content with her son in law as well. The curse remains, of course. As the Harvester herself said, such curses do not end just because we want them to.

But none of this changes the excitement — the hint of girlishness still existing — that Prosperina feels when the harvest draws to a close for another year. For she knows that after six long months of exile, she gets to return to her beloved city, to look at its beauty, to see the shades who have come to adore her, to sit upon her basalt throne, twin to her husband’s, and to once again know she is where she most wants to be.

So when the autumn comes and the air becomes crisp, and we sip cider and watch for the first snows… take a moment and consider Prosperina. As we get the coldest and most brutal parts of the winter, know that Prosperina is at her happiest, and know that she will give up her contentment come the spring so that we all might be fed for another year. And as I write this, having seen the first winter storm of the year hit my town, I raise my mug of something warm and feel joy for the woman who has gone home, and I invite you to do the same.

Oh, if you want to know why the Southern Hemisphere’s winter comes during our Summer? That’s simple. It’s the Coriolis effect. Everyone knows that. Hush now. Daddy needs his medicine.

Why have people stopped wearing watches and started dragging mobiles out of their pocket to check the time?

It’s something lots of people do. I do it myself. But it’s not ubiquitous. Lots of wristwatches are still out there and still being checked. Which makes it interesting, because it’s one of those rare things: a behavior in transition.

Which gives us something to talk about.

*** *** *** ***

People often confuse the concept of Time with the concept of Telling Time. Time is, according to the American Heritage Dictionary, “a nonspatial continuum in which events occur in apparently irreversible succession from the past through the present to the future.” Telling time, on the other hand, is the skill one has in using either physical phenomena or — more often — artificial devices to determine at what point in a relatively arbitrary system defining the very real and yet very intangible ‘time’ said person is currently existing in.

Yeah, that’s way too thick a paragraph. Let me put it this way. There is Time, which exists, and there is Telling Time, which uses a system that doesn’t really exist to approximate and overlay comprehension onto a system that does exist.

One would think, based on that, that Time would be well represented mythologically speaking, and Telling Time would be barely represented if at all. In this, one would be wrong.

Telling Time has, in fact, always had a thick mythological basis. Its very artificial nature responds well to the interplay of imagination and perception that makes for the very best mythologies. When one is completely building their perception of time, and how to tell the difference between ‘then,’ ‘now’ and ‘soon,’ one has lots of elbow room and room for dissent. Throw in the difference between nanoseconds, seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, and millennia, and the potential mythological infrastructure is enormous. Now to all of that, add in mornings, afternoons, evenings, twilight, night, dusk, dawn, semesters, trimesters, seasons — natural ones like ‘Spring’ and less natural ones like ‘the Social’ — eons, ages, noon, midnight, yesterday, today, tomorrow, last week, this week, next week, last month, this month, next month, last year, this year, next year, before you were born, back when I was a kid, leaving it to your children, once upon a time and a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away….

Yeah.

So, this gives us the Houris of the Hours, and the Guardians of the Months, and Day Nymphs and the Spirits of the Ages and the Scions of the Centuries and any number of other things, and you’ll meet some of them as we tell more of these stories. Sometimes they contradict each other, but that’s why we have arbitration. It’s really very complicated.

But as for Time itself? We have one guy. That’s all. That’s all that’s necessary. Time exists, and this one guy embodies it. And mostly, he keeps to himself. And we don’t think much about him. After all, the fact of time isn’t nearly as important to our day to day lives as telling time.

Really, when we discuss Time Himself, we usually just imagine he’s wearing robes, maybe carrying a scythe, and generally refer to him as Father Time. And sure, once upon a time he wore robes, mostly because at the time he was hanging around monasteries — he enjoyed illuminating manuscripts and that was where the work was — and pretty much everyone there wore robes. And he did own a scythe, since he had a garden and they only recently invented hedge clippers and gas powered mowers.

But one thing we’ve gotten right. He is a Father. Specifically of a daughter named Natalie. And like good parents since the dawn of time — which is itself an artificial statement about time which Father Time himself would roll his eyes over, since he was in fact there and there was nothing remotely dawnlike about it — after Natalie graduated from College he used his pull to get her a good job. Specifically, Natalie was named the Intendant of What Time Is It? To her fell the concept of both the question — “hey, what time is it, anyway?” — and the answer to that question. Under her was also found “how long until” and “how long has it been since,” at least for shorter periods of time. Which means that while there were hundreds upon hundreds of daemons and Loci employed by the Telling Time industry, Natalie got the crux question. Father Time was pleased. His little girl deserved only the best.

Over time — no pun intended — Natalie would feel somewhat differently about it.

Donal checked the watch on his wrist. It was beautiful. A masterpiece of the art of timekeeping. It was an eighteen karat gold Rolex Cosmograph Daytona — one of the most sought after watches the world had produced. This was one of the ones unofficially called the ‘Paul Newman,’ and it would sell for a remarkable amount of money, if Donal ever chose to sell it.

Which of course he wouldn’t.

“We’re going to be late!” he shouted up the stairs. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

There was a pause.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” she called back down. She didn’t sound amused. She didn’t sound… anything at all, really. It was only the fact that she’d had to shout to be heard that meant her voice was raised in the first place.

“Just get ready. This is an important day for me.”

“They’re all important days for you.”

Donal snorted, and went into the study to fix himself a drink. Christ only knew how long the woman would take.

Finally, she came through the door. She had worn the Vera Wang in black. White accents. Well, good enough. “Finally,” he snapped. “Let’s get in the car.”

“I may not feel up to this,” she said, following. “You don’t really need me.”

“Of course I need you,” Donal said, opening her door. “Why would you even say that? This is the event of the year.”

“It’s the Midsummer Ball,” she said, sliding into her seat. “It’s no big deal.”

Donal snorted. “No big deal, she says.”

She shrugged.

Donal looked at her. “Hey,” he snapped. “Look at me.”

She kept looking straight ahead.

“I said look at me.”

She turned to look at him, finally.

“I didn’t get my social standing handed to me by my father,” he said. “I worked for it. This event makes or breaks that standing for a year. The elite are on display, and I don’t want any of them to forget for an instant that I’m one of them. And that means you’re going to smile and be nice to people.”

She sighed and looked away. “Do we have to stay long?”

“You can do whatever the Hell you want, once we’ve done a circuit or two.” He pulled the Aston Martin out.

“You know, Sam and I used to do the Midsummer Ball each year,” she said, looking out the side window. Watching the trees and houses go by as they drove through Behind The Scenes of the World. “He was always so excited to go.” She chuckled. “They used to do a roast pork he loved. Every year. A month before the ball he would talk about that pork. ‘Natty, that glaze they use,’ he would say. ‘Oh, the empires that could be built upon that glaze.’”

Donal snorted. “You sure can pick them,” he said. “Thousands of loci in the worlds beyond the worlds, and you found the one man who went to the Midsummer Ball for the food.”

“Yeah,” she said. She kept looking out the window. “I sure can pick them.”

The dynastic powers were driven, of course. Their chauffeurs saw to the cars as they went in. Donal was self-made. It was a huge part of his identity, of his persona in society, so even though his car was worth more than most of the limousines, he drove himself and used that as pride. The valets drove the Aston Martin off as the two walked in. To the side, the Brownie at the door made the Announcement. “The Master of the Wristwatch,” he called out, “and the Intendant of What Time Is It?” His voice rose at the end, making it the question it should be.

“Do you suppose your father is here?” Donal asked, smiling amiably as he nodded to the peers as they passed them.

“Not likely,” Natalie answered. She had her professional smile on, greeting those she met in passing. “He hates these things.”

“I thought you were going ask him to come.” Donal’s smile never slipped, of course.

“Slipped my mind,” Natalie answered. Always smiling, always nodding.

“It would have looked good to be seen with Father Time,” Donal murmured smoothly, kissing the hand of the Duchess of Los Angeles.

“Then you should have asked him yourself,” Natalie answered, letting the Neighborhood Coordinator kiss her cheek.

“He’s your father,” Donal said, all too smoothly.

That was it. Natalie turned away from where the Viceroy of the Cul-de-Sac was waiting. “Yes, he is,” she snapped, just loudly enough to be audible. “And you should remember that.”

There was a hush. Donal paused, and smiled winningly as he turned to his girlfriend. “We’ll discuss it later,” he said. “Come on, let’s not keep our host waiting.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Natalie said, artificial sweetness in her voice. “I think I need a drink.”

Donal frowned, but Natalie turned on her heel and marched off. He watched her go, then chuckled. “You know, you think you’ve got them housebroken, but when you take them out to see company…”

There was a chuckle, strained from some, and Donal set back to work.

He found her at the bar twenty minutes later. She had a Cosmopolitan. And she was talking to Morris, the Digital Timepiece Developer. “–think that there’s a real potential for precision,” he was saying. “And there’s nothing innately unstylish about digital watches.”

“I always liked digital watches,” Natalie was answering. She had enough of a blush to her cheeks that Donal could tell this wasn’t her first Cosmopolitan of the evening. “It’s fun to watch the numbers change. I miss the LED displays, though.”

Morris chuckled. He looked out of place in his tuxedo. His glasses would look hipster, but his hair screamed ‘nerd’ instead.

Donal slid between Morris and Natalie. “On your way,” he murmured to the Digital Timepiece Developer. He nodded to the bartender. “Vesper martini,” he said. “Linnet blanc, Stolichnaya and Boodles British.”

Morris opened his mouth, closed it and stepped off.

Natalie snorted. “I was having a nice conversation with him.”

“He’s currying favor,” Donal snapped. “Trying to get in good with you.”

“And you wouldn’t know anything about that,” Natalie snapped back. “He work with me, you know.”

“He works for me,” Donal answered, glaring at her. “And digital watches didn’t work out. They’re ugly and they’re crass.”

“You’re just afraid he’ll do to you what you did to Sam.”

Donal snorted. “Our dear Count of Pocket Watches was fat. Morris is gangly. You came with me because I was smooth and stylish. Precise. You like precision, don’t you.”

“I’m sick of this,” Natalie said, looking into her drink. “I’m sick of you, Donal.”

Donal chuckled.

“That amuses you?”

“Of course it does,” he said. “You need me, Natalie. Before me, no one could answer your question. Not effectively. I’m the logical conclusion to your aspect. Don’t pretend you can throw me over tomorrow without doing yourself a significant disservice.”

“You think people would stop checking their watches if I dumped your ass?”

“I think we’re not going to find out any time soon, little princess. You want to get drunk? That’s fine. Stay away from clockmakers and timekeepers.” He stepped off, and walked back into the fray.

Natalie stared at him, then nodded to the bartender for another drink.

“No offense, Miss What Time It Is? But your boyfriend’s a dick.”

Natalie turned. Her speaker wore his tuxedo a little more comfortably than Morris had, but he’d also loosened his collar. His dark hair was short. He looked roguish more than handsome.

“What Time is it,” Natalie corrected with a slight smile.

“You’re asking me? My aspect doesn’t even touch on time.” He smiled. “Jason. Proconsul of Portable Telephony.” He offered his hand.

Natalie shook it. “A pleasure,” she said. She looked out across the room, where Donal was laughing it up with the Right People. “Call me Natalie.”

“Seriously,” Jason said, leaning next to her. “That guy’s a total dick. You can do better.”

“You mean I could be with you instead?” She chuckled. “That’s what got me Donal in the first place.”

Jason snorted. “I don’t care if you go out with me or not. I just don’t like seeing guys step on their significant others.”

“That implies I’m significant,” Natalie said.

“Aren’t you? You outrank him. He works for you.”

“What a wonderfully black and white world you live in.” Natalie accepted her fresh drink. “He knows full well that if I dumped him tomorrow, he’d still be the most important man in my life, fully capable of demanding whatever he wanted from me. And as for me? I’m just like his Rolex, or his car, or his pretentious James Bond drink. I’m an accessory. I’m proof he’s arrived and the social world has to take him seriously.” She sipped the slightly tart liquid. “Most of the time, it’s easy enough. I barely need to see him.”

Jason shook his head. “And is that what life is supposed to be?” he asked her. “Is that what you ask out of a relationship? ‘I can’t stand him but I can’t get rid of him and besides — I never need to see him?’”

Natalie shrugged. “Every relationship I’ve been in has tied back to my work, somehow. They court me so that they can make it to the top of the heap. I was annoyed with how Donal dismissed Morris but Donal wasn’t wrong — Morris can’t look at me without seeing how I could expand the role of digital timepieces in the world.”

“So find someone who doesn’t have anything to do with the time,” Jason said. “Or find no one at all. Go it alone for a few years.”

“I like being in a relationship,” Natalie said.

“Do you like being in this relationship?”

“Besides, I’ve tried it with people who have no ties to the time. Date a locus with an unrelated aspect, and you end up never seeing each other. Your concerns and his concerns never touch, and ultimately you have nothing to talk about.”

“Then date a mortal.”

“I can’t.” She looked at Jason. “Some powers can get away with dating a mortal, but my aspect’s too big. Too all pervasive. I tried it once. I practically drove the poor man mad.” She looked in her drink. “Maybe I deserve someone like Donal.”

“Bullshit.”

She looked at Jason.

“Bullshit,” he repeated. “He treats you like shit, Good Lady What Time Is It.” He missed the question at the end of her Aspect, but Natalie let it go. “You don’t deserve to be treated like that. You deserve to enjoy yourself. To enjoy a relationship. To have someone who treats you well and who you can treat well.”

“Someone like you?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “You’ve said that twice now. Do I find you attractive? Yes. And would I treat you better than the Watchkeeper? Damn right I would. But that’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?”

Jason leaned in. “It doesn’t matter if I’d treat you better,” he said softly. “The point is he treats you like shit.”

She looked back out. Donal was in his element now. Networking. Showing off. He gestured in her direction once, but didn’t look her way. “So be alone,” she said. “Or go out with someone who has nothing to do with my life. Or drive some other poor mortal insane.”

“There’s another option,” Jason said softly.

“What?”

“Find someone whose aspect touches on yours, but doesn’t depend on it.”

Natalie frowned. “Like who?”

Jason shrugged. “I dunno. Don’t computers have clocks on them?”

“Well, yes….”

“But a computer locus wouldn’t rely on you. Your beneficence would benefit him, and his would benefit you, but you wouldn’t need each other in any unhealthy way.”

Natalie considered, then shook her head. “It wouldn’t work,” she said. “Computers aren’t ubiquitous enough. I’d still spend all my time with Donal or someone like him, only now he’d be bitter.”

Jason shrugged. “Then find something that is ubiquitous. Or that will be ubiquitous. If that’s how you have to define your relationships.”

Natalie looked at Jason. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Okay. Tell me about portable phones.”

Jason blinked, and chuckled. “I didn’t mean me.”

“Why not. Just because they’re niche products?”

“They’re niche right now, but they’re going to expand,” Jason said. “They’re getting smaller, and the batteries are getting better. They’re useful, and in their own way they’re as much a status symbol as your boyfriend’s Rolex. Only it’s the models that do more that get the higher status. And that’s only going to grow.” He shook his head. “One day more people will have portables than regular wired telephones. One day, it’ll seem strange when someone doesn’t carry a phone.”

“So, they’ll be ubiquitous?” she said, smirking.

Jason blinked. “Well, yes,” he said. “But then, I’m biased.”

“I’ll bet you are.” She drank the rest of her drink. “Did you ever think of putting a clock in a phone?”

Jason frowned. “A clock?”

“Absolutely. A digital clock, since I’m annoyed with Donal and therefore feeling charitable to Morris right now.”

“Well, there’s no reason we couldn’t….”

Natalie smiled a bit more. “Then let me ask you something, Jason of the Portable Phone. You’ve been very careful to at least sound like you’re just concerned about my welfare, not about getting me naked. Do you want to get me naked?”

Jason looked in Natalie’s eyes. “Maybe,” he said. “I don’t really know you.”

“Good answer.” She set her glass down. “Do you care what people think of you? Do you care if you seem outrageous or silly?”

Jason shrugged. “Not really.”

“Another good answer.” She looked back at him. “What’s my aspect again?”

“What time is it.”

“No. There’s supposed to be a question mark at the end of that sentence. Say it right.”

Jason smiled slightly. “What time is it?”

“Time for me to leave. If you’re willing to throw caution to the wind, you can follow me out.” And with that, the Intendant of What Time Is It? strode for the entryway.

Jason watched her go for a long moment, then set his drink down on the bar and followed.

Donal didn’t notice either one of them as they left.

Systems of time are artificial, but they’re convenient. For example, though Father Time himself simply knows that time exists, and that time continues to move, it makes everything easier for you and I if I just say that we close the scene we just watched, and then looked ahead several years, to another night, and another Midsummer Ball.

“The Intendant of What Time Is It?” the Brownie said. Natalie was in red this year, with silver accents. She looked good.

“Good Lady,” Morris said, stepping to her. They kissed each other on the cheeks. He was wearing wire rims now, and had moved towards ‘hipster’ with his hair. It was a better look for him. “You look smashing tonight.” He grinned.

“I feel smashing, tonight,” Natalie answered. “And I hope there’s a good Riesling with my name on it.”

“It seems likely.” Morris snapped his fingers at one of the walking waiters. The Satyr diverted, offering a tray of flutes. Natalie took one and sipped. Chardonney, not Riesling, but it was still nice. “Projections are looking good for the next quarter.”

“I’ll bet.” She smiled a bit. “But do we have to launch into work? It’s a party. I skipped lunch to make room.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” Morris said, grinning.

There was movement to the side. Natalie glanced and rolled her eyes. “Incoming,” she said with a smirk.

Donal half-stormed up to the pair. “We need to talk,” he said.

“Hello, Donal. You’re looking nice tonight. How’s your trick knee been acting?” Natalie smiled more broadly.

Donal shot a glance to Morris. “I need to speak to the Lady,” he said.

“And?” Morris asked. His bearing didn’t shift in the slightest.

“And that means I need you to go away.”

Morris shrugged. “We all have needs, Donal. But I was about to ask Natalie to dance.”

“That sounds lovely,” Natalie said. “Donal, be a good boy and wait at the bar. I’m sure I can make time later on.”

Donal pursed his lips. He turned and stormed off, but he didn’t say anything.

“Is it petty that I enjoyed that?” Morris asked.

“I hope not. I’ve been enjoying it for some time. I didn’t realize you’d disconnected so much from him.”

“These days? He needs all the watch buyers he can get. As for me — there’s lots of digital timepieces in the world.”

“There certainly are. I–”

“–all right since Bruce Springsteen! Madonna! Way before Nirvana — there was U2, and Blondie, and music still on MTV–”

“That’s me,” Natalie said, pulling her RAZR out of her clutch bag and flipping it open. “Hey, Jase. You’re late.” She sounded amused.

“Yeah, well, sue me,” Jason said with a chuckle. “I’m about a half hour out. Forgive me?”

“This time, sure. But I’m going to eat without you.”

“Go nuts. Love you, Nattily.”

“Love you too.” She folded the phone, and glanced at the front. 8:14. She could have known the time instantly, of course — it was her Aspect — but she liked the ritual. “Right. Let’s dance, Morris. And then we eat. I hope they’re doing the pork this year. They have a glaze — I swear to God, it’s to die for.”

