Slavery
How had it come to this? One day Essom’s village stood on the border of the Elohim lands, adjoining Belseraphs, his people happily tolerating the bizarre antics of the troubadour nation. The next day the village was in Belseraphs territory and his people were slaves. More startling, they accepted it mindlessly, as if it were the most natural transition in the world.
“Stand up straight, ye lazy popinjay, he’s coming,” Faro snarled.
Yesterday such a remark would have been accompanied with the sting of the whip, and the river would have run with blood, but, for today at least, the slaves have been given the day off, so that they could form a crowd of grateful faces, all appreciatively welcoming Perpentech, the Blasphemy made Flesh.
The clown prince arrived wearing a red suit with black buttons and golden tassels and trim, the kind that adorned doormen on official state occasions. The orchestra began to play the official Belseraphs national anthem, The Dance of the Deer and Duck.
“No! No! No! No! No!” Perpentech squawked. “You’re doing it all wrong. You on the fiddle, go and play the harp. And you, yes you, with the trumpet and the big nose, fetch the timpani. And tell the choir to swap with the piccolo section, whilst you’re at it.”
Essom watched the havoc as musicians swapped places with one another, desperately trying to locate an instrument with which they might bear at least a passing acquaintance. It occurred to Essom that Perpentech had quite the most ridiculous voice that he had ever heard, a squeaky, reedy thing of no substance. And yet, such was his charisma, no-one ever heard the voice, just the threat behind it.
“And a one-two-three, and in your own time.”
The resulting melange lacked rhythm, melody and talent, but made up for it with an enthusiasm born of fear. As discordant notes slid into one another with all the elegance of a coach crash, Perpentech swayed from side to side, flicking his wrist here and there in time with some overblown bugle cry or inappropriate cymbal clash. The tempo varied wildly, some musicians finishing early, whilst others were drawn into extended solos. A capella competed with soto voce, and the lyrics fared little better; at least half the choristers started by singing last week’s National Anthem, Two fiddles and a tug by Solstice Eve.
“Excellent! Excellent! Isn’t out so much better when you don’t play the music laid out for you? Now where are my doves?”
“Doves, Sir?” asked Captain Faro
“Doves. To announce my presence of course!” Perpentech sighed. “If you want something done, do it yourself.” Essom had not seen the prince change his clothing, but now Perpentech was wearing a dark suit with a top hat. With a flourish, the harbinger of chaos swept out his left arm and a swarm of locusts emerged from his fingertips. They clustered together in the form of two doves and then flew into the crowd.
“I apologise for the lack of facilities, sir. It shan’t happen again.” Captain Faro toadied, but Essom had seen that face before. Tomorrow the whip would be twice as harsh.
“I say, Captain, do your feet sweat and stink in this heat?”
The non-sequitur stunned Faro into stammering affirmative response.
“Well we’ll have to do something about that.” And Perpentech seized a nosegay from the buttonhole of the silk pyjamas that current served as his raiment. Peeling the petals from the rose, he plucked them delicately letting them drift on the breeze.
Somewhere in the crowd a voice cried “She Loves Me.” With the next petal, “She Loves Me Not.” Soon the entire multitude was declaring undying affection and remorseful regret with each petal, until, with the final “She Loves Me Not”, the petals danced on the wind to smother the sun and darken the land below.
“Now show me the project.”
“Of course, Sir.”
“And do stop calling me, Sir. It sounds so formal. From now on you must refer to me the Most Beneficent Augur of Munificence and Virtue.”
Captain Faro nodded and showed Perpentech the way to the structure. Three pillars stood in the desert, each a monument to the blood and pain of Elohim slaves. Carved marble masonry, engraved with etchings of frogs and toads dying in burning hail, lay discarded at the side, pieces of a jigsaw that don’t fit in place.
“In fairness, Si... Your most Beneficent Augur of... er... Our architects don’t understand how you expect all the stairwells to be going up all the time.”
“Really.” Perpentech, now dressed in a gold robe which covered him from head to foot, stretched out his arms. “We can’t have that. After all, I can hardly be expected to have servants living below stairs if I don’t have a staircase in the first place. Allow me to demonstrate.”
As Perpentech dropped his arms, a figure appeared behind them. Or rather three figures, three dwarves standing atop of each other. The one at the bottom had so many sores and boils it was hard to make out his visage. The central one was smothered in lice and flies, whereas the one at the top, who was slightly taller than the others, had a stage dagger plunged firmly in his chest.
The dwarves at the top and the bottom of the stack stuck their arms out, bending their elbows and hands to point at right angles. The central dwarf spoke. “My name is Weevil and below me stands Pickle and above me stands Hyde.”
The tower of dwarves then rotated on the spot, slowly shuffling until they faced the audience once more. Although there had been no apparent change in the tower whilst their back was to the crowd, now the dwarf with the boils occupied the central spot, with the tall dwarf at the bottom and the lice-infested dwarf on the top of the stack.
This time, the dwarves at the top and bottom of the stack made surprised faces, eyes wide open, hands covering their mouths in mock-astonishment. The central dwarf spoke once more. “My name is Pickle, below me stands Hyde and above me stands Weevil.”
The tower rotated once more. When it faced the audience again, the configuration of dwarves had changed. The dwarf with the flies was at the bottom of the stack, the palms of his hands covering his eyes. The central position was occupied by the dwarf with the stage dagger, his hands closed over his ears. At the top was the pockmarked dwarf, a hand cupped across his mouth. The central dwarf spoke again. “And my name is Hyde, below me stands Weevil and above me stands Pickle.”
“So there you have it,” stated Perpentech, as if he had just taught a child how to count to ten “When you build my staircase just remember Weevil, Pickle and Hyde.”
“Erm... Right” replied Faro. He almost sounded like he believed it.
Perpentech clutched his nose, as if to stifle a sneeze. “I do apologise,” he squeaked nasally, and then broke wind with aplomb. Reaching down, he withdrew a handkerchief from his backside. As he pulled, another handkerchief came out, tied to the first, and then another, a different colour from the others. Perpentech pulled the string of ever increasing handkerchiefs up to his face and wiped his nose.
“Just a little cold I seemed to have picked up. My nose just won’t stop running. Does your nose run, Faro?”
“Sometimes, Your Most Ben...”
Perpentech stepped forwards in gleeful triumph, his satin leotard sparkling with baleful luminescence. “Well if your nose runs and your feet smell, you must be built upside-down.” Faro started in his horror and seized his face. In the centre, where once his nose had been, there was a large toe. Poking through his sandals, a nose sniffed it’s new surroundings with horrified curiosity.
Essom mused on what he had seen. In a land where only the ringmaster can sing the song destiny intended for him, everyone else is a slave.
(heh-heh-heh)
Take a micro, record. Then, you just have to modify some Audio Def entriy and the tech you want to record for.