Today’s myth comes to us from “zeruslord” (who, I am given to understand, is Lord of Zerus, and there is no doubt one does not want to be on the bad side of the Lord of Zerus, so you’ll understand if I answer the request, I trust. Mythologists have to err on the side of caution where Locii are involved). And zeruslord asks:

why do humans have cities and suburbs? I’m mostly talking about the outermost suburbs, like how all of New Jersey is a suburb of New York, and people are commuting from Front Royal into DC, and Los Angeles exists at all. Why are people willing to drive for hours to get to their job? why don’t the jobs move out faster?

It is a good question, really. After all, cities were meant to centralize humanity, giving them greater access to work, goods and services. So, why would men, women and families intentionally go farther afield, sacrificing convenience and adding hours to their workday in the form of “the commute?” Why would they restrict their potential mass transit options to what is in their suburb (or to their car), despite the price of gasoline and maintenance and the environmental impact and all the rest? What, in the end, is the deal?

Well, you probably shouldn’t be surprised to learn it’s all thanks to a jurisdictional dispute. So let’s leap right into it, shall we?

*** *** *** ***

We have already shown that there are half-gods who walk the Earth and the realms beyond it. Where there is a concept, there is often some being who represents that concept. We’ve met some of those folks in the past, of course. The Queen of the Baristas. The Viscountess of the Northwesterlies. The Manager of the Economy. Folks like that.

What may or may not be apparent is the innate hierarchy these half-gods — or Locii, as we have taken to calling them — exist in. Some concepts are naturally subordinate to other concepts, and it follows that there would be some authority designed to smooth things out. The Pub Sovereign can’t very well go on without the Master Brewer’s blessing, since a pub without beer is, in the end, a lunch counter. The Master Brewer, on the other hand, must answer to the appropriate Locii of yeast, grains, hops and the like, but truly works for the Aqueous Incarnate. After all, you can substitute lots of stuff and still call something ‘beer’ (or if not beer, some other brew), but take water out of the equation and you’re pretty well stuck. And, when the Master Brewer needs the good graces of the Preceptor of Yeast, he’s competing with the Dude What Makes The Bread among others, and there can be arguments between them — but since you need water for bread as well, the Aqueous Incarnate can resolve differences and set regulations when it is necessary to keep everyone happy, or at least quiet.

So it was with human habitation. We know that many cities have Locii of their own — we have met the Duchess of Los Angeles, for example. Naturally, the various Lords, Ladies and the like who hold dominion over the individual cities must themselves work with and under the City Planner, a position responsible for the development of urban culture through the ages.

But, that’s only one side of the City Planner’s dominion. There are common elements to all cities (and indeed to all human habitation) the City Planner has to coordinate. The Viceroy of the Cul-de-Sac, the Imperator of Sidewalks, the Street Lamp Guru and the like all have to report in too, because their components all come together to form cities as we know them. And when you need different Locii to work together, you eventually get into arguments. Sometimes for the highest and most noble reasons, mind.

And sometimes… well, not so much.

Benjamin walked into the back of the co-op. Up front, people were shopping for food. The prices were better than a lot of the supermarkets though of course they had to pay a membership fee. There was a lot of organic produce, a lot of hemp based soaps — stuff like that.

Benjamin looked like he fit in pretty well. Green tee shirt, flannel over it. Old worn jeans. Chuck Taylors. Short hair, slight sideburns. He looked almost angular as he walked. He was holding a paper slip in his hand — one torn off a flyer. It said to meet at the back of the store.

Sitting at a table in the back was an old woman. Heavyset and black, hair white. She was playing solitaire. Sitting next to her….

Benjamin stopped. He had no idea what that damn thing was. It was small — maybe eighteen inches. It had a humanoid body, but its head was disproportionate. It looked almost like a puppet — wood with fur or brown moss growing out of it, but it was… it looked alive. With a high, reedy voice he was making a running commentary. “–ust saying. The two goes on the ace of spades, then the three of spades from that column, you move the three of clubs up–”

“I know how to play solitaire,” she snapped. “I like to keep my cards in play. You play them too soon, you cut your options down.”

“Don’t play them at all, and the game never ends,” the little creature said, and looked up at Benjamin. “On the other hand, sometimes endings show up on you.”

“Uh, hi,” Benjamin said. He shook his head, as if to clear it. “Um, I’m… is this where the volunteer job is?”

“From the flyers?” the woman asked. “Serve your community and your community will serve you?”

“That’s the one.”

“You bet, sunshine. Congratulations. You’re Neighborhood Coordinator.”

Benjamin blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’m tired, son. I’m tired and I want to retire. You’re the one who answered the flyer, so you get the job.” She smiled a bit. “You’ll like it, most days. Some days you won’t, but most days you will.”

Benjamin blinked again. “Um… I understood this was some kind of volunteer thing?”

“It’s the ultimate volunteer job, son.”

“Yeah, but…” Benjamin sighed. “Look, I’ll come clean. I thought there’d be a lot of people here. I’m new around here, and I thought this would be a way to, you know… meet people.”

“You thought you’d meet cute girls who wore oval glasses and smelled like patchouli,” the little creature said.

Benjamin flushed. “Well–”

“You’ll meet women,” the old woman said. “Oh yeah. But it doesn’t matter. I’m out of here, and you got the job now, son. Try not to screw it up too much.” She looked down at her cards. “Hm.” She moved the last six down onto the seven of hearts, letting her drop the five of diamonds and turn over the last card. She nodded, and began moving cards up onto the four aces.

“Look, what job? You said–”

“You’re the Neighborhood Coordinator,” the small creature said. “The spirit of the neighborhood is reborn in you. You are the most local manifestation of community, of people getting to know those around them, take pride in their home, and lay down roots.” The creature leaned forward. “You can feel it, can’t you? Feel your heart pumping it. Feel the home town spirit, the sense of the place where where young couples raise children and pensioners know the local greengrocer and everyone knows Mister Tyler the Phys Ed teacher was gay and no one cares because hey, they know Mister Tyler.” The creature smiled a toothy smile. “Mister Tyler is a neighbor.”

Benjamin opened his mouth to speak… but then he could feel it. Feel the thudding of his heart in his chest. Feel the thrum of community centers and neighborhood watches and midnight basketball and street gangs alike flooding through his veins. He could feel his perspective open, feel the sense of every street name, every mass transit schedule, every old tarmac basketball court and every crumbling tenement shiver through his being. Every locus is different. Some are immortal and eternal, but others pass their titles on, through many different means and methods. Benjamin could feel his individual cells expand and explode, his body shifting and altering within as he went from mortal to half-god — a lens for the very world, filtering the vision of the world through the ineffable concept of neighborhood.

Benjamin rubbed his brow. He was sweating. His eyes seemed to ache. “I… I never… never imagined….”

“I know,” the creature said. “I know. It’s all right, Benjamin. Take your time. Breathe it in.”

He looked around, seeing the co-op so differently now. He understood how each person fit into this place — how each shopper and each volunteer connected to all the others. The outsider who rarely spoke to anyone but who left money in every Salvation Army can at Christmas. The outgoing and enthusiastic organizer of Little League at the park who reined in his racism and forced himself to let even the little brown kids play. The pretty girl whose outer disdain masked a deep compassion she didn’t dare let out, lest her heart be broken by those around her again. These were the people in the Neighborhood — the people that you meet each day. They were Benjamin’s people now.

He was the Neighborhood Coordinator.

“This is amazing,” he murmured. “Miss — was it like this for you too?” he asked, turning–

The old woman’s hand was on the final king — the king of spaces, placed on the last pile. And anyone could see she was dead. Her skin even seemed to be sagging, her body shrinking in on itself. Becoming dust.

Benjamin’s eyes grew wide. “What…?”

The creature turned, and gasped. “Noa,” he murmured. And he knelt on the table by her game and cried.

Benjamin looked around. A woman was dead and falling into dust, and a wooden muppet of some sort was crying his grief out in the process, but….

“Why hasn’t anyone noticed?” he murmured.

“They can’t see us,” the creature said, getting his sobs under control. “Your nature prevents it. This is your business, not theirs. Even though they are your business.”

“What happened to her?” Benjamin asked softly.

“Noa retired,” the creature said simply. “She chose this. I didn’t… I guess this is what it looks like.”

“So… this is going to happen to me someday, too?”

The creature stood. Only a few wisps of dust and the card game remained, now. “Yes,” he said simply. “But only when you’re ready for it.”

Benjamin nodded. “Who… and what… are you?”

“I’m a Brownie,” the creature said. “A neighborhood spirit, who helps keep things running behind the scenes. I work for you. You couldn’t pronounce my name, but Noa called me Matthew.”

Benjamin nodded. “You’ll… have to help me get used to this,” Benjamin said. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“Yes,” he said, looking at the card game once more. “Yes, I’ll help you,” he said softly. “She would have wanted that.” He turned. “Come on. We have business in Saint Louis.”

“Saint Louis?” Benjamin blinked. “I’m going to Saint Louis?”

“Today you are. For just this part of today. I’ll get the clipboard. There’s a lot to do.”

“Okay — but I have to be back at Starbucks tomorrow for seven. I’m opening–”

Matthew looked at Benjamin for a long moment.

“I don’t work at Starbucks any more, do I?”

“Someone else will push the buttons to make the lattes,” Matthew said. “Come on. We might as well get started.”

Benjamin looked back at where Noa had retired. It was just a card table and a chair now, with a completed solitaire game. No dust, no sign there had ever been anyone sitting there. “Okay,” he said. He turned to follow the Brownie, who had hopped down and was darting through the co-op’s aisles.

At the door, he looked back. There were three neighborhood kids at the table, apparently ready to play cards. Benjamin felt his heart lurch as they scooped up Noa’s last game and began to shuffle, but he didn’t say anything.

“It’s all right,” Matthew said, sadly. “The cards are there so people can play. It’s neighborly.”

“Yeah,” Benjamin said. “Yeah.” They stepped out front.

And Benjamin froze.

Sitting there, in front of the co-op, was a giant red metal trolley car — like from San Francisco, or any number of cities from the turn of the century.

Matthew bounded up onto it, then looked back. “Come on,” he said. “You’re not going to walk to Saint Louis, are you?”

“No,” Benjamin said. “No, I’m not.” He stepped up onto the ramp.

“Token please,” the driver said quietly.

“I–” Benjamin said, startled.

“Check your pocket,” Matthew said, quietly.

Benjamin blinked, and pulled out a flat brass token.

The driver nodded to a dispenser, and Benjamin put it in with a clatter.

“Thank you, sir,” the driver said. “You’re the new Neighborhood Coordinator, then?”

“I… yes. That’s right,” he said.

The driver nodded. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said, though he was somber.

“You’re going to miss Noa?”

“A lot of people are going to miss Noa, sir,” the driver said. “Please take a seat, sir. I need to get going. I have a schedule.”

Benjamin nodded, stepping back. Many seats were taken up — there were fairies and dryads cradling bonsai trees. A minotaur was reading the Wall Street Journal. And there were several humans sitting, looking out at the neighborhood with slightly haunted looks. Benjamin recognized one of them from the grocery store he usually shopped at.

“What’s their story?” he asked Matthew as he slid next to the Brownie. He could more or less accept the mythological creatures on the Trolley, but the haunted men and women were disturbing.

“We take a run through Psychopomp Station,” Matthew said, as if it explained everything. “The Trolleys help cover those neighborhoods without other mass transit options.”

“Oh. So… this isn’t my Trolley?”

“Yes it is,” Matthew said. “But there’s no need to be selfish about it.”

“What’s Psychopomp Station?”

“I’ll tell you later.” He handed over a clipboard. “We have rather a lot to do today, sir. And we should really get to it.”

And so they did. And within a couple of weeks, Benjamin found himself settling into the routine nicely. It was pleasant, being the Locus of Neighborhoods. There was plenty of work, but there was always a sense it would actually be helpful to people — and sure, he sometimes had to manage so-called ‘bad’ neighborhoods too, and that was unpleasant, but he figured out early that you needed to have a contrast or people would take the good they had for granted. Besides, a bad neighborhood gave the people who lived there a chance to meet a new potential, to redeem and rebuild, and the cycle would continue anew.

And he had to admit, it was a pretty cool life. He got up in the morning, made a thermos of coffee, stepped outside his brownstone and the trolley was waiting for him. He swung up inside, nodded to Fred in the cockpit, respectfully acknowledged the men and women on their way to Psychopomp station, said his hellos to the mythological regulars, listened to the bell ring as he sat down, and read the paper while the Trolley pulled out and brought Benjamin within a few blocks of whatever neighborhood in the world he was working in that given day. That was pretty sweet, any way you looked at it.

It was on a bright spring day, stepping off the trolley a few streets down from Greenwich Village, that Benjamin accepted the clipboard from Matthew. “What’s the good word?” he asked.

“Galoshes,” Matthew said.

Benjamin blinked. “Excuse me?”

Matthew shrugged — an adorable move on his tiny little brownie body. “It’s an awfully good word.”

“I suppose so. What are we doing today?”

“The usual.” The Brownie artfully darted around trash cans put out for collection. No one seemed to notice the daemon as he walked through the streets, but then Brownies are rather skilled at not being noticed. “A few meetings. We need to inspect a few facilities. Perhaps have a conversation with the Neighborhood Spirit. Oh, and the City Planner is having an informal get together tonight. You should probably plan on showering and wearing something nice.”

“Why should I care what the New York City city planner does? I mean, is this an exceptionally good party or something?”

Matthew chuckled. “Not Amanda Burden’s office. No–”

“Wait. New York City’s city planner is named Amanda Burden?”

Matthew sighed. “Yes. Please work your way through the jokes quickly, sir. This is rather important.”

“What? Some party?”

“The City Planner’s party, sir.” Matthew stopped, looking at him. “You understand how important you are sir? Important and significant to the neighborhoods of the world, to the spirits of those neighborhoods, to the humans who need to rally and connect with those spirits? And to the world?”

Benjamin frowned. “I’ve sort of had to.”

“The City Planner is responsible for all the cities of the world in the same way. And the neighborhoods of those cities are her purview. She is one of the most powerful Locii the World has ever seen, sir. And while your influence spreads into all human habitation, not just cities, the greatest concentration of your neighborhoods can be found there.”

“So… this is a political thing?”

“To a degree. And a networking opportunity. There are a lot of Locii whose aspects are related to yours. A solid working relationship can only help everyone.”

“I suppose.”

“You don’t want to go?”

“It sounds kind of stiff.”

“Perhaps, sir. On the other hand, it’s entirely possible there will be one or two women there. Maybe even wearing oval glasses and smelling like patchouli.”

“You’re never going to cut me any slack about that, are you?”

“It seems unlikely, sir.”

Benjamin laughed. “All right. Have someone get appropriate clothes cleaned. Take them to that dry cleaner’s out in Seattle. You know the one?”

“Aubrey’s on Fifteenth, sir?”

“That’s the one.”

“Very good, sir. Do we have time to get a bagel before we begin today?”

“God, I hope so.”

The City Planner currently went by the name Isabella Hima, and her party was trendy and upscale, with sophisticates and piano music. Benjamin had a black silk shirt and jacket over slacks, and wondered if he was underdressed. He drank mixed drinks made with Ketel One and made pleasant noises to people like the Underlord of Sewage Treatment and the Viceroy of the Cul-de-Sac, and mostly felt like he was trapped in perdition.

He sat at the bar, a cold blue neon light reflecting off his face as he ordered a drink.

“These things are always so dry, aren’t they?”

The voice was pleasant and warm, and Benjamin found himself smiling before he even turned.

Her eyes were hazel. And she was indeed wearing glasses — almost more octagonal than oval, but he could make allowances. She wore tie dyed silk as a blouse and light capri pants, and her hair was almost alive around her face.

“Wow,” Benjamin said, blinking.

She giggled. “That’s hopeful.”

“Or really pathetic.” He chuckled. “Wow. I’m Benjamin.”

“Benjamin? I don’t think we’ve met?”

“I’m pretty new. I’m the Neighborhood Coordinator.”

“Oh! Of course. Noa retired, didn’t she. I’ll miss her.” She shook her head, her hair cascading. “It must be hard to… I dunno. End. I’m glad I’m eternal.”

“I’ll bet.” Benjamin chuckled. How could someone so… so… perfect not want to be eternal to boot. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are.”

She giggled again. “Probably because I didn’t tell you. I’m the Djinni of the Block. Call me Jen.”

They shook hands. “Wow,” he said. “We really should be working together.”

“Working together?” she asked, eyes twinkling. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Now now,” he said. “I didn’t mean it that way,” though of course he did. “I mean neighborhoods. In urban centers, the neighborhood is practically synonymous with the block — you have stores and places to live and schools and even parks all within that one little subdivision. It’s like every block is a single cell of the whole city,” he gestured with his hands, “but it has the whole city in microcosm.”

Jen giggled. “You used to smoke a lot of marijuana, didn’t you?”

“Well, I did major in Philosophy.”

“Same thing. We should talk.”

“We should.” He paused. “What’s that scent?”

“Do you like it? It’s a BPAL — Namaste. I love this perfume. It’s like, sandalwood and jasmine and cedarwood and patchouli.”

“Close enough,” Benjamin said, grinning.

“Huh?”

“Nothing. C’mon. Let’s go get Chinese.”

The phone rang the next morning. Benjamin got it on the fourth ring. “Yeah?” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Matthew said. “I don’t mean to be a pest but the Trolley’s been waiting rather overly long and they’re getting concerned about their schedule.”

“Oh. Mrph. I overslept?”

“Astutely observed, sir.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his eyes. “Y’know what? We’re taking this as a sick day, Matthew.”

There was a pause. “A sick day, sir?”

“That’s right. I’m not really feeling up to it today. Let Fred know he can move on. We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t aware you could get sick, sir.”

“Are you saying I can’t take a sick day if I want, Matthew?”

“Of course not, sir. I wouldn’t presume to say that.”

“That’s right. You wouldn’t. Because… um….”

“Because you’re the Neighborhood Coordinator, sir?”

“Exactly. So… um….”

“So I’ll see you tomorrow, sir?”

“That’s right. You will! Good bye, Matthew.”

“Good bye sir. Feel better.”

“Oh, I will.” Benjamin hung up.

Jen turned over. “That sounded funny,” she said, stretching. She wore a bedsheet particularly well.

“That was Matthew. He’s kind of my majordomo. He’s a Brownie.”

“Oh yeah — I met him once. I was working with Noa on some project. Midnight basketball or some shit.”

“Heh. You used to do stuff with Noa?”

“Well, not a lot.” She reached out, patting her hand on the nightstand next to her, finding her glasses and putting them on. “Really, I felt like we should do more than we did. I mean, in urban centers, the block is the heart of the neighborhood.”

“You know, I totally agree,” Benjamin said. “And you’re right. Your office and mine — we should totally work together.”

“Yeah,” Jen said, smiling more. “I think that’d be great. I think you and I — we could totally redefine the community within the city.”

“Totally. You want breakfast?”

“Cook me eggs, smart guy.”

It was nine weeks later that Matthew tried to talk Benjamin out of proposing. “You just met this girl,” he said. “And it’s not like you really know her.”

“Hey, I know her,” Benjamin said. “How can you say I don’t know her?”

“Sir, she’s thousands of years old. She rose up out of the concept of buildings bisected by streets. She is eternal. You don’t know her because you don’t begin to have her frame of reference.”

“I know her. She’s a part of my neighborhood! I know the people in my neighborhood!”

“Please don’t start singing, sir.” The Brownie rubbed his eyes. “And she’s not a part of your neighborhood. The Locii have a professional courtesy between them. Even if they should fall within each others’ aspects, by convention they do not.”

“Look, I’ve never felt like this before, Matthew. I’d like you to be happy for me.”

“I feel positively giddy that you’re having fun and improving your sex life, sir,” Matthew said dryly. “But as it works out, I rather like you and I want to be sure you understand what you’re getting into. There’s no need to rush, you know. She’s immortal and you’ve got at least a few centuries in you.”

Benjamin sighed. “Look, I’m not a child.”

“You’re not a human, sir. You’re a Locus. I’m not sure you’ve quite gotten your brain around that fact yet.”

“I thought I was doing a pretty good job.”

“You are, sir. And your work with Miss Jen has been excellent. You’ve had block parties, you’ve organized a real convergence of the neighborhood and the block in any number of cities. I respect that.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed your respect,” Benjamin snapped. “You work for me, not the other way around.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I want to propose tonight, I will. And you’re going to do whatever I need you to do to make this a superior night for both me and Jen, aren’t you?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good. I don’t want anything to go wrong, tonight. It’s going to be perfect. Do you hear me?”

“Deaf men can hear you, sir.”

“Damn straight.” He stormed out the door. “Get to work.”

Seven hours later, Benjamin was storming again. But not exactly the same way. “You unmitigated whore!”

Jen frowned. “What the Hell does that even mean?” she asked.

Benjamin slapped the table. “Don’t change the subject!”

“No, I want to talk about this. What is an ‘unmitigated’ whore? What is a mitigated whore? Is that a whore who lives in Nevada? Or one who whores in mitigating circumstances.”

“Jesus Christ, Jen–”

“And let’s stop and examine the ‘whore’ part of this.” The Djinn was angry now, her hair whipping around her head like it was caught in a cyclone. “When did it become okay to equate the sex trade with women acting uppity, anyway?”

“Jesus — if you’re not going to talk about this–”

“You’re not talking,” Jen snapped. “You’re shouting. And over nothing!”

“Nothing? Nothing? The Marquis of the Bridge was all over you. His hand was on your ass while you were introducing me to him!”

“Of course it was! I’ve known him for a thousand years! We’ve been married twice! Just because he’s got a sense of familiarity–”

“Familiarity? Familiarity? What would you consider intimate?”

“Jesus, it’s not like I was sleeping with him, Benjamin.”

“Yet.”

Jen’s eyes flared. “That’s right. ‘Yet.’”

Benjamin blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I’ve been around the block a few million times, Benjamin! I’m thousands of years old! So have a lot of Locii! And sometimes we sleep together! Or we sleep with mortals! It breaks up the monotony of eternity a little! It feels good and it helps remind us we’re not the only half-gods in the universe! And since you’re one of the half-gods I’ve slept with, I’d expect you to appreciate that fact!”

“I thought we were building something together!”

“We are! We have a great working relationship! We have a lot of fun! And believe it or not, I haven’t had sex with anyone else since our first night together!”

“But you reserve the right to?”

“Jesus Christ — we’re not getting married, Benjamin!”

“Who says we’re not?”

Jen stared. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Benjamin sputtered. “What? You’re saying you–”

“We’ve known each other — what, five minutes? Talk to me in three or four years — a decade would be better!”

“We’re perfect together! Our aspects match up perfectly, our–”

“So perfect you’re calling me a whore for letting a man I have been married to touch my butt instead of being uptight about it?”

“That’s different! You’re with me now!”

“Yeah? About that? I think maybe not.” Jen spun and stormed out of the room.

Benjamin stared at her, then turned and threw a glass against the wall. He breathed hard for a couple of moments, then pulled out his cell phone, pushing the autodial for Matthew.

“Hello, sir. Shall I start the band playing?”

“No. You wanna go have eight or nine drinks with me?”

“Trouble, sir?”

“Oh yeah. You don’t have to go drinking if you don’t–”

“I trust you’re buying, sir?”

“Oh yeah.”

It took less than fifteen minutes to meet up, in the bar across from the IHOP on State Route Sixteen, in the back roads behind the worlds. It was a popular hangout for Brownies and other urban spirits and daemons. And in this case, a popular place for a Locus to get drunk on well drinks. “I just… I feel like an idiot,” Benjamin said, looking into the bottom of his glass. “You know what the worst thing is?”

“Having a Brownie say he told you so?”

“Worse.” He waved his hand, at least somewhat drunk. “Much worse.”

“What, then?”

“Tomorrow I’m going to go to work, and I’m going to have her stupid blocks thrown in my face over and over again! I mean, for weeks we’ve been building up neighborhoods all around her dumb — who even… I mean… who wants to live their life bounded by four streets? We have a world open to us!”

“It hurts,” Matthew said. “But you’ll get over it, sir.” His voice was soft. “You’ll even begin to understand her with time — understand the difference between your mortal life and your life as a Locus. Understand the ways–”

“You know what? Screw the Djinni of the Block! Screw her to the wall!”

Matthew sighed. “Get it all out, sir. You don’t want to let this affect your work.”

“The Hell I won’t let this affect my work! She used me!”

Matthew blinked. “Sir, there’s no conceivable way she used you.”

“Of course she did! She said she wanted Neighborhoods and the Block to work more closely together! She got what she wanted and she dropped me like… like butter!”

“You’re drunk, sir. And that made no sense.”

“It makes sense to me!”

“No one drops butter, sir.”

“Shut up! She’s not going to get away with this!”

Matthew blinked and looked at his employer. “Sir, I beg you to just drop this quietly.”

“No! Screw her! She wants the — she wants the block to replace the neighborhood! That’s what she wants! Well screw her! Neighborhoods are about something! Blocks are about… geography! No, we’re going to do something.” A light began to burn in the drunk Locus’s eyes. “We’re going to do something fantastic.”

“We… we are, sir?”

“Absolutely. We’re going to reclaim the neighborhood. We’re going to make it what it used to be! And it’s not going to have anything to do with her blocks.”

Matthew slowly looked down. “Of course we are, sir. But sir… do be warned. The actions of the Locii have impact. And even they can’t be certain what those actions will be.”

“Maybe. But I know one thing’s for sure.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Jen is not going to like this.”

Matthew sighed. “That seems certain, sir.”

Unfortunately for everyone involved, when Benjamin got his mind set on a grudge, he got his mind set on it. Now, time is an odd thing to Locii. I can say that he worked his plans over several weeks or even months, and it makes perfect sense from his point of view. But from the point of view of the world… well, history can show that the trends and movements he intended extend back decades through history. The universe has to cover for Locii, after all, lest it all become too obvious. So it’s hard to say how quickly the City Planner called the Neighborhood Coordinator into her office, except to say that enough time had passed that said City Planner? Was pissed.

“Sit down,” Isabella Hima said to Benjamin after he entered.

Benjamin sat. “You called?” he asked.

“Yeah, I called. You’re screwing with my cities, boy, and I want it stopped.”

Benjamin arched an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play cute with me, child.” Isabella’s eyes flashed, with the sound of distant thunder — the sound a fully loaded semi made when it thundered across a bridge into a city. “People are moving out of the city. They’re citing crime, and danger, and congestion. They’re blaming bad neighborhoods.”

Benjamin nodded. “I know.”

“You know?”

“But you shouldn’t be mad.”

“In what universe shouldn’t I be mad. They’re leaving my cities!”

“Are they?” Benjamin smiled a bit. “They’re moving into the suburbs. Building new communities, bound by lifelines of road and steel into the heart of your cities. They have their neighborhoods they live in, but they work and play and shop in your cities.”

Hima narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to tell me you’re doing me a favor?”

Benjamin chuckled. “Of course I am. These ‘bedroom communities?’ They usually end up organizing as cities themselves. Or they’re part of the ‘greater metropolitan areas of their cities. They extend your reach. They extend your influence. Are you going to tell me you’re diminished by this?”

Hima’s eyes remained narrow. “So what do you get out of it?”

“What else? A resurgence of the neighborhood as the basic unit of society.”

“And a lot of people driving around. Commutes of a couple of hours, sometimes….”

Benjamin shrugged. “It’s a price to pay but a small one.”

Hima leaned forward. “And if I told you I was unhappy?”

Benjamin smiled a bit. “I’d feel badly, of course, Madame City Planner. But to be honest, there’s not a lot you could do.” He shrugged. “A city without neighborhoods is a collection of buildings, not a home. You need me. You need my good graces. If you drove all the neighborhoods out of your cities, they’d fall silent, while people would still form towns and villages and communities. The neighborhood would still survive.” He leaned forward. “But this way, you don’t have to be unhappy. The definition of city expands. Urban sprawl still contains the core urban elements. We both win.”

Hima paused a long moment, and then smiled. “True enough,” she said. “All right, Benjamin. We’ll see what this does for a while. But don’t kid yourself. If you became my enemy, your existence would be miserable.”

“Then let’s hope I am never your enemy, ma’am.”

Hima chuckled. “All right. Good day, Benjamin.”

Benjamin stepped out of the office. He felt pretty good. He wasn’t sure how this meeting was going to go, but–

“Are you seriously this petty?”

Benjamin paused.

The Djinni of the Block was standing in the outer office, staring at him.

“Hello, Jen,” he said amiably.

“I’m serious. You were so pissed off because I wasn’t what you expected you decided to drive humanity out of the city neighborhoods and into the suburbs?”

Benjamin shrugged. “I think I’m upholding the honor and responsibility of my office and my aspect the best way I know how.”

“By encouraging chunks of major cities to become demilitarized zones? By remaking humanity into commuter culture? All just to spite me?” She shook her head. “God, you’re so immature.”

“You’re the one who assumes this is all about her.” Benjamin smiled a bit more.

“I don’t assume anything, Benjamin. And you know it.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what this is supposed to accomplish, though. Suburbs still have streets and cross streets. They’re made up of blocks, just like cities are.”

“Yeah, but those blocks lack density.” Benjamin smiled a bit. “One block won’t usually have homes and schools and stores on it. They’re long streets of houses and yards, and a few blocks away there’s the school, and the grocery store is a few blocks in the other direction — and oh hey, there’s the KMart down the way….”

Jen snorted. “Meaning?”

“Meaning your streets and cross streets? They’re just waypoints in the suburbs, Jen. They’re just navigational aids so the pizza guy can find your house.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said. “I’m sure you are.” And she turned and walked out.

Only this time, Benjamin was smiling when she did it.

And I could end the story here, I suppose — it answers the question. Thanks to pettiness and jurisdiction and a newcomer to the world of the Locii the suburbs rose and humanity would drive hours to get to its urban work. But that isn’t quite the end of the story. Because as we’ve said before, every action of the Locii has profound affect upon the world, and when a Locus is stymied, they find another way to make their point. And that’s what eventually leads our Neighborhood Coordinator to one more office — this time, to the Lord of the Road.

“Hey,” the Lord said, shaking Benjamin’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Benjamin said, “You too.” But the Neighborhood Coordinator didn’t look happy.

“Do you want me to get some coffee? Maybe some soda?”

“No. No thank you.”

“So. What can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure. But we have a problem.”

The Lord frowned. “We do?”

“Yes.” Benjamin sighed. “Neighborhoods are suffering. People aren’t shopping locally. They’re driving to WalMart in another town. Doing one big grocery run every couple of weeks. They’re…” He shrugged. “They’re not coming together. They’re not getting to know their neighbors or going to the community centers together.”

The Lord nodded somberly. “I know. But that doesn’t mean we have a problem. It means you do.”

“Well, yes, but–”

“Look, I feel for you, Coordinator. I really do. But when people began to gravitate out of the cities — but not return to towns — then they created a borderland. And they started living out of their cars. They spend hours in their cars. And they get used to them. They can’t run home for lunch, or down to the local cafe. And the stress of work and the stress of commute means either they stay at home or when they go out, it’s as simple to go out across town as across the street. This is the culture that’s formed around their lives and their livelihoods. This is the nature of a culture that uses transportation as its most basic tool.” He shrugged. “it’s nothing personal, but people like going to the Mall, or WalMart, or the Longhorn. They like going to the big theater with the surround sound and sixteen movies even if it’s a half hour away while the local theater’s five minutes. The world reflects their preferences. And if I benefit, that’s good for me. And if you don’t, I’m sorry but there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Sure,” Benjamin said, “Well, I had to say my piece, right?”

“Of course. And look — the neighborhood’s hardly dead. There’s still plenty of places where it flourishes. I have every confidence you’ll bring it back in some new form.”

“Yeah. Of course.” Benjamin stood. And paused, seeing a picture on the Lord’s desk.

“Oh, you noticed her?” The Lord smiled. “My girlfriend. She’s amazing. You should meet her sometime.”

“We’ve met,” he said quietly. “I’m surprised you… have things in common, though.”

“Are you kidding?” He grinned. “Get us off the highway, and everything I do comes back to blocks. Heh — you know what she told me? She said that in the end, the street and its cross street is the ultimate navigational aid. It’s what tells the pizza man where your house is!”

“Yeah,” Benjamin said. “She’s right about that.”

And Benjamin left the office, and went down to the street. He handed his token to Fred, and nodded to those on their way to Psychopomp Station. He said hi to the regulars and he settled into his seat. Maybe it was time to do a big PTA thing — get people in the communities back into schools. Or recycling. Recycling was always big. Maybe start a new ‘keep our community beautiful’ campaign. There were lots of ideas.

And besides, that always brought out volunteers. Maybe cute ones.

But not oval glasses and patchouli. He was so off that. He was more into piercings and musk, now.

The bell rang, and the trolley rolled out. Off to another day, and another neighborhood.

Why is there a disconnect between Art and Industry? Why can art not be “useful?” Why can’t industry “inspire?”

More correctly, why are few cases where they overlap the exception and not the rule?

It’s a good question, and one I’m happy to answer. It also leads us to our first myth callback, because we actually touched on this, at least briefly, back on July 9, when we answered the question Why can we walk past beautiful artwork without noticing it?.

The answer, as you’ll recall, involved a union dispute.

And that brings us to today’s myth.

We know already that the daemons are the incarnate spirits of the world, of concept and drive. We know that the eudaemons are those daemons who are helpful and inspirational, who want humanity to reach farther and better. We know that the kakodaemons are the malevolent daemons, who hurt and hinder humanity for their own dark ends. And we know that the muses are those eudaemons who inspire artistic achievement. They’re not the only eudaemons (or kakodaemons, for that matter) involved in creative endeavor, but to be blunt they get the most press. We’ve heard of them. Bad poets describe seventeen year old girls they want to sleep with as “their muse.” We use them as metaphors for everything from Yoko Ono to the horse Jim Morrison shot into his veins to the prostitute Van Gogh gave a chunk of ear to. They get good press.

We also know that other spirits, embodiments, nymphs, eudaemons and kakodaemons are involved in other human endeavors, of all varieties. One of the more prominent of these daemon races was the themisii — the daemons of Good Order. To them went the rightness of Order, law, divine justice and customs. Hand in hand with this were the concepts of duty, of loyalty, and of following regulations.

Sadly, it was a themisad who came up with ISO-9001 Certification. But there is evidence she was a malevolent kakodaemon, not a helpful eudaemon.

The themisii were named for Themis, one of the oldest of Goddesses, one of the very first of the Titans and one of the few to be embraced by the Olympians who came later. Themis was one of the first wives of Zeus, and one of the few his reputedly jealous wife Hera got along with (in part because Themis represented Natural Law, bore the Fates from Zeus, and in general was bad to cross, in part because Themis was kind to Hera and helped raise her up and establish the customs that Hera would later embody, and in part because Themis’s BFF was Nemesis, the primordeal goddess of inevitable and inexorable divine retribution, and anyone who dissed Themis was in for a world of hurt no deity, mortal or anything in between could stand before.

Which is why the counterpart of the themisii are the nemesii, the daemons of fucking you over eight ways from Sunday until you actively yearned for a sweet release of death they weren’t about to give you. So, on the one hand you have Good Order, and on the other hand you have Unimaginable Pain. Everyone with me? Goooooood.

You might think that the nemesii are kakodaemons, dedicated to malevolence. But as we have stated before, almost no concept is unreservedly bad, even as almost no concept is unreservedly good. For the most part, the nemesii are hard working balancers of the divine books. Someone does something staggeringly stupid and offensive to the very firmament, and a nemesid heads out and makes him suffer, proportionately. Look, someone has to be the heavy.

But some nemesii are indeed kakodaemons. They have sworn themselves to a more malevolent path, following the dark Master of the kakodaemons far from the sight of man or civilized company, working in concert to sow chaos — a dichotomy that they manage to make work all too well. And with them, some themisii are kakodaemons, even as some muses are, and so forth. You will always have the obverse to any coin, after all.

One thing that some people have wondered, of course, is where the kakodaemons come from. After all, if they’re not actually organized by race, the way so many fantasists seem to think they should be — oh yes, all the Orcs are evil and all the Elves are good, I’m just sure that’s so despite the fact that half the Elves seem to be gigantic dicks half the time. No, there’s no such thing as a good Orc who just wants to stay home, till the blasted soil and paint nude pictures of what to him are comely Orc women. Don’t be a fool! — then there must be some kind of choice made. Some kind of transition.

And the question of the disconnect between Art and Industry is as good an excuse to tell that story as any I can think of.

Before the union dispute that caused the creation of the kharites, the separation of art from artistic appreciation, the rise of sports and reality television and the potential destruction of humanity, there were a number of areas where muses and the spirits of industry would work together. After all, just because something was going to be practical didn’t mean it couldn’t be beautiful. And just because something was inspirational and glorious didn’t mean there could be no function. One of these partnerships began when Urania Adler, muse under the original Urania and specialist in structures and sculptures, began working with Auxesia Phillips, themisad of Good Order and specialist in barn raising and other community development.

Urania Adler and Auxesia Phillips got along very well. Urania’s mind was well organized, given over to numbers and figures and ingenious kludges. Auxesia was a good engineer, of course, but she was also given to elaboration and exaltation. The two began to work on inspiring humanity to construct buildings. Practical buildings like granaries, community buildings like theaters, and even temples and other places of higher philosophical thought.

Now, Auxesia Phillips had another partner, of course. She was a themisad, which meant she had at least an informal working relationship with a nemesid. This nemesid was Adrastia Young, a beautiful young nemesid, known for being more shy than most. It was intimidating at first to be partnered with Auxesia Phillips — the blond haired, blue eyed themisad was outgoing and personable, always able to make friends in a crowd. But ‘Auxy’ made Adrastia feel welcome, and good about herself. She considered Adrastia a partner and a useful resource, instead of just calling upon her when she came across a rules violation that needed someone’s day messed up. And she called her ‘Drace,’ which honestly Adrastia thought was adorable.

It is perhaps understandable that Drace Young would develop feelings for Auxy Phillips. Certainly, after twenty years together, it’s almost certain she would.

When Auxy and Urania Adler began working together, Drace didn’t think much about it. Auxy had worked with other daemons before, and no doubt she would again. And, while the bespectacled redhaired Urania was certainly cute, most objective judges wouldn’t put her over Drace herself. Both were probably a few notches below Auxy, but that’s the nature of themisii sometimes. And besides, the work was fun.

But more and more, Drace found herself left out.

First it was just Auxy asking Drace’s opinion less. Which made sense — too many cooks and all that. Then, it was arriving to start work only to discover that Auxy and Urania were already well into the workday. More than once they were wearing the same clothes they had worn the day before, even. Drace found herself sitting to the side while the two worked more and more closely, clearly having a ball.

After a while, Drace took to taking walks. After all, there was no reason to hang around and watch Auxy and Urania making plans and inspiring mortals to both art and dedication to duty. She took to walking the fields and grounds, along the edges of the towns or cities where the muse and themisad were working.

One afternoon, she made her way down to a broad meadow. And there she met the nymph of that meadow — one of the rare leimakids, called Divia. Divia greeted her warmly and showed her the hospitality of her home, and asked the nemesid what was wrong.

“It… it’s nothing,” Drace said.

“Well, it must be something,” Divia said. “You’re certainly unhappy, and last I knew that needed a cause.” Which isn’t always the case, of course, but this was some time before the quantification of clinical depression.

And slowly, with the application of a decent amount of cheap rum, Drace opened up to the nymph. Half without understanding it herself, she outlined the wonderful life she had before Urania Adler showed up, and the ways that it had all been disrupted by the muse, and how Drace felt tossed aside and alone.

Divia frowned. “Oh, that’s so unfair,” she said. “You should do something about that.”

Drace blinked. “What can I do?” she asked.

“You’re a spirit of divine retribution. By nature, you can retribute, right?” Divia smiled.

“It’s not that simple,” Drace said. “Auxy doesn’t owe me anything. I never told her how I felt, and she never swore to cleave to me. Just because I want to break Urania Adler, throw her from the cliffs to the rocks below, and laugh as she is crushed and broken at the base forevermore doesn’t mean I can.”

Divia snorted. “It should.”

Drace shrugged, helplessly. “That’s not how the rules work.”

“Then you should work inside the rules.” Divia smiled, wickedly. “You can enforce the rules and regulations, even when it disrupts the spirit of what is being done. So, you can sow contention in the work camps, among the humans. They will argue, things will get slowed down, and a wedge will form between Urania’s artistic impulse and Auxesia’s orderly impulse.”

Drace’s eyes grew wide. “I… I couldn’t do that,” she said. “That would be wrong. An abuse of the power entrusted to me.”

“But a legal abuse,” Divia pressed. “It would be simple, really.”

Drace shook her head quickly. “I couldn’t! I couldn’t. How could you even suggest such a thing?”

Divia slowly smiled. “How do you think?” she asked.

Drace’s eyes grew wide. “You’re a kakodaemon?” she asked, backing up and leaning forward, preparing to lash out. Which would be pretty one sided, as Drace was the embodiment of divine retribution and Divia, kakodaemon or not, was the nymph of a field. While both were potent in their own way, Drace had all the advantage when it came to asskicking.

Divia smiled more broadly. “Have I broken a rule, then? Do you get to attack me purely on the basis of my opinion? Why can I be struck and your little rival Urania not?”

That brought Drace up short. Divia had opened her home to Drace, and extended hospitality. Just because the leimakid was a kakodaemon, dedicated to malevolence, didn’t mean Drace could be rude. Besides, Divia hadn’t done anything yet.

“I should leave,” Drace said, after slowly relaxing her combat stance. “I apologize if I acted rudely, but I was startled.”

“I have taken no offense,” Divia said, smiling a bit. “And if you wish to leave, please feel free. But consider this — I can easily conceive of ways you could drive away this… muse and reclaim your beloved Auxesia Phillips for yourself. So the question is… do you want to continue to feel miserable, while doing nothing? Or do you want to seize control of this situation and do something?”

Drace shivered, looking down. “What could I do?” she asked.

“You could come with me to a place where you could make a choice,” Divia said. “You could become like me. And you could begin to act on your own behalf, instead of always kowtowing to the needs of others.”

And Drace was tempted. She was really tempted, because she could see no way to get rid of Urania, and she knew she was actively unhappy now.

But she looked down once more and said “I can’t. Thank you, but no.”

Divia shrugged, smiling. “No problem. I’m not going anywhere. If you should change your mind, come back and see me and I’ll help you take care of it. And good luck, nemesid. Remember that you are strong, and when you are crossed your wrath is legendary.”

And Drace left, somewhat hurriedly. She was concerned over just how tempted she had been by Divia’s offer. She wanted to find Auxy and discuss it with her — and maybe even with Urania. Maybe… maybe this was the time to come clean over everything, and perhaps then something could be done.

When she arrived, there seemed to be a celebration going on. There were a few other eudaemons present, and even a favored humor or two, and of course there were Auxy and Urania.

And their arms were around each other.

“Drace!” Auxy said, bounding over to the nemesid with delight. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!”

“You are?” Drace asked, her heart leaping.

“Yes! You’ve been my dearest friend for so long — you had to be here!”

“For… for what?” Drace asked, her sudden heart leap being replaced by a sudden nosedive.

“Nia and I are expecting a child! We’re going to live together always!”

Drace was shocked into silence. Which Auxy took as approval. And you may be surprised too — after all, as near as can be told, Auxesia Phillips and Urania Adler are both women. However, it is always a mistake to overly ascribe human characteristics to daemons. They were very closely related, and it was certainly within their capabilities to be far more than ‘male’ or ‘female’ with one another. “Its going to be wonderful! Nia looks beautiful already, don’t you think? And soon–”

“You two are… you’re… together?” Drace asked.

“Yes. Oh, Drace, I should have talked with you about it, but it all happened in such a whirlwind and there was never a good time and besides I know that you’re not really comfortable with subjects like that so I figured I would wait until I saw where all this went — and now I have! We’re going to take leave for the term of the pregnancy and we’re going to try to conceive a second child — this one on me — so together we can–”

“That’s… that’s wonderful, Auxy,” Drace said, her face numb. “It really is. I’m…. happy for you both.”

“Drace?” Auxy asked, brow furrowed. “Are you all right?”

“I… not really. I’ve been ill. I might need to go away for a while and be treated.”

Auxy’s eyes grew wide. “Ill? And me prattling on about all this. Drace — what’s the matter? Can I help?”

Drace felt her stomach clench. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “You and Urania have a good party, all right? I’ll see you soon.”

“All right. And thank you, Drace. I’ve never been so happy.”

“I can see that,” Drace whispered.

As the sun dropped down below the trees and twilight began to spread across the land, Adrastia Young entered the domicile of the leimakid Divia once more.

“I’m in,” she said simply.

The journey was long and involved. Divia brought Adrastia to a crack in the very Earth, which they travelled down and in. They walked a very long time, descending in places, ascending in others. Drace thought she was going to one of the various Underworlds, but it became clear that this was a very different place indeed. A place of iron laden stone that looked blood red in the light. A place where chill winds blew. A place where dark figures danced to darker songs. She could hear cackling and screaming from the darkness as they finally entered the great hall, and there Adrastia saw the Master of the Kakodaemons.

How to describe this creature of shadow? Blackness and inkiness spread along his skin like separate creatures, and the angles and joints of his body did not seem to match up. His face was at once compelling and repulsive, asymmetric at best but with a magnetism that made the young nemesid shiver. His eyes seemed to glow with stardust. His fingers seems stained with blood.

“Hello, little nemesid,” he purred in the gloom. “I’m so happy to see you.”

Adrastia shivered. “I should go,” she said. “This was a mistake.”

“Of course it wasn’t a mistake,” the Master said, leaning forward, his spine bending in an alien fashion, as rectilinear and elongate as a serpent’s. “You were distressed at the muse coming in, and sliding around your beloved. Blinding her with words and pretty phrases, and distracting her from the work that needed to be done. Yes?”

Adrastia looked away, unable to face the creature. “Yes,” she said softly. “She… they’re taking nearly a year or more away from the work now. Auxy’s blinded by this… creature.”

The Master leaned back, tendrils of his hair — or something, extending down to brace his head against his chair. “Mm. You’re right, of course. And it’s tragic. But that’s hardly the core of the problem, my dear.”

“It… is?”

“Of course.” The Master darted back forward, lunging as if to bite Adrastia’s head off. Despite herself she shrieked, but the Master paid it no mind. “It’s the humans, Adrastia Young.”

“The humans? What… what do they have to do with it?”

“Everything. Without them, the muses would have no call to interfere with the daemons of Good Order. Without them, the daemons of the world would be free to explore and enjoy life and each other’s company, able to build a world without having to serve some primate who neither understands what we’re sacrificing for them nor has the capacity to care! Without humans, you and your themisad partner would be free to spend your days together — the way that muse has usurped her way into doing.”

Adrastia’s mind whirled. It was incredible, but of course the Master was right. Humanity demanded inspiration and industry, and of course the daemons had to hop-to and do what they demanded. It wasn’t fair — and it led to unnatural combinations. Like the combination of Art and Industry — clearly, the buildings and other engineering works Auxesia Phillips was responsible for were best served by being functional and practical. Urania’s influence just added time and money and useless fripperies, and all on behalf of the humans! Without them, Auxy could simply get her work accomplished and be done with it.

“Do you want to do something about them?” the Master purred.

“Yes,” Adrastia whispered.

“Do you swear yourself to me?”

“Yes,” Adrastia said, her voice firmer now.

“Now and forever?”

“Yes!” Adrastia shouted, her eyes burning now.

The Master chuckled. “I accept,” he said, and with one more lunge forward he tore open her chest and consumed her heart.

It was many weeks or months before Adrastia really recovered, of course. She had a new heart, given to her by her Master. A black thing that pumped a bile that flowed through the newly minted kakodaemon’s veins. And Adrastia began to learn things. New avenues of power, and new ways of looking at things. An animal cunning and an intellect untempered by wisdom. While up in the light Auxesia and Urania had their children. They were a new kind of daemon, called kothars — builders and craftsmen, engineers and inventors, the brilliant merging of the artistic and creative impulse with the practical and orderly impulse. The child Urania bore was called Lloyd. The child Auxesia bore was called Frank. And they were wise and and clever, and almost from birth they began to work, together and separately, to design new and exciting buildings of grace, beauty, strength and purpose.

And other Kothars followed — whether they too were the children of muses and themisii, I cannot answer, but it was clear that these productive and creative workers were well suited to the tasks set before them.

And so it was an autumn day, with the sun high and the air crisp, not far from a point in the real world where an elaborate construction was taking place — a perfect blend of the aesthetic and the utilitarian. I’m not sure what this place was — a hospital, perhaps. Or a school. Or something else entirely. It hardly matters, given what was to come. For this was the day when Adrastia Young, nemesid and partner to the themisad Auxesia Phillips, returned to her duties.

She walked now with slightly more swagger. Her clothes had more red in them, and they fit her better. She smiled more easily before, and seemed less shy. And satyrs, humans and daemons alike were drawn to her as she sauntered to where Auxesia and Urania were consulting on the proper way to inspire the humans to continue their work.

Auxy blinked. “Drace?”

Adrastia smiled languidly. “Well, you’re looking good Auxesia. Married life suits you. If that’s what this is, I mean. Hello, Urania.”

“I… thank you.” Auxy grinned, hopping up to embrace her old friend. “It’s been so long! I almost thought you weren’t coming back!”

“Oh, don’t be silly, silly.” Adrastia’s smile grew. “You can always count on me. So, what’s the current assignment? And when do I get to meet these children you were telling me about before I had to leave?”

And so the three talked, and laughed, and if anything it seemed even better than old times. Urania noticed the remarkable change in the nemesid’s attitude, but decided it wasn’t her place to speak. And Auxesia was so relieved — she had been afraid she had alienated and offended her old friend at the celebration the year before — she excused any differences in behavior out of hand. Besides, she had changed and grown so much in that year that she could hardly believe good old Drace hadn’t.

And good old Drace was all smiles and warmth, looking over the designs and plans and intentions and inspirations. And that night there was a celebration, where she met Lloyd and Frank and the other kothars. And all seemed perfectly well.

And the next morning she slid among the working humans, and she began to do her job. Only where before she sought to redress infraction and offense within the spirit of the project and intent, now she found her ammunition in the strict letter of the rules and laws. And so she began to punish those who stepped out of the bounds of proper workplace behavior — especially those who didn’t do things by the book to more easily facilitate the artistic side of the project. And workers, having the unseen and ineffable wrath of the nemesid visited upon them, were driven back, forced back on their ‘proper’ course, or even took sick or quit the project entirely.

Had Drace the eudaemon succumbed to the temptation to interfere with Urania and Auxy’s projects, she might have stopped there. But Adrastia the kakodaemon had been given a cunning, and so she went and worked her will on the other side… punishing other workers who pushed their work forward with no regard to the aesthetic demands of the position. Those who would make the structure plain and useful, with no soul or beauty. And so they too found themselves going out of their way to correct — or overly correct — their behavior, gilding the lily and losing time on the meat of the project.

And the humans involved began to quarrel. Those who had been burnt for missing regulations didn’t want to hear about the artistic concerns of those who were burnt for forgetting the beauty of the structure. Resentments began to form. Fights began to break out. More and more foremen were called to manage and contain the anger of the workers.

The muse and the themisad were at a loss to explain it. They tried to spread appropriate inspiration though the work camp, but if anything their efforts to inspire orderly behavior and artistic expression just added fuel to the fires. That night, Urania Adler sat outside the tent that she and Auxy called home there on the site.

Adrastia dropped next to her. “Hey sunshine,” she said. “Why so glum?”

“It was all going so well,” Urania said softly. “I don’t understand why things… boiled over today.”

Adrastia rested a hand on the muse’s shoulder. “Come, Urania,” she murmured. “You know Auxesia loves you. And you know she believes in this project.”

“I know.”

“I mean, you can’t blame her for being who she is, can you?”

Urania blinked, and looked up at the nemesid. “Excuse me?”

Adrastia smiled sadly. “Urania, she’s a themisad. The incarnation of Good Order. She is the perfect embodiment of punching a time clock and getting things accomplished on time and under budget. Of course on occasion that’s going to cause friction when it comes to art. I mean, art doesn’t really punch a time clock, does it?”

“Well… no, but….”

“And so it’s to be expected that sooner or later the humans she inspires will lose track of the real vision of the work. After all, to them it’s just some building. And honestly, in the end are they wrong?”

“Wh– of course they’re wrong,” Urania said, brow furrowed. “Art is more than just… just some casual frippery. Art gives meaning, and context. Art gives inspiration and hope and soul. That can’t just be cut out to make room for some arbitrary schedule!”

“Oh, come on,” Adrastia said. “You know that Auxy’s just doing her best to keep things on track. In the end, what’s more important? That the walls stay up or that they look pretty when they fall over?”

“It’s more than looking pretty,” Urania snapped.

“Okay, okay — forget I brought it up,” Adrastia said. “I’m sure you’re right and I’m sure Auxy will understand and agree.”

“She better,” Urania said. “Excuse me. I need some air.”

“You’re excused,” Adrastia said, smiling as she watched the muse leave.

“–understand why they’re fighting each other,” Auxesia said. “Honestly, Drace — you’re the spirit of retribution. Who do we need to strike down to get things moving again?”

“Well, it’s not really that simple,” Adrastia said to her old friend. “I mean, honestly this is probably to be expected. I mean, you can’t expect them to follow a plan that closely. Art demands a certain freedom of expression.”

“Freedom of expression?” Auxesia frowned. “We’re building a building, not painting a fresco. If the building collapses, the art goes with it! You have to build a foundation before you can be experimental above it!”

“Look, I’m sure that Urania will perfectly understand that the good order of the work needs to be followed before any showing off or artistic flourishes are thrown in. I mean, honestly — shouldn’t she just let you guide the project to its initial completion, and then let her artists pretty it up when we know it’s going to stand more than an hour?”

“It’s not that simple. Some of these plans are very elaborate, Adrastia.”

“Mm. I’m sure they are.”

“What does that mean?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Come on, Drace. It’s me. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Adrastia sighed. “They’re only elaborate because she wanted you to make them more elaborate. I mean, what’s more solid? A simple, time honored design? Or some new and elaborate design that you think will stay up, if everything is just right….”

Auxesia rubbed her eyes. “This is a disaster. No wonder the humans are beginning to crack. We need to fix this. Right away.”

“Of course you do. And of course Urania is going to understand and go along with this.”

“She better,” Auxesia muttered.

Needless to say, the ‘serious discussion’ the themisad and the muse had the next day quickly became a full on screaming fit. A night’s contemplation, followed by the muse coming in ready to demand a reworking of the schedule for aesthetic concerns while the themisad was ready to demand setting artistic issues completely aside until the practical work was done, led to the pair screaming and throwing pottery at each other within two hours.

Adrastia watched from a distance, only taking time to wreak yet more surgical vengeance against the humans. This in turn only made the eudaemons angrier and angrier, as it was clear what should be done to save the work, only some people couldn’t see it.

Within the week, whether the eudaemons could see a resolution or not, the humans had a resolution of their own — the city elders pulled the plug on the project, leaving only the barest elements of the initial construction standing. They stand there today, a mixture of solid supports and unimaginable beauty, but lacking purpose or even the means of determining what the structure would have been used for in he first place.

But this is not the story of the building per se. Though it was a trigger point. Because the other muses and the other themisii gathered in the wake of the disaster, and what had been an argument between partners and lovers had become a free for all between two different unions.

Divorce, such as it was, was inevitable. And was supported by the sisters of both daemons. And in the divorce, it was made clear and explicit that art was all fine and good, but industry had more pragmatic concerns, and so the two would only touch on each other when absolutely necessary.

And the muses left going in one direction, and the themisii went in the other. And Urania Adler went with her sister muses, and Auxesia Phillips went in the other.

As for Lloyd, Frank and the kothars? They didn’t understand what their parents were on about, and ultimately they decided to make their own way in the world. And so they stepped forth, the perfect builders and craftsmen, and they found themselves in demand throughout the back ways and backstage areas of the world, constructing buildings of tremendous beauty and imagination resting on solid bedrock fundamentals. And some of that leaked through to the world as we know it, leading to that most artistic of engineering disciplines, architecture, truly continuing to be the bridge between the aesthetic and the pragmatic.

Adrastia went with Auxesia, of course. “Stupid cow,” she said to Auxy. “You’re better off without her.”

“Yeah,” Auxy said, staring out the window.

“Right! What’s our next project, then?’

“There isn’t one.”

Adrastia blinked. “Excuse me?”

“There isn’t a next project. I don’t want to do this any more.”

“But… but you can’t just stop,” Adrastia said, shocked. “You’re a themisad!”

“I don’t believe in good order any more. I don’t want to do this any more. Excuse me, Drace.”

And the themisad left, to seek out the Thesmophoros, the Law Bringer, who was responsible for the arbitration of the divine and the profane, the spiritual and the banal. And when she met with the Thesmophoros, she asked to be given some other role — something where she could put her natural order to good use without having to be creative in any way. Because she had truly loved Urania Adler, and the hole left in her heart was too big to simply wish away.

And the Thesmophoros took pity, and arranged for Auxesia to be the chief of staff for the Duke of Monotony, where no creative flashes ever broke through the day to day hum drum. And so Auxesia buried herself in these new, utterly banal tasks and soothed her pains there.

And Urania too sought the Thesmophoros, because she couldn’t imagine continuing her work with so much of her soul torn out, and she too was reassigned — in her case to the logistics end of the Marquis of Rainbows, keeping the various art supplies necessary to such work always at hand and full.

And the seeds were sown for the divisions between the muses and the themisii, along with the allies of both sides lining up. These divisions would grow, and complaints would grow with them, until they came to a flashpoint that led, ultimately, to the creation of the kharites, the division of artistic appreciation from art itself, and potentially to the destruction of the human race.

And Adrastia Young found herself alone. Having successfully driven Urania and Auxesia apart, she found herself without either of them. Auxesia hardly needed a partner to maintain the routine in the Estate of Monotony, after all. Which meant that far from getting her chance to truly, truly reconnect to the woman she was convinced she loved… she would never see Auxy again.

Needless to say, as a kakodaemon of inexorable divine retribution, Adrastia visited horrific vengence upon Divia. This was to be understood — kakodaemons were well known to turn on each other at the drop of a hat. But after that was done, as with all true kakodaemons, Adrastia could not blame herself for what happened. She was not capable of that level of personal responsibility. And as she dared not blame the Master and there was no use or vengeance to be taken in blaming either Urania or Auxesia, she elected to blame the humans who after all were at the center of it all.

She still blames us, to this day. And so she flits from place to place, boardroom to boardroom, college campus to garret to symposium. And where Art and Industry threaten to enter true collaboration, she quietly and surgically finds those regulations or rules that are being bent juuuust enough to justify her retribution. And with the singlemindeness of a goat and the subtlety of a weaver, she drives collaboration into committees and finally into collapse. Art, where it’s allowed at all, is a secondary concern following the real work being done. And when art is the point, anyone who tries to merge the practical or pragmatic with it has to cope with cries of “sellout” at the best.

But through it all, there remains those few humans, muses and themisii who manage, very very quietly, to work together. And sometimes they have a kothar helping them as well. So, while we don’t live in the paradise that the merging of art and industry could have given us, with every device and structure both beautiful and practical in a perfect dance and harmony, we do sometimes see an object or an edifice that is truly inspiring and truly pragmatic, with no way to tell where the aesthetics end and the utility begins. And when we see those isolated triumphs, he murmur to ourselves “there. That is what it is supposed to be. More things should be like that.”

But don’t murmur it too loudly. Adrastia Young has sharp ears, and when she gets your scent, she never, ever gives it up. The easiest thing to do is to continue to live in a world where ‘utilitarian’ and ‘artistic’ are antonyms.

Still, that’s a question we’re missing in the lexicon, so it makes some sense that this week we would in fact answer two questions. And as it turns out, there are three — count them three — questions that directly correlate to one another.

The first of these questions comes from Filipe Cadete, who asks us:

Pigeons. How come those flying disease vectors and overall polluters are fed by thousands of people all over the world?

The answer, of course, is “ninjas.”

But that leads us to a question by long time reader, friend, and Superguy-gadabout-town LurkerWithout, who asks us:

Ninjas. Why the hell them and not one of the other pseudo-religious/mystic cults of killers?

And the answer to that is, as you can imagine, is “Manannán mac Lir,” sea god and psychopomp of Manx mythology.

Oh, this surprises you?

Well, we’ll elaborate on all of this soon enough. Because we still have a third question that was asked, in direct response to LurkerWithout, this time by Joel Wilcox:

In addition to Lurker’s comment: Why pirates vs. ninjas?

See, now we’re getting into details and that means that really, we should just be starting the myth already and not being all stressed out about the whys and wherefores. And that brings us, inexorably, to:

Manannán mac Lir and the Isle of Ninjas.

For those of you who follow these myths, you know we don’t often talk about the myths of old. Well, that’s not true. We talk a lot about nymphs and nereids and eudaemons and kakodaemons and the like. But we don’t talk much at all about Zeus or Thor or Thoth.

There are many reasons for this. Licensing, for example. And questions of libel. One wouldn’t want to write a myth comparing Freya to Ishtar to Aphrodite, for example, because there’s a very real chance you’ll offend one, two or all three of them, and if you can think of something more frightening than offending one to three goddesses, then thank you for reading my blog, Stephen King.

But more pressing a reason is… well, these are the myths of old we’re discussing, and the series is called the mythology of the modern world. It’s not that these Gods don’t all still exist. For the most part they do. But that doesn’t mean they’re still doing the full divine thing. Oh, they still interact with humans. They still give revelations and nudge events for those who know how to ask properly. But they don’t smash continents with their wrath or make grand gestures any more. That sort of thing they license out to television and the movies.

(If you’re wondering why Hera let Hercules: the Legendary Journeys portray her so unflatteringly? The answer involves a lot of zeroes and significant real estate holdings. If you’re going to live forever? Live well. But I digress.)

One god who remains an exception to this rule is the aforementioned Manannán mac Lir. In antiquity, he was known as a sea god, a god of mystery, a psychopomp who directed the dead to their destination… and as the first ruler and continuing presence upon the Isle of Man. Which is itself an interesting place, as it is at the absolute center of the British Isles, with almost the same distance between it and Northern Ireland, Scotland and England. This is mac Lir’s domain and ancestral home, and to this day the Manx people still pay mac Lir a ritual rent each year, and the Triskelion — referring to the mac Lir’s defense of his lands by becoming a huge three legged wheel of destruction — remains one of the core symbols of the island.

However, the ‘Isle’ of Man is in fact more than one island, with the Calf of Man, Fort Island, Kitterland, Chicken’s Rock, St. Patrick’s Isle, Conister Rock (the legendary Tower of Refuge) and others known. So too was it known that mac Lir himself held sway over more islands than just the Isle of Man. As psychopomp, mac Lir would ferry his charges to the Isle of the Dead, where he continues to have property, as an example. The Isle of Storms was his, as was the Isle of the Mists. And mac Lir is the Lord of the Isle of the Mists Between The Worlds, which is not to be confused with the Isle of Mists itself. Which means that as one passes between the realms, the outer world, the ‘real’ world, and the backstage areas and back routes of the world we like so much, one is passing through Manannán mac Lir’s territory.

The thing is, mac Lir has islands that don’t get a lot of press. After all, the Isle of Man is one thing, and the Isle of Storms or the Isle of the Dead is quite another… and compared to those, the Isle of Fruit Poptart Processing just seems banal. Sure, mac Lir himself enjoys the Isle of Naturally Occuring Hot Springs as much as the next person, but the Isle of Drizzle is at best an unproductive tourist spot in the Backworlds. And then, there are the Islands he commands which have to remain secret, for interests of security.

Which is where the Isle of Ninjas comes in.

I know you don’t consider Ninjas Celtic, Dr. McNinja aside. That should have been your first clue — obviously, so secretive and mystical a society wouldn’t allow its true origins to be even remotely public. At the same time, they needed to effectively root themselves in the so-called real world, which meant they needed a place to be ‘from.’ So, back in the fourteenth century, with mac Lir’s blessing, they made their way through the backways of the world and began to build a reputation in Japan. But in the process, they first were trained in many ancient arts of misdirection and assassination by the mac Lir, his wife Fand, and many other figures in myth and legend. He taught them the secrets of using the mists to conceal themselves — best known in the movies as tossing down a ‘smoke’ bomb and vanishing in its wake. He taught them the ways of misdirecting and passing through scenes without being seen. He taught one or two of them to become a three legged wheel, but that doesn’t make for good cinema.

And he taught them espionage and infiltration, which brings us back to mac Lir and the world. You see, most divinities were scaling their activities back over time. One can make references to the rise of Christianity and other such religions, or secularism and the Enlightenment, and I’m not going to debate why they did what they did. What, you think I want Apollo mad at me? Skin cancer’s no joke. But while this was going on, mac Lir was, quietly, expanding his spheres of influence. And with the rise of modern culture, of cities and steam (and what is steam if not the harnessing of the sea to do work), of urban culture and of espresso (and what is espresso if not the harnessing of steam to become awesome?), Manannán mac Lir has quietly made his operation global.

What his goals are and, indeed, what he is doing is beyond the scope of this essay. It is known he has something to do with the ferrying of the dead, though it is a mistake to think that Psychopomp station and the light rail lines belong to him. Though he does possess a fare card that seems to work on any mass transit system on Earth, and one of the fastest ways he can travel the globe is through judicious transfers. It is known that the boundaries between the real world and the backstage of the world — the back routes and byways — are somehow connected to the Isle of the Mists Between the Worlds, which means that as people duck between the two worlds, somehow there are tolls being levied by the mac Lir.

Whatever Manannán mac Lir is doing — it’s big. And the ninjas of the Isle of Ninjas are at the heart of it. Wherever humanity gathers, the ninjas are there, watching and learning and preparing to strike at their master’s command.

However, the core of Ninjitsu — the very essence of being of this ancient order — is being unnoticed and unseen. Which means actually running around all the cities of Earth in black wrap pants and hoods is actually not an effective means of concealing your activities. But once again, the public face of the ninja is a dodge. A hint, but nothing more. Because one of the darkest, most complete arts of the ninja is transformation, and that is at best hinted at in the legends.

It is, of course, a rather common element of the legends of the Celts. And indeed, the art of transformation was not originally mac Lir’s to teach. That belonged to his beautiful bride — Fand, Queen of Fairiekind, Tears of the Sea and Pearl of Beauty. Fand is well known in the myths and legends of the Celts and Irish as having the power to take on the form of sea birds in flight, and this informed her training of ma Lir’s ninjas. However, sea birds only really work as a disguise in coastal societies like the Isle of Man, Ireland or the like themselves. In order to truly disguise the invisible warriors, spies and assassins, they needed to find another form. One that would be accepted wherever man congregated. And in true form, the ninjas would hide among the peasantry, even as they did in Japan.

The most peasant of birds, known throughout every city and most towns where mankind has settled, is the pigeon. They seem to spread as quickly as civilization, and they are so ubiquitous as to be invisible. Which makes sense, really, since Manannán mac Lir can easily arrange for transportation to any new gathering place or overly large town, and the ninja is nothing if not unnoticed.

Of course, ninjas have pride. And notice ill treatment or violence. And also, fair or not, reward those who act with kindness and respect towards them. And while mankind may not have consciously realized that the pigeons that seem to plague public spaces are actually deadly ninjas, but they did notice the occasional flurry of mysterious assassinations, arsons, and clever humiliations of public figures. In the early days of urban life, it was thought this was just how things went in cities, and indeed this was used as a primary argument for a return to a simpler, more agrarian lifestyle. It was a refrain that William Wordsworth often returned to time and again in his poetry, remarking upon the beauty of nature and its unsullied innocence, while within the squalor of the cities one might find themselves slain by a clever blowdart fired, perhaps, from a marsh reed or had one’s throat cut by some curved blade which, when the constables investigate later, appears to be some kind of sickle or farming implement.

It is worth noting these passages were generally edited out of the Lyrical Ballads.

However, some of the elders of some of the villages just on the cusp of cityhood had learned — as elders often do — that the best way to appease such matters would be to befriend and be kind to the pigeons which collect in the city parks and squares, and after some time it became a regular habit. Soon, ‘pigeon fanciers’ were raising the actual birds and training them, and being kind to and feeding the wild pigeons — which is to say the ninjas — they would find in the parks.

Today, the process is more or less unconscious — the better cared for the pigeon population, the quieter the streets and the fewer sword and tiger-claw based injuries reported in the emergency rooms. Completely without realizing it, these good souls help to protect their homes and communities from the cold breath of the hidden assassin and clever spy.

At the same time, it’s clear to all involved just how pervasive Manannán mac Lir’s modern influence is. There are pigeons wherever one goes, on every continent and in every town. At one whispered word from the Lord of the Sea and the Guardian of the Blessed Isles, thousands — tens of thousands of dark clad warriors would rise up from their feathery disguises, ready to strike fear and death where they silently step. As it stands, all the governments of mankind could be eliminated in one fell swoop — a true night of the long knives, where ninjas outnumbered politicians and policemen alike by a frightening multiple, plunging humanity into a new dark age.

Which may be why pirates as a whole do not like ninjas. It is known that no less august a pirate lord (or privateer, as the histories call him) as Sir Francis Drake, when sailing his mighty Golden Hind across the Atlantic, did make landfall upon an uncharted misty isle where he found himself contending with dark clad warriors with an almost legendary cleverness. And it is well known that after that voyage, Drake never spoke a serious word where a pigeon could be seen, There is also some thought that as Pirate strongholds in the Spanish Main grew to cities and ports, the sea birds seemed to grow thick and pigeons appeared as if sprouting from the ground. And more than one pirate was particularly fond of squab, which couldn’t have helped matters.

Of course, modern pirates are more known for their place in boardrooms and law offices than on the Spanish main. But the captains of industry are civic leaders, which means that the ninjas are watching them all the closer… and no pirate likes having his secrets compromised.

As for the mac Lir and his beautiful wife, Fand… their ultimate goals remain shrouded in mystery. They are old gods, having predated the Tuatha Dé Danann they are most familiar with, and their power is potentially terrible.

But it is a power they have not chosen to exercise. Indeed, mac Lir is as much trickster as psychopomp, and it is known he travels the rails and the seas to this day. He and Fand were last credibly known to reside in Seattle in the early nineties. mac Lir is thought to have made the goatee popular, and there are reports that they were in a number of bands and for a while Fand was working as a studio musician — generally on the Bass though she apparently is a fine hand at the electric mandolin. And of course, the mists are thick around Seattle, and sea birds and pigeons alike dart along the streets, and the mass transit system is particularly effective and the morning commutes actually take place on ferries over the sea, here and there.

Still, that was well over a decade ago, so it’s entirely possible they have moved on, and so of course shall we. But in the meantime, when you pass a pigeon in the street, think about tossing them a crumb or two, or a bit of popcorn if you have it. And if your friend makes jokes about rats with wings, try not to agree with him, at least where the pigeon can hear. Certainly, it’s possible it’s just a bird… but all too many amateur comedians have felt the hair on the back of their necks stand on end in the dead of night, knowing with a strange certainty that they are being watched… only to whirl and see nothing beyond their window, and hear a cooing sound in the distance, and get the strange feeling that now ‘they’ know where they live, and that perhaps their affairs should be put in order soon.

This story was written on IM, actually, and was written jointly by action fiancee Wednesday White and I. In fact, the conversation you’re reading here is almost verbatim what we actually IM’d to one another. Needless to say, this story means a lot to me.

And, like many good myths, it does answer a question:

Why are there thunderstorms? And dust bunnies to boot?

This one means a lot to me. And it was well received — as evidenced by the following children’s book cover a ‘Tayley-Chan’ designed for it. Click for full sized — and it’s totally worth it:

One last thing. This story was tweaked very slightly for this version. A good man and a good friend was legitimately hurt by a bit included to be a bit silly the last time, and that’s not what this is for. The curse should be off this one, so when he rereads it (and I hope he does — he reads Banter Latte), I hope he’ll find it less discordant.

For Weds, and her for me, and now we share it once more with you: The Princess and the Wyverns.

*** *** *** ***

Would you think less of me if I asked you for a bedtime story?

What sort of bedtime story? I ask purely because… well, I was about to go to bed.

Something brief but reassuring. If you’re going to bed yourself, no worry.

Well, but I like reassuring. What nature of story? Or genre?

A fairy tale sort of thing. Princesses. That kind.

Hmmmmmm.

Plucky urchins are also acceptable.

Oooookay. Give me a couple of seconds to consider….

‘k. Thanks.

It’s just started raining here.

Envy. The rain gave up here about a day ago and it’s been warm for no good reason. Instead, we get birds. Birds and sunrise.

This is a driving rain. Hard rain on pavement, yet soft on grass. The kind of rain that washes the air as it slides to the ground.

The right kind.

Indeed.
Of course, you know why rain like that falls, don’t you?

No.

It’s because of the Viscountess of the Northwesterlies, of course.

I’m unfamiliar with her.

It’s convenient, then, that I’m telling you about her, isn’t it?

Indeed.

The Viscountess, as with her mother before her, and her mother before her, and her father before that (there being some confusion as to the proper description of a matrilineal line), is the lady of the estate of the Northwesterlies, a Cumulous sort of affair — which is a Latin word meaning heap, which derives from the Latin word cumulus, which is of course a number of clouds. Which perfectly describes the estate of the Northwesterlies, which are founded within absolute heaps of clouds.

And this is where the problem lies. You see, there is rather a lot of upkeep needed to keep layers upon layers of cloud clean and manageable and presentable. It’s rather a full time job even with an estate full of servants. And it takes dedication and concern not to make a right dingy mess of the whole affair.

(For the record? Clouds that aren’t properly kept up ultimately become the raw material of dust bunnies. Though it involves a certain purifying process as they go from sky to under the bed. Needless to say, no matter how pleasant a dustbunny might be, you wouldn’t want a cloudful of the raw stuff floating around the sky. For one thing, think of the poor allergy sufferers.)

(But dust bunnies cause allergies too, even from under the bed.)

(Yes. Now imagine if they were raining allergies down from the sky constantly. There isn’t enough Allerga in the world to handle that.)

(Eek. Indeed not.)

So. it’s an important duty, which is why a Viscountess was assigned to it generation after generation. And generally it went well, until the accession of her Right Honorable Lady, the Viscountessa Northwesterley Laurial.

Who, at about the time she took up the Viscountess’s tiara, was a right brat.

That’s allowed?

Well, that’s the problem with a matrilineal system. Sometimes a brat or three squeak through.

Eek. That’s not right.

It’s considered a step up from a patrilineal system, however, which seems to lead to total nutjobs.

Well, yeah. Boys.

Anyhow. Laurial was not know for her diligence to duty. Quite the opposite, really. She liked to lie about, watching Magic Mirrors (trashy programs at that), eating bon bons and letting paperwork pile up unattended for weeks at a time.

“I am the Viscountessa Northwesterley,” she was wont to say. “And I don’t eat peas if I don’t want to. I don’t have to make my bed if it doesn’t please me to do so. And as for cleaning the cumulus — I’m certain I have better things to do with my time.”

Which leads to downfall. (Although she’s right to refuse peas.)

Well, naturally it leads to downfall. Because obviously, dust and gunk began to clock up the cumulus. It became dingy and grey, not fluffy and white. The gentle slopes and rolling white fields became treacherous and slippery and full of portent.

Big, big clouds.

Big and dark and grey, with rumblings and flashes… you see… when you have bits of the dust and the like, underneath a bed, you get bunnies, which cause allergies but aren’t very harmful. There isn’t that much dust and gunk, after all. And dustbunnies can be taught several entertaining dances, and are noted connoisseurs of smooth sandwich spreads.

But in the Cumulus, you don’t have bits of dust. you have great heaping gobs of it, and you don’t get bunnies from gobs.

What do you get?

You get wyverns of grey smoke and dust, with flashing, hissing lightning stingers on their tails. Gigantic beasts, who think nothing of chomping up a person or three and wreaking havoc upon the countryside below. Beasts who wouldn’t care about the very finest of sandwich spread, and, if pressed, would take chunky anyway.

The unrefined.

Indeed.

Now, there were a goodly number of servants and peasants and artisans in the Cumulus before all this happened. The Northwesterlies were known for culture and hard workers, and they kept things clean. but Laurial had distracted them with orders and demands — she had them cooking for her and dancing for her entertainment and sewing her new clothes and rearranging the furniture and standing juuust right to improve Magic Mirror reception. And so none of the work that she was supposed to be responsible for was getting done, and the dust and gunk and goo was clogging things up and the clouds were getting greyer and greyer. Then one day, the wyverns began to rear their serpentine heads, hissing, their tails flashing with lightning that split down to the ground.

And the servants and artisans and peasants of the Northwesterlies looked up and saw the wyverns — saw them getting closer and getting stronger — and collectively said, “Oh, no freaking way.” And they got out of town as fast as they could.

Laurial, unfortunately, was sleeping late, as was her wont. So her first indication that she was suddenly alone in the Northwesterlies was when she woke up and discovered there was no breakfast made. Nor anyone to make it. And after a long period of grumbling and the breaking of the coffee maker — it’s not particularly easy to figure out a coffee maker when you’ve never actually used one one before — Laurial put on her traveling clothes and tromped out to the estate to start slapping people and otherwise demanding a reckoning.

Of course, she didn’t get nine feet out of her castle before she discovered that A) there were no people to slap, B) there were wyverns, and C) the wyverns were entirely too large and hostile-looking to slap.

And so, like any smart person who’s discovered she’s way in over her head, she ran into her castle and locked the door. She didn’t think to ask the wyverns if they knew how to work the coffee maker, which is something of a pity since wyverns pull espresso like champs. But that’s neither here nor there.

She probably only had a basic drip machine, anyhow.

Almost certainly. And she’d broken it besides.

So. Trapped in her castle, Laurial had an opportunity to consider what she had done wrong up to that point. She figured out relatively quickly that the lack of cloud maintenance and cleanliness had led to the rise of the Wyverns, but as the people who were trained in cleaning the dust away had all run away, and the Viscountess herself had never received more than the most formal of training with a feather duster (far more for ceremonial purpose than anything else), it looked like things were going to get bad.

So she’s toast?

Well, not yet. It’s a good castle, you see. Made of solid dolomite — and that’s one bad mother building material. So the Wyverns grew and grew outside, feeding off the dust and gunk that continued to collect and spread, slamming their lightning tails, smashing the buildings of the estate other than the castle, cracking lightning stings down to the ground below — generally making a mess of things.

But if she hides, and the people are gone, it’s not going to be a sustainable situation.

Well, the story isn’t done yet — and besides, the dust that gathers comes from all over the world. So who knows how much will collect or how many wyverns will rise up out of the gunk or how big and mean they’ll get — especially if they have no espresso machines.

Forty.

Forty wyverns?

Yes!

It’s a big number.

Mmm. Yes. Yes, that sounds about right. And of course, forty wyverns would cause a lot of trouble, not only for what was left of the Northwesterlies, but for all the other clouds and indeed for the whole world.

And Laurial knew it. And knew she had to do something. For her land. For her castle, for the world.

But mostly because she only had so much food in that place, and besides, who wants somewhere between one and forty wyverns tearing up the hedges and howling at the doors all day and night?

After a while she got on person-to-person crystal ball service, to try and call in some favors. But, because she’d been such a brat, none of the other duchies, counties or earldoms wanted to give her the time of day. They figured so long as the wyverns stuck to the Northwesterlies, why should they worry? Which was short sighted of them, but what can you do?

It’s what they get for bringing up a narcissistic viscountess.

Well, there is that, certainly.

Finally, however, Laurial managed to get a call in to the Spirit of the South Wind herself. Southy had gone to finishing school with Laurial, and while she didn’t much care for brats in general or Laurial in particular, she had been raised to be courteous and helpful to all people.

In the annals of the kingdoms of the sky, such people are called “suckers” or “soft touches.”

Laurial explained what had happened to Southy, and to her credit didn’t try to shift more than one third to one half of the blame on the townsfolk and peasants who had left.

Well, they did leave.

On pain of being stung and devoured.

Details.

Southy listened. She considered carefully, and she said, “All right, Laurial. It all comes down to getting your clouds nice and clean, so that the dust and gunk and the wyverns are all cleaned away.”

“But how can I clean the Northwesterlies all by myself?” Laurial moaned. “It takes thousands of workers and peasants to do that. With my people fled, I would have to hire migrant workers and strike breakers, and I think the AFL-CIO’s just waiting for an excuse to unionize my whole operation. What can I do?”

And Southy took pity on Laurial, and sent a zephyr to deliver a very special flute to the girl.

Flute?

Yes. Well, more like a pennywhistle or a musical pipe.

So, not classical.

No.

“Take this to the very highest tower of your dolomite castle,” Southy said to Laurial. “Once there, step onto the roof. It will expose you to the wyverns, so you must be very brave. And then, begin to play. Play with all your might, and the flute’s magic will whisk away all the dust and dirt and gunk, and the wyverns with it. Your lands will once more be clean.”

And Laurial took the flute, and climbed the many many circling stairs up the tallest tower of her castle. Higher and higher she climbed, counting the stairs as she went to help keep her bravery awake. For she knew that at the top, she would have to see the wyverns once more.

And their taste in sandwich is suspect.

Wait. They have a coffee maker, but no elevator? The tower is inaccessible?!

Yes, well, it was very old, and not built with progressive ideals in mind. Besides, there was a service elevator, but even after all this, Laurial was enough of a brat to not want to take a “service” anything.

And finally, she reached the top, and climbed out onto the roof. And the wyverns (there were thirty-eight at this point, so you can see just how close to disaster we had come) circled and rumbled, their tails flashing lightning.

But in perhaps the first truly selfless moment of Laurial’s life, she did not flee. Instead, she lifted the flute to her lips, and she began to play.

And from the flute came a great torrent of wind and water — water that purified all it touched, and wind that could blow apart even the mightiest of dust wyverns. And as she played a great flood of water and wind frothed all around her, down the castle and over the cumulus, washing away the dust and dirt and gunk that had made the clouds so dark grey, and filtering down into droplets that fell from the sky, forming a driving, hard rain down to Earth. The kind of rain that scrubs the very air as it falls, and lands into mud puddles and slick streets below.

Of course, the wyverns fought back, so even as the rain fell there were flashes of lightning all through the clouds from their tails.

And when the song was done, Laurial looked around and realized that her dark, dingy, grey cumulus had once again become pure, snowy white, as far as the eye could see.

But she also saw that aside from her castle, there was no sign of any other building anywhere. The estate was gone, completely. And she knew that her former servants would never come back — that in the end it would be up to the Viscountess herself to wash clean the clouds, with the song she played on her flute.

And even today, you see some days when the white clouds turn grey and dingy. And you sometimes hear the rumble of the thunderous voices of the wyverns. Because even though Viscountesses come and Viscountesses go, in every boy and girl there lives a little bit of a brat, and sometimes you let even the most important things slide. But when things look darkest for the northwesterlies, the Viscountess still ascends to the top of her tower, and plays her song, and washes the clouds clean with purest rain.

If everyone is gone, how do they make more viscountesses?

Oh, there are arranged marriages and the like. The Kingdom must go on, of course. The current viscountess is actually married to the Earl of Moss. He’s not a bad sort, as it goes. A bit dull, but he appreciates a good cup of tea. And he had a coffee maker of his own to contribute.

Okay. That works.

And, listening out my window, it sounds like the rain has gone down to a drizzle, which makes me think the viscountess has finished her night’s cleanings and rainings, and probably headed to bed. And it occurs to me I should probably do the same, and so should you.

Probably, yeah. Thank you. Dude.

Dude?

I had figured on Cinderella or something. Dude.

Another time.

This week, we get our Myth from long time friend of the writing Kirabug, who asks us:

Why does every small (15lb or less) dog I meet seem to think she’s 150lbs?

Now, interestingly enough, there is a specific answer to the specific question that Kirabug’s asking. That answer is, of course, that Kirabug is to dogs as mushrooms are to Mario. When a dog gets near her, it immediately grows 10 times its size — at least emotionally. So, if I’ve managed to make Kirabug subconsciously hear the theme music to Super Mario Bros. as she walks down the street from now on, I will consider myself a success in life.

But there is a much more general principle at work here. I mean, for such expansive thoughts to be triggered by Kirabug walking by, there is clearly a universal element at work. And we have all seen examples of tiny dogs acting like they’re huge. And for that matter, huge dogs thinking they’re tiny. The animals clearly don’t have a coherent body image, and while it’s easy to think that stems from their brains being far less developed than human brains and therefore incapable of really good complex thought, as it turns out that’s only part of the story. The rest of the story really rests on the story… of Dog Reincarnation.

*** *** *** ***

It might surprise you to consider Dog Reincarnation. After all, there is considerable question of what final destination humanity reaches after they ride the mass transit to Psychopomp Station and get their connecting trains. Do we go to Heaven or Hell? Do we reincarnate? How do our actions affect our afterlife? Is Jack Chick actually right when he says that the worst mass murderer gets to go to Heaven if he finds Jesus in the last twelve seconds before he’s electrocuted, while a kind hearted man who does well by everyone he meets who happens to be an agnostic burns in everlasting torment while being poked by demons who shout Haw Haw Haw? How can that be right?

Given these weighty matters, often the question of dog afterlives don’t even come up. “It’s a dog,” people say. “Who cares!”

The answer is, of course, children. Children want to know what happens to dogs when they die. Well, children and dog owners. It’s hard to be a dog owner. There’s no good theological solace to be found after the passing on of a beloved pet. Children, on the other hand, are naturally curious. I would say they’re more kindhearted too, but I was a child once and I remember that I and all my childhood friends were sadistic bastards who, if there is justice, will have our arms and legs pulled off by giant ants for at least six or seven days after we finally kick the bucket.

But I digress.

Dogs do indeed endure beyond life. And like many — though not all — species on our world, they reincarnate. Each life ends and the next begins, as they seek to generally improve themselves until they reach a peak element and transcend to a new level.

The problem is? Dogs have very small brains comparatively. They are sentient — which is to say they can perceive their environment, conceptualized in specific circumstances, understand reward and loss, and undergo suffering — but they are not sapient. They lack true understanding, true wisdom, true self-awareness beyond the animal basic. This is true in life, and this is true in afterlife. So, when a dog passes beyond the pale, leaving behind his mortal remains and passing through the veils on the karmic wheel to a new life, until such time as they achieve Moksha… there is more than a little difficulty in determining exactly what karma the dog has accrued in his life.

For centuries, judges and spirits tried to determine the balance of positive and negative karma — the yearning for material benefits versus the desire to achieve a far more beautiful and lasting spiritual fulfillment — within their canine charges before setting them through the wheel to rebirth in an appropriate new dog body. However, dogs as it turn out can’t talk. And generally have no concept of time. And have no idea what you’re discussing. And unless they’re actually present at the scene of ancient glories or ancient terrors they underwent, no real sense of the past, those glories or those terrors. Put bluntly: they’re dogs.

Further — what exactly constitutes the evolution of a dog’s soul? For a long time, that evolution seemed to be tied to their ancestors — the spirit of the wolf, or fox, or coyote. However, that was finally rejected. After all, human beings do not get closer to spiritual Nirvana and ultimate Moksha by becoming more like Neanderthals or other primates. There was some thought that perhaps they were striving for the ultimate rejection of their primitive past. However, that way seemed to imply that teacup poodles, chihuahuas and those ridiculous looking Japanese chins were the ultimate incarnation of dogdom, and pretty much everyone rejected this out of hand.

Further, with an explosion in the dog population, there became a real need for dog souls to continue on the cycle as quickly as possible, with little regard to whatever spiritual development the dog did or didn’t have. For practical purposes, at least one older dog soul should be among every dog litter, to help in the education and training of the young — not that they have conscious understanding of this, of course. So, the ‘judgement’ of dogs in the modern world tends to be taking them into the halls of the Karmic cycle, giving them a good brushing, asking the dog “who’s a good boy? Are you a good boy?” and then assuring them that “yes you’re a good boy! Yes you’re a good boy!” There is some throwing of the ball and the soft frisbee, and of course opportunity for treats and eating, and if there’s time a good nap on a sofa.

And then the dog moves back into the world to do it all again.

Which brings us to canine behavior. You see, unlike humans, dogs have a consciousness about their past lives far closer to the surface than you might expect. This might imply some deeper wisdom being accrued over time, but in truth dog brains just aren’t sophisticated enough to have past lives be buried through layers and layers of the subconsciousness. Which means that dogs who’ve undergone a lot of reincarnation can sometimes have a little bit of confusion built into their behavior patterns.

Of course, dogs don’t have conscious conceptualization, so this confusion needs to be triggered by events. A person walks through a door in a room the dog has spent a lot of time in. The dog is, perhaps, a Pekinese, but in his past he was once a German Shepherd painstakingly trained as a guard dog. He immediately goes into defense mode, barking and trying to drive the intruder off, confident that his large body and powerful jaws will give him both the intimidation and the power to back it up.

Which, to the person walking into the room, seems patently ridiculous. It’s a freaking Pekinese, and the only exercise it’s ever gotten was its thrice daily waddle off the back deck to poop and pee.

This is not reserved to small dogs, of course. It can be silly to watch a full grown Irish wolfhound try to climb into a hole that it would have fit perfectly through that time it was a cocker spaniel, only to get its nose stuck, or a great dane get confused, think it’s a toy poodle, climb into its owner’s lap, and crush the hapless soul to death.

It’s not the fault of the dogs. They don’t understand reincarnation. If they did, they’d probably be working towards their ultimate goal.

That ultimate goal is two staged, for those who are wondering. The ultimate dog breed — the one that only the most rarified souls can appear as, is actually the African Basenji. The Basenji is a highly intelligent breed, capable of mimicry and much broader conceptualization than most dogs. It does not bark (unless imitating another dog) but its vocalizations are highly expressive. They are fastidious, cleaning themselves in almost catlike ways and avoiding water lest they become messy. And if not given sufficient entertainment, they will make their own fun, often in destructive ways.

They also can climb over chain link fences, which has some pundits believing that the ultimate evolution of the dog involves burglary.

In this, of course, they are wrong. There is an ultimate stage beyond the Basenji for the dog who achieves the proper spiritual enlightenment. A Dali Lama, if you will. This ultimate achievement gives the dog true consciousness and affability, the ability to conceptualize and advocate, a greatly expanded lifespan and the capacity for both hard work and great fun — which can lead to tremendous success and enjoyment.

In other words, all dogs aspire to reincarnate as television legend Bob Barker.

Only one has achieved this to date, of course, and that was the aforementioned Mr. Barker. Mr. Barker is human, of course, and one would not cast aspersions onto this. But his soul contains multitudes you and I could only dream of. A soul that had a thousand thousand lives as dogs of all shapes, all sizes. Dogs with good lives and bad. Dogs with happiness and pain. Dogs that worked and dogs that played. If you look into his warm eyes you can almost see them — a pack of one.

Mr. Barker is not consciously aware of his past lives, of course. He has always been sensitive to the plight of the pet population, using his various forums to advocate better conditions for all animals. Most famously, he advocates spaying and neutering, being all too aware (if subconsciously) that other dogs will not achieve Bob Barkerdom until the pet overpopulation crisis subsides and their souls are given a chance to seek out true Basenji nature.

The only hints of Mr. Barker’s true origins have come, perhaps predictably, on the Price is Right set. Back in the seventies, for example, announcer Johnny Olson took a shiny red ball away from Barker during rehearsal and Barker instinctively tackled and savaged him. Mr. Barker’s quite innocent dominance behavior around ‘Barker’s Beauties’ led to a number of allegations of sexual harassment. Frankly, I would have sued too.

Later in life, as Barker settled down, his canine instincts receded almost entirely into the background, and he ended a remarkable fifty year run continuously on television just recently. Indeed, the only continuing nod to his past was his continued use of a tethering microphone instead of a wireless, as this had been deemed necessary to keep him from chasing the new cars as they were driven across the stage.

What *really* causes hangovers? It can’t be just drinking, because plenty of people drink them and don’t get them, or throw up the alcohol and do. It can’t just be dehydration because even folk who drink lots of water get them.

Which, you know, is a fair question. I mean, think about it. There’s lots of scientific basis and explanation given, but nothing’s been definitive. They talk about hypoglycemia or B-12 deficencies or God punishing them for sin.

And where there is question, there is a ripe field for myth. Which is, after all, what we do here.

So, let’s do this thing.

Why does alcohol produce hangovers, and why doesn’t it produce hangovers consistently?

We have mentioned before that the spirits of the world are more properly called daemons. And we have seen a lot of daemons in this work. We have seen the nymphs of money and the mermaids of the sea. We have seen the psychopomps on the green line and the union organizers from the spirits of good order. And of course we have seen the dance of muse and kharite, the inspirer of art and the inspirer of artistic appreciation.

We do not mention Mister Shephard and Mister Crook in that list. But that is another story, of course.

We have also mentioned that daemons come in two basic types — the Eudaemons, or beneficial and helpful spirits, and the Kakodaemons, or malicious spirits. Now, if you read almost any fairy tale or storybook, an ugly specter is raised. Not a demon or ghost — something uglier still. The specter of racism.

Seriously. You’ve read the stories. Trolls and ogres are evil. Fairies and sprites and pixies are good. Banshees kill because they like to do it. Sirens sing sailors to their doom. Neriads are helpful and friendly unless crossed.

Don’t believe it. Not for one second. Eudaemons and Kakodaemons can be found in every race and species of spirit and fairy. A redcap might be a bloody killer, but whether or not he’s a malicious one has little to do with his species or his choice in headgear.

But, these associations have come down through the ages regardless. The good fae and the bad fae. The good nymphs and the bad nymphs. All based on race instead of the true defining edge between a eudaemon and a kaodaemon — the heart. Mankind believes it. And sadly, all too many spirits, godlings and daemons believe it. And this means that all too often, evil lurks in the midst of good, leading to pain and corruption.

Which brings us, interestingly enough, to alcohol.

Unlike many inventions and substances in what we euphemistically call the real world, there was no real artifice or metaphor in the creation of alcohol — at least in the creation of the potable beverage variety. Yes, it was brought to our world by the spirits who carried it from the unseen world, and yes the real world had to piece together some kind of scientific process to explain it after the fact, but really that’s just bookkeeping. Alcohol was created by the spirits for the pleasure of mankind and was given to mankind as a gift. And believe it or not, it was done with the best of motives by the nicest of eudaemons.

You see, back in the mists of history, there was a call put forth by the lords and ladies who stood above the spirits of rock and wave and grain. An echo was heard by the Oreads in their caves and the Auloniads in their pastures and vales. A whisper was passed by the naiads in their brooks to the Napaeae who lived in the wooded glens and grottos and by them to the Nereids who lived in the sea.

This call was simple. The world was lush and beautiful and bright, and for their part in making it so, the nymphs of the world were to be commended. And so, there was going to be a truly kickass party.

And so the nymphs ascended to the unseen world, leaving behind their places of mystery. The Dryads, Hamadryads and Meliae left their trees, the Oceanids and Nereids left the sea. The Pegaeae left their springs, the Alseids left their groves, the Limnades left their lakes, the Hesperides left their gardens, and by now you’re sick iof the list so needless to say all the other beautiful, wise and glorious nymphs left their respective homes as well. They gathered on the foothills of Mount Kegger, and they proceeded to have games and spirits and a whole mess of entheogens.

Their entheogen of choice, for the record, was a kind of fermented tree sap they called méli or ‘honey,’ made from the sap of certain sugar ash trees. Which meant, naturally enough, that the Meliae were responsible for bringing the booze to the party. They drank hearty and went wild enough that a commemorative series of Grecian urns depicting them topless in the shower were sold late at night for years.

But as with all really bitching parties, the group reached that time of night where the party slowed down and everyone was feeling mellow. People were sitting back, smoking cigarettes, and talking about how no, I really love you, man. Somewhere in the background, a particularly ambitious Erinye had figured out how to play Tubular Bells on a lyre.

“You know what?” Ceto, one of the Oceanids said, finally. “I figured it out. I mean, I figured it all out.”

“What?” Larunda, one of the Naiads asked.

“Huh?”

“What? What did you figure out?”

“Wh– Ohhhh. Mankind.” Ceto shook her hand. “I figured out mankind. Just now.”

“She is so wasted,” Kyrene, herself an Auloniad, said.

“No no no no no,” Ceto said, shaking a finger. “No. I did it. I figured out mankind. Right now.”

“What about them?” Larunda asked.

“Huh?”

“What did you figure out about Mankind?”

“Oh. I know what they need.”

“What do they need?”

“This,” Ceto said, waving her arms to encompass the whole area. “They need this.”

“Mind-blown overly mellow nymphs whose inhibitions have been taken down with fermented tree sap?” Kyrene giggled. “I’ll bet that’s what they need.”

“No no no. Think about it. Human beings are all so uptight. They need a chance to feel. Like. This.” Ceto grinned. “Because man, I totally feel so cool right now. They should feel this cool. Blow off some steam.”

“You are not going to teach them how to make méli,” Britomartis, one of the Meliae who brought the fermented sap, said firmly. “The last thing we need are a bunch of humans nailing faucets into our trees. Have you seen what those people do to maples?”

Nearby, one of the more powerful Naiads — a nymph named Orseis — wrinkled her pretty brow with thought. “She’s on to something,” she said. “Think about it. Humanity doesn’t really know how to party. They need something to relax them. Something that will lower their inhibitions. Bring their hearts closer to the surface. Give them a release.”

“I’m serious,” Britomartis said. “No fucking méli.”

“All right all right all right,” Ceto said. “No méli. There must be something else we could give them.”

One of the shy Napaeae — whose name has been lost to history — piped up “well, we could combine our natures. Berries and the like from the fields, or grapes. Yeasts. Water from the springs. Do a little fermenting and distilling and….”

There was a long pause.

“Yes,” Orseis said, slapping her hand on the table, which knocked her half cup of méli over. “Of course! We could make up whole batches of beverages that the humans would love, that would be like a méli for them! We could combine them and develop them and cultivate them. We could distill some and age it in barrels of oak to get that nice Dryad nature in them, and give it to the Scots, say.”

The idea caught on like wildfire, and within the hour thousands of overly creative nymphs of all description were busy turning their supernatural natures to the creation of a whole new kind of beverage, meant for mankind.

They had the highest of principles, of course. They wanted to relax us, and calm us, and make us feel good. And it was well known, to both scholars among mankind and among the nymphs themselves, that all nymphs of all varieties were eudaemons. Helpful. Friendly. Kind. Loving. This was well known.

And, as we know, that was also false. Because the choice to become a kakodaemon came from the heart, not from the lineage. And for every ten or fifteen eudaemons among the nymphs, a kakodaemon lurked, quiet and unseen. And as more and more nymphs got involved, those kakodaemons smiled, seeing some chance to spread mischief and have a little fun. And so they added hints and accents to the concoctions. They added addictive qualities here… they added bits of anger and resentment and sulleness there. They added torment and pain, and a loss of control. They coupled a loss of coordination with the loss of inhibition, and they gently nudged those losses of inhibitions to a higher extreme — so that instead of simply making human beings feel good and trust each other more, sometimes there were barfights or unexpected adultery.

These poisons were very, very slight compared to the whole. And while the nymphs would normally have noticed them as they were working on it, it’s worth noting everyone involved was totally wasted on méli. Quality control was somewhat hard under the circumstances.

And so the beverages were brought to the real world, and real world techniques for making them were taught to the humans, as the nymphs whispered the recipies to trusted human beings, confidents, and lovers.

And beers and ales were brewed, and they were good. And wines were pressed and fermented and aged, and they were sweet. And whiskey and rum and vodka and gin spread. Liquor became all the rage, especially at parties.

But the poisons that the kakodaemons slipped into them remained. And so heartache followed in some cases. Liquor made some people angry. Others became depressed. Still others thought they could dance when they were drunk, and that was a sad sight indeed.

But the poisons did not affect all human beings equally. Nor did all drinks cause the same effects. The individual human might be more susceptable to one poison, making him an angry drunk. Another might find himself craving liquor all the time, as the poison wrapped around his liver and his soul. A third might found Depeche Mode.

And some human beings? Well, some human beings are more sensitive to the poisons, and have a very human, very literal reaction to them. The liquor poisons them. In extreme cases, hospitalization has to follow. But far more commonly, they simply feel like sheer, unmitigated Hell when the liquor works through their system and the poison is left behind.

Some people have no sensitivity to these specific poisons, and always feel fresh and cheery the following day. Others aren’t always sensitive to them — sometimes they have seasonal allergies which make them more sensitive, or some other factors that opens their souls metaphysically speaking. Still others always suffer the pains of the morning after.

And of course, these ‘hangovers’ were exploited by those who advocated temperance or just didn’t like parties. They would rail at the suffering men and woman, and mock them, and suggest that they should avoid these things going forward. And so they sowed guilt and anger and arguments about alcohol even when no one was drinking it right then — a very deep poison indeed, causing division where the eudaemons only meant to increase harmony.

The nymphs feel badly that things didn’t work out quite as they’d hoped, but since most of that night was a haze anyway, they didn’t worry overly much about it. For the most part, they got on with their immortal lives and figured that even with the downside that alcohol brought with it, the up side still made a lot of humans happy, and that was okay with them.

As for the kakodaemons?

Set aside for the moment hangovers, as miserable as they made people. Set aside for the moment the indiscretions and embarrassments, from unplanned pregancies through to videos of the office party proving you called your boss a miserable scrotum. Set aside the depressions and the agonies and the interminable Beatnik poetry we ended up having to listen to.

Set all that aside, and consider this. According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, there were 17,013 alcohol related fatalities on the road in 2003 alone. And over half a million injuries.

Statistics like that make a kakodaemon smile an evil little smile. As far as they are concerned, that was one totally kickass party.

It is rumored, by the by, that the Pegaeae — the nymphs of the springs — learned of the poisons and learned of a way to counteract them. So, someone who drinks a large amount of spring water — or, in more practically, any water — will help shield himself from a hangover’s effect. This is because the act of drinking water while drinking or drunk calls the attention of a Pegaea to you. However, as with all the other nymphs, some Pegaeae are kakodaemons instead of eudaemons, and if you should get one of those she’ll likely just make the hangover worse.

It is also rumored that vitamin B-12 helps hangovers. I can’t speak to that, because as everyone knows vitamin B-12 is in the province of the satyrs, and they weren’t anywhere near that party. Still, it’s probably a good idea to stock up on your B complex vitamins anyway.

Regardless, one should remember that the kakodaemons do in fact enjoy making you suffer. And more to the point, they enjoy making you badly injured or dead. So when you indulge in drink, try to do so in moderation lest they have a chance to wreak havoc with you. And don’t turn around and operate heavy machinery — including a car, motorcycle, truck, or folding tandem bicycle — after you’ve been downing shooters, okay? Kakodaemons might like those statistics I quoted, but the rest of us don’t.

Why do we get spam email that’s complete gibberish or random sentences from books strung together?

Streon’s question is a good one. He is careful, by the by, to differentiate between the spam e-mail that uses a block of gibberish like a shield, allowing the spamful content to slide in when we least expect it and tell the wife and children that you can have a large penis and low mortgage rates all at once. No, these are the e-mails that are nothing but sentences from books, nonsense phrases, bits of semi-comprehensible detritus and semiliterate ranting.

It is Streon’s thesis, unstated, that there must be some meaning behind these random e-mails. Some purpose.

As it works out, he’s half right.

Entirely right, I suppose, if one extends the defintion of the word “meaning,” but for the most part I don’t think that’s the right word for it. But that, as you can imagine, is a matter for the myth.

*** *** *** ***

Dale’s background was more interesting than many. He was a linguist, and a computer programmer, and had a solid background in both psychology and sociology. He spoke four languages and could curse in a fifth. He was good at math most people found hard to deal with, and he was a capable and able teacher.

You’ve met Dale, or someone like him. That person who just seems to be good at everything he tries. That person who you’d love to hate, but he seemed so legitimately nice all at the same time. That person who was handsome, charming, committed, reasonable — even heroic in the right circumstances.

Dale’s one failing, if you could call it that, was a persistant belief that one man could make the world — the whole world — a better place. And with that belief came a corralary: one had a responsibility to try his very best to do just that.

In Dale’s case, he saw the internet as the key.

“It’s like this,” he told his friend Sandy. They were out to eat at a Pizza Hut bistro, sharing garlic bread. He had the Chicken Cacciatore. She had bistro nachoes. “What’s the worst problem facing the world today?”

“War,” Sandy replied. “Or hunger. Yeah, hunger.”

“Both symptoms of the same core problem. Try again.”

Sandy frowned. “Population?”

“Indirectly right but not the core of it.”

“Wow, am I sick of playing this game.” She scooped up meat and cheese on a chip.

Dale chuckled. “Sorry. It’s communication.”

Sandy paused. “Communication.”

“Absolutely.” He leaned forward. “Think about it. When two people have a disagreement, at the core they lack a complete understanding of the issue. They lack an understanding of the other guy’s position. They lack empathy for each other’s point of view.”

“You think wars and hunger come from a lack of communication?”

“At its heart? Absolutely.” He spooned up some chicken and marinara. “Think about it. Wars come because two sides have different points of view. Different philosophies.”

“You call ‘I want that land’ a philosophical difference?”

“Deep down, you bet.”

“And hunger?”

“If everyone involved — the hungry people, the producers of food, the distributors… everyone — had a real clear comprehension of everyone else’s position, allowances would be made, production and distribution would improve, and before you know it–”

“You’re nuts,” Sandy said. “People are contrary. They get mad at each other.”

“People get mad because they don’t get each other. If they did–”

Sandy rolled her eyes. “That’s overly simplistic,” she said.

“Yes. Yes it is.” Dale leaned forward. “Because you have to understand — I can’t convey the concepts that I see so clearly in my head to you. Not directly. And you can’t convey your objections clearly to me — not in a way that lets us distill the two sides and find what common ground may be between them.” He leaned forward. “That’s the entire point. That’s what keeps us apart. If we could communicate — really communicate — we would come to a consensus between us. We would understand each other and have some middle ground we could both live with.”

Sandy shrugged. “Sounds a little pie in the sky, but okay. So what do you intend to do about it?”

Dale smiled a bit. “That’s where the net comes in,” he said. “You know from social networking, right? Livejournal? Facebook? Friendster?”

“I’ve been awake and online sometime in the last six years, yes.”

“Look deeper than the surface. These places are a reflection of something innate to mankind. We all have a need, deep down, to form communities. To organize. To find those of like mind, those interested in the same activities, and often possessing the same or similar mindsets.”

“We seek our own kind?” Sandy said, somewhat dubiously. “You sound like an episode of Star Trek.”

“Maybe, but it’s the truth.” Dale smiled a bit. “So, think about the programming and the technology behind eHarmony. Compatibility engines and personality matching. Think about the social aspects of Facebook — the interactive elements. The ways that users are encouraged to play with each other every time they check in. The ways they can communicate beyond simply writing e-mails or instant messages on them.”

Sandy frowned. “It’s… meant to fill in some of the nonverbal cues and gaps.”

“Right. And it’s meant to convey meaning. So. Couple those, and then think about babelfish.”

“Babelfish? Douglas Adams or Altavista?”

“Altavista.”

Sandy shook her head, laughing. “Man, remember when Altavista was going to be the search engine of choice. These days I don’t know anyone who uses it except for babelfi–”

“Not my point.” Dale stabbed chicken with his fork. “This applies as much to any online translator. Or to Google’s ability to translate web pages into other languages. Algorithmic and idiomatic translation is a holy grail on the web, because it fulfills a promise of the web.”

“What promise is that?”

“Global community. A sense that the whole world is one big happy place.”

Despite herself, Sandy smiled a touch. Dale could tell she was interested. “So. What’s your grand plan?”

“It’s not just mine, but the question is — why can’t we develop a real convergence of software and technology on this stuff?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning social networking taken to its logical extreme. Meaning personality and compatibility assessment, interactivity, community building, alternate modes of meaning, and idiomatic translation in real time. It would take years, and a lot of people coming together, but with the internet is there a reason we can’t have an engine for real communication change? A place where meaning and intention can be conveyed, closing the gaps that keep us separate?”

“You’re describing the ultimate website.” Sandy half-smiled. “A place where teenagers from all over the world can come together and pretend to have grammatically improbable sex, regardless of language, race or creed?”

Dale grinned. “At first. But those teenagers grow up, Sandy. And if they’re using it to begin with, by the time they’re twenty… or thirty, or forty… then they’ll have pushed the community or whatever community follows it even farther. They’ll drive evolution and they’ll force it into new areas. What starts as a distraction can become a real instrument of communication. Of negotiation. Of change. And if not this year or next year, then one day it can be an engine that unifies the world — that takes all the cultural and personal variables and conveys them in a form we can understand, so that we can communicate whole intent as naturally as you and I are talking right now.”

Sandy frowned. “I don’t think that’s possible,” she said.

Dale’s smile grew. “You just watch me.”

The sourceforge project was called Minaret. It was open source, and there were any number of interested parties drawn into the concept. Still, at the heart it was entirely Dale’s. He set the development milestones. He coded the engine. He developed the translation algorithms, working to find ways to broaden the code to cover different languages, and then different families of languages. The first alpha had ways to suggest activities. The second took those suggestions and turned them into games. As more people tried it, Dale refined it.

The community grew. Each week brought new development. And each new development brought more people. And more people brought more suggestions and, in some cases, more development. Dale was thrilled. He was working long hours but it was all coming together.

It was inevitable that venture capital would come calling. Different groups expressed an interest. Dale insisted that the source code would remain open, but the community surrounding even the earliest versions of Minaret made money men hungry. Some seed money, some opportunity for Dale to leave his job and work full time on Minaret — some chances for the dream to be given form and make a few bucks in the process? Oh yeah. Dale was down with that.

The most promising meeting came at sundown on a Friday. It was when Dale could get time off to meet the money man, and the money man seemed pretty happy to do it then. Dale got out of his day job. He had a light meal. He got to the meeting on time.

The money man wore a black suit with a red tie. He carried a black mahogany walking stick with a crystal on the end. “Dale? Hi there.” He stood, offering a hand. His handshake was firm, but not overpowering. “I’m Mister Shepherd, of the Shinar Group. Thanks for seeing me.”

“No problem,” Dale said. “You guys seem really interested in Minaret.” He grinned. “It’s kind of a wild feeling, you know?”

“Is it?” Mister Shepherd’s smile was warm and easy.

“Absolutely. I mean… I really believe in Minaret. I really think this can have an impact on the world. I really think that as it develops, everything will develop with it.”

“I know you do,” Mister Shepherd said, not losing his smile. His eyes, however, seemed perhaps a touch sad. Or perhaps it was just a trick of the light.

“And to have you guys come in with an offer — to make this a real company, and make this something that can really happen — happen with server space, with bandwidth, with–”

“We’re prepared to offer you eleven point seven million dollars for exclusive development,” Mister Shepherd broke.

Dale blinked. “What?”

“Eleven point seven million dollars, but you have to agree to develop under our auspices or not at all.” Mister Shepherd leaned back. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”

“The… source code is open source,” Dale said. “Anyone can develop it further.”

“Sure, but the source code isn’t you,” Mister Shepherd said. “Sure, someone else can develop the code, but the real heart and soul of Minaret is you.”

Dale swallowed. “And… you’re willing to offer me almost twelve million dollars… for what? To develop it for your company only? To make it closed source?”

“No, Dale. We’re offering you almost twelve million dollars… to only develop it when we give you the go-ahead.”

Dale blinked again. “I… would need your assurance that you wouldn’t interfere with my ability to keep working on Minaret.”

Mister Shepherd’s smile slipped a little. “I’m afraid that’s the one assurance I can’t give you, Dale.”

“What? Why not?”

“There’s a lot of market factors at work here, Dale. We need to ensure that product development is carefully controlled to ensure that certain conditions remain optimal, now and into the future.”

Dale frowned. “Meaning what? In plain English.”

Mister Shepherd smiled again. “Meaning we’d ask you to walk away from social networking projects for a while. Until things were ready.”

“And you would define when they’re ready?”

“That’s right.”

“And that could be never?”

Mister Shepherd’s smile didn’t waiver. “Dale, we’re offering you eleven point seven million dollars. What are the chances we would pay you that kind of money and then not let you develop your software?”

Dale narrowed his eyes. “I’m pretty sure the chances are pretty good, Mister Shepherd. I’m pretty sure you mean to pour money into this project specifically to make sure I never work on it again.”

Mister Shepherd chuckled. “Do you have any idea how paranoid you sound?” he asked.

“Yeah. But I don’t care. I’m sorry, Mister Shepherd. No deal.”

Mister Shepherd looked at Dale a long moment. And Dale had the sudden feeling Mister Shepherd felt sorry for him. But the moment passed and Mister Shepherd chuckled. “Well, we had to try, Dale. Have a good night.”

Dale thanked Mister Shepherd, and made his way out.

He had almost made it home when he was picked up. It was another man in a black suit. His tie was yellow instead of red. And unlike Mister Shepherd, he didn’t smile at all. He just walked up behind Dale and took his arm. His grip was like a vice, and he walked Dale even faster into Dale’s own apartment building.

“What’s going on?” Dale demanded. “Where are you taking me?”

“Home,” the man said. His voice had almost no inflection at all.

“Let go of me! Help! Help!”

“No one can hear you,” he said, opening Dale’s security door. It was unlocked, even though it was never unlocked.

“What are you talking about? Who are you?”

“My name is Mister Crook,” he said, and opened Dale’s door. He half threw Dale inside.

“What’s going on?” Dale demanded.

Mister Crook looked at Dale, and he began to recite. “And the Lord came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men builded. And the Lord said, ‘Behold, the people is one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.”

“What the Hell? Are you quoting the Bible to me?”

“Genesis,” Mister Crook said evenly. “Chapter Eleven, Verse Five. You should know the story. You of all people* should know the story.”

Dale blinked, pushing himself up. “I don’t,” he said. “If you people are some kind of cult, leave me out of it.”

“You’re already in it,” Mister Crook said, walking into the room and pulling the door shut. “You were the moment you went against the order of things.”

“The order of things?”

“As the Book says, Dale. ‘Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech.’ So the Lord scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city. Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the Lord did there confound the language of all the earth: and from thence did the Lord scatter them abroad upon the face of all the Earth.”

Dale blinked. “Wait… the Tower of Babel? You’re telling me the story of the Tower of Babel?”

“The language of man was confounded and confused, so men wouldn’t know each other’s minds. He was spread all over the world, so he wouldn’t come into one community. Confusion was spread to keep men apart, so they wouldn’t come together and build their tower.”

“But why?”

“Because to build the tower — to come together and really understand each other — is to become as Gods yourselves.” Mister Crook straightened his lapels “And you have to understand. You don’t get to do that without the say-so from the current residents.”

“You’re telling me you work for God? And he told you to stop me? You insane son of a–”

Mister Crook moved fluidly, backhanding Dale, who slid across the floor, pain flooding him.

“Jesus,” Dale half-sobbed.

“Do I work for God? Who is God? Or who are the Gods? Who knows. It doesn’t matter. You’re done with this project.”

“What? You’re going to threaten me? You’re going to kill me?”

Mister Crook snorted. “Of course not.”

“Then what?”

“Same as before,” Mister Crook said, walking to the door. “You would build a community where all language is one and intentions are clear? The result isn’t Minaret, Dale. It’s Babel.” He opened the door. “You’ll find that your needs are attended to. Your fridge will be stocked. You’ll have nice things. The lights and cable will stay on. You’ll even have net access.”

Dale pushed up. “What the Hell are you–”

“Good bye, Dale.” Mister Crook stepped through the door. “For what it’s worth? You would have succeeded.”

By the time Dale reached the door, Mister Crook had already closed it. And when Dale tried to open it, the knob wouldn’t turn, the door wouldn’t rattle… he couldn’t even see light or feel air from underneath it. It was as if the Door were just an odd decoration on the wall.

Dale ran to the telephone and picked it up. The tone buzzed. He punched in 911.

“Boxcar cheese fishmonger,” a bored voice said. “Salmon entrails Arphax’ad horticulture?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The doctor accepted quite readily the theory that Mrs. Vandemeyer had accidentally taken an overdose of chloral,” the dispatch operator said. “Dr. Hall, I am very anxious to find a certain young lady for the purpose of obtaining a statement from her. I have reason to believe that she has been at one time or another in your establishment at Bournemouth. I hope I am transgressing no professional etiquette in questioning you on the subject?”

“Hello? Hello?”

The phone went dead.

And so it went. Dale realized quite quickly that if he made phone calls — whether to friends, to strangers, or to authorities — they would sound like nonsense. Since no one ever came looking for him, he had to assume that he sounded the same to them. His door wouldn’t open, and his windows showed nothing but fog with strange distant lights behind it. And as for the internet….

He could go to any site. He could do whatever he wanted there. But when he added a comment to items or sent an e-mail, no matter how reasoned, when he hit submit it was clear no one could understand a thing he typed. He intuited that his comments looked like more of the same — deranged, almost aphasic ramblings. The same when he instant messaged anyone.

Desperately, he tried to compensate for this in Minaret. Minaret, even in its early alpha state, was designed to make communication and intent possible where normally it would fail. But he discovered to his horror that as he uploaded new modules or packages, those people following Minaret were stunned and shocked at the incoherence in the code. And when he compiled Minaret and uploaded a new version to his server, it became clear that somehow, the very intent behind it had become corrupt. As it worked out, no one could understand each other with his new version. No one at all.

Tearfully, Dale rolled back to the previous version. At least then people could continue to use what he had built. And that seemed to work out for other folks — it lacked the grand design Dale had envisioned, so clearly the Shinar Group didn’t care about it.

And that became the basis of Dale’s last hope. Because the modules were out there, and it was open source, and more to the point the theory was out there. Which meant someone might still work on it. Someone might solve it, maybe working under the radar, before the Shinar Group knew what they were up to.

And he knew, with an almost religious faith, that if someone developed Minaret or something like it… Dale could communicate through it.

And so Dale tries. He tries every day. He sends e-mail out to broad lists of people. Lists he downloads or culls from the internet. Lists he sends out using all the spamming tools he can find. Perhaps he’s gone insane, but he has to cling to that hope — that hope that someone out there has picked up the work. The hope that someone has an algorithm that can figure out what he means to say.

His message is always the same. It gives his name, and his former address, and explains that he needs the help of the reader. That he doesn’t want money — but that the reader’s technology can decrypt, decipher or translate what appears to be ramblings to anyone else, and Dale desperately needs to access it. It is a plea for help, for companionship — for someone to talk to.

Anyone.

Sadly, to this date no one has developed the tools to decipher what Dale is saying in his e-mails. Instead, they come across as bits of novels, or nonsense phrases, or downright insanity. Sometimes spam filters screen them out, but it’s hard to work out if they’re random or not — at least for a machine. So a good number make it through.

Where they are read, and sometimes joked about, and then deleted.

Dale, undaunted, keeps trying. It’s that or watch television all the time, and he can’t do that. He can’t give up. He knows someone will manage it. He knows someone will hear him.

In the end, the core of the problem is always communication, after all.

What I find interesting this time, however, is that two of the recent requests… well, fit together. First was Moe Lane, who is always knowledgable and cool. And he asked, because he wanted to:

If Magick is a matter of Will and Imagination, then why don’t the great writers live forever?

An excellent question. One often pondered at the back ends of parking lots and in the OOP areas of LARPS since at least the mid-nineties. And one that is singularly difficult to answer.

But as I said, there was another question raised. In fact, the very next question, raised by Joel Wilcox:

Why do 99.9% of webcomics suck?

Statistically improbable? Sure. But a valid question. Mr. Lane jumped right back in, however, to say (and I quote):

Dude, 90% of *everything* sucks. Sounds fishy, sure, but it’s like a law, and everything.

Now, Mr. Lane is a solid writer in his own right. As Mr. Wilcox may be as well. I don’t mean to make this a Moe Lane tribute. But as I know Mr. Lane better, it’s easier for me to discuss such things with and about him. And one thing I know for certain is that Mr. Lane is himself a bit of a mythologist. He has intuited his fair share of things, not the least of which involves Marilyn Monroe’s post-rictus career as a vampire hunter.

But I digress.

Regardless, without even realizing it, Mr. Lane had seen a hint — just the tiniest hint — of his own answer. Which I’ll be glad to tell you in a story we like to call…

The Arrogant Writer and the Beached Mermaid.

*** *** *** ***

Once, up in the Hills of Feynman, there was a gravel path. That gravel path wound its way down around copses of trees and old weathered stumps and a battered sign that pointed up an overgrown path, indicating it led to Oxcart Route Sixteen. But following it down and between two of the hillocks caused the traveller to emerge at the far point of a huge inlet from the sea. Islands and giant boulders dotted the waters, and the rocky shoreline grew and shrank with the tides every day. And walking along the tide line, near the pools, avoiding seaweed and the odd jellyfish or two was a man. He was nearing forty, with his dark hair beginning to show grey. He wore the bottoms of his trousers rolled, regardless of who might dare to eat fruit or speak of Renaissance era painters.

His name was Edward, and he was the master of his own fate, for he was a writer.

In those days, of course, writers — good writers — were considered half mad at best. They saw things mortals did not see. They endured, for within them was an ancient magic. They could write, and they could create from nothing. They could describe and they could make their audience believe. For they themselves could believe, at least at the one moment their pen was on the paper, and that was enough to change the world.

And that was true. In a small sense, it was true for the world, as they altered perceptions and shifted opinions. As they wrote, so the world moved. But for the great writers themselves, it was all the more true — for as they wrote — and believed — on their own behalf, so did their own perception, their own universe follow.

It was a self-centered mindset, to be certain. Perhaps an ultimately self-centered mindset. But it gave them power, and since their greatest power was a capacity to shift their immediate world to the way they felt it should be, it was their personal power that was greatest of all. They seemed never to age, for they had a clear self image of how old they should seem. They never seemed to get sick, because illness did not fit their mental landscape.

So it was with Edward. He was not the greatest of writers and he was not the least of great writers, but he was great enough, and like so many he was self centered enough. His thoughts were on his inner world, not on the world he was ostensibly living in. He was creating, building, expanding his thoughts — the necessary preparation to writing. At least for some people.

And so he was walking on the shores of the inlet, barefoot, his trousers rolled. Because at low tide, the silt was cool on his feet, because the sound of the surf blended with the salt and seaweed smell, because this was an ambience that he found conducive. And if Edward were inclined to explain himself to anyone, he would make it clear that the environment he found conducive to creation was more important than anything else.

Which is where the mermaid comes into our story.

Mermaids don’t need a lot of explanation. Disney has seen to that. We know that they have the top halves of human females. We know they have the bottom halves of various forms of fish. And we know that they are considered the most beautiful, most alluring of women. Which means, if we are to trust the passions of sailors, that the ultimate woman has a brain, a mouth, a voice and no genitals.

Oddly, Hollywood has inverted this model when they present their image of the ideal woman. Perhaps sailors just appreciate the fine art of conversation more than executives. Regardless, I digress.

I made mention that there are many different kinds of mermaid — in particular, many different fish halves. Swordfish or shark, mackerel or trout, snapper or — down on the Bayou — catfish, the variety of mermaids echoes the infinite varieties of the female form from the other half.

Now, this mermaid in question was actually half atlantic sturgeon, which meant that instead of scales her fish body had a series of bony plates, or scutes, going along it. It also meant that Dorothe — which was her name — was something of a bottom feeder. She spent her time in the depths of the sea, usually, exploring and poking and finding crustaceans and the like to eat. However, most mermaids have a longing for the land — they are, after all, somewhat human — which calls them to investigate. Dorothe, being a bottom feeder, crept along the sea floor, exploring and getting into shallower and shallower waters, over a slight rise and then….

Well, Dorothe was not experienced with the land, or even the surface of the water. So when the tide slowly went out, she missed the signs until she found she had insufficient buoyancy to coast back down into deeper water.

Which meant that Dorothe found herself beached, unable to move her bulk back down to the water.

Now, she was embarrassed to begin with. And wouldn’t you be? I mean here you are, a sleek and beautiful creature of grace and speed and seductive… well, conversation. And now she could barely move, her body hundreds of pounds of meat that could flop, but not manage to get moving. And the same bony plates that made her resistant to harm in the deep made it very hard to slide or even roll down the beach. She was stuck.

After twenty minutes, watching the waters recede farther and farther away… Dorothe realized that being stuck was a minor problem. For the first time in her life, her body began to dry out.

Mermaids stick to the water. They are capable of breathing air, at least for a while, but their bodies are adapted to the depths. Without water, their skin dries and flakes, their organs begin to fail. It becomes harder to breathe. The sun beats down, the heat takes over, and their very nonhuman nature comes to the fore. It is, in the end, a desperately unpleasant experience. And ultimately, a fatal one.

So, you can imagine the joy that Dorothe felt when she saw a human walking along the beach she had accidentally beached herself on, murmuring to himself and seeing distant vistas.

“Hey!” she cried. “Hello! Sirrah?”

The man — Edward, of course — kept walking.

“Hello? Hello?! Over here!”

Edward seemed not to notice at all, his eyes gazing at distant towers and far off fields, his powerful authorial mind considering the human condition.

“Hello? Hey! I need help over here!”

Edward kept walking.

Dorothe blinked. She was light headed, and scared, and knew that without help, she was doomed. And Edward didn’t even seem to notice her. “HEY!” she screamed, grabbing a rock and throwing it with all her strength at the writer while he walked.

Edward, in the meantime, had been considering a turn of phrase — a combination of words which were adequate but which could, with effort, be made sublime. He was certain that as he shaped and refined the sentence in his head, he was creating the very stuff of legend, which his fingers would shape and refine onto the page, extending his own greatness and changing the very world for the better. This would, very likely, be the single finest work of his career — a career that he had every confidence would last hundreds of years, even as his life and influence stretched into infinite.

That’s when a rock smacked him in the temple. “GAH!” he shouted. “Son of a bitch!”

“Hey asshole! I need some help here!”

Edward turned and looked. And blinked, seeing what was in one sense a radiantly beautiful creature of myth, but in another sense was a badly reeking half-fish with a bad sunburn and a nasty skin condition lying a way up the beach, flopping helplessly. “What do you want?” he snarled, being quite unused to being interrupted. He was, after all, a powerful man in every literal sense.

“I need your help!” she shouted. “I’ve been beached! I can’t make it back to the water, and by the time the tide rolls back in I’ll be dead! Give me a hand!”

Edward looked at her a long moment. He then snorted. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he muttered, turning to continue his walk.

“Hey! What did you say?!”

“I said good riddance,” Edward shouted back, turning and glaring. “Look, do you have any idea who I am?!”

“Is asshole a good guess? Jesus, just help me down thirty feet! I’m going to die if you don’t!”

“I don’t care if you do! You’re transitory! A moment in the world! But I am conceiving of thoughts and moments and histories not yet written that will last forever, and every second you take me from it robs the world of a word I might write!”

Dorothe blinked. “Is this some kind of joke?” she asked.

Edward frowned. “Not in the slightest,” he said. “I am a writer. An author. One of the greatest of my generation. Soon to be one of the greatest of all time! My words have influenced all who hear them. My stories change the world! And I myself am possessed of a spirit unquenchable! I am growing in power and strength and because of that the world itself is growing in beauty. What is your life compared to that? What are you compared to that, except a silly bottom feeder who didn’t even pay close enough attention to save her own life?”

Dorothe stared. “You’re a writer?” she asked. “You’re going to let me die so I don’t keep you from making shit up?””

Edward chuckled. “How prosaic you make it sound,” he said. “How little you understand. I think I am doing the world a favor by letting you pass out of it now.”

Dorothe stared. “I’m going to die if you don’t help me,” she said, more softly. “Please. I beg of you. Help me back to the sea.”

Edward shrugged. “I’m sorry,” he said, though he clearly wasn’t. “I’ve already spent to much time on you. Everything I write is beautiful, and that is something I must take very seriously.”

And the writer turned, and he walked. And the mermaid watched him walk away.

I would love to tell you the story of how the young hero crested the hill then and helped Dorothe return to the waters. I would love to tell you how a young child found the fish-woman and helped her, earning her thanks and an adventure and a flute made of the bones of the Leviathan itself. I would like to tell you how Dorothe was so pissed off she found the strength to roll herself into the waters and save her own life, and to Hell with Edward.

I would like to tell you all of those things, but that would be a lie. The truth is, Dorothe died.

And it wasn’t a pleasant death, either. Not that most deaths are pleasant.

As she stared dully up at the sun that was killing her, her mind fogged and her body full of pain, she thought of the man who could have helped her. Who could have saved her. The man whose words were always perfect, and the power that he commanded as a result. A man who changed the world, but who was so self focused and so self involved that he couldn’t see past himself. Not even for the few minutes it would have taken to save Dorothe’s life.

And shuddering, the last water clinging to Dorothe being the tears that dripped from her eyes, she mouthed a curse. She didn’t want Edward to just die. She wanted him broken. She wanted him to suffer. So she cursed him to endure the breaking of his power — the breaking of his majesty. The breaking of the very perfection which had removed his ability to have empathy for someone else. She cursed his very writing.

But knowing that making his writing terrible would hurt him, but he would figure out he couldn’t write and get over it, someday. So she cursed his writing to be terrible nine tenths of the time. That way, he could still generate the sheer, tragic beauty he already knew one time out of ten — just enough so that he would never be able to stop writing, because he would be so desperate to reclaim the words that he would be driven to write more and more, creating steaming piles of crap in hopes of finding those few, shining diamonds. Oh yes she cursed him, cursed him to a mortal life — for his ability to reshape the world would be limited and sporadic, and his ability to extend himself and his own life almost completely destroyed — for not only would he be unable to edit his life as he could have done before, but the sheer stress of pursuing perfection he could no longer achieve would ruin him.

She cursed him, and she kept on cursing him to her final breath, and then she breathed no more.

And I doubt any of you feel badly for Edward, whose selfishness earned him the most bitter of rewards. And you would perhaps take comfort when his writing turned to garbage and he became disdained by those who loved him, mocking and tearing him down and driving him out, forcing him to scratch out a living while driving him to late night scribblings, knowing that if he just kept trying he would find that one perfect phrase once more and he would be beloved and powerful once more, even as he descended into a madness and a premature senility, and suffered horribly for his own selfishness.

I’m sure many of you feel gladly for all of that. And if this were the end of the story, you might be satisfied in a cold way.

The problem is, this isn’t the end of the story. You see, Dorothe never knew Edward’s name. So she just called him ‘Writer’ in her curse.

Which meant she didn’t curse Edward. She cursed writers.

All writers.

Not all writers were as self absorbed as Edward was. Surely they didn’t all deserve this fate. But like it or not, mediocrity and hackwork descended upon a profession which until that moment had only known glory and beauty and success, and it tore through the writers like a plague. For years, the streets were rampant with broken men and women desperately scribbling in their moleskines, reduced to begging outside the IHOP on Oxcart Route Sixteen.

Naturally, over time, the world adapted, and so did writers. New generations knew that for everything you wrote that was worth reading, there was a buttload you wrote that wasn’t worth the paper it had been scribbled on. And every so often, a work was produced that was so astounding, so legendary, so seminal that it changed the world. You have read some of these works, I’m sure.

But even those writers who practice and refine their craft beyond all their peers, possessing talent, drive, will and imagination to spare, cannot grasp the essence of reality, of magic, of the change that writers of old once possessed. And so writers cannot live forever any longer, or remake themselves at a whim, or transform their environment into something finer or at least more interesting. Now, they live and they die like all of the rest of us.

But here’s the thing. The one saving grace. You see, if ninety percent of all creative work is crap, thanks to the arrogant writer and the beached mermaid, there is still that ten percent that’s okay. Or even good.

And ten percent of that is really good.

And ten percent of the really good is phenomenal.

And ten percent of the phenomenal is brilliant.

And ten percent of the brilliant is the finest work ever written.

The authors of such work grow old and feeble and die. But those works live on. They live on forever. They grow and become a part of society and never leave.

That too is a kind of immortality. And it is the rare writer who achieves it. And for many writers, it is enough.

As for Edward’s work?

I really couldn’t tell you. None of it — not even the things he wrote before the curse — have survived. All we really have is one critic’s review, and of that review only one sentence survived.

That sentence? ‘If Edward would just get his head out of his navel or out from up his ass once in a while and look around, maybe he’d create characters we could identify with.’

Food for thought, perhaps.