Chapter 14: Intermission
As our heroes embark on their quest now plain ahead, we can stop to enjoy a short Intermission, here and now, with our…
TALES OF NITZANLAND!
Ghosts of the Hills
Many years before the greyness spread across the valleys and plains of the River Politics, there was a boy named Yoav.
Not before there was a war however, since as it is well historically documented, passing the original Tomic-Royic declaration of aggression, the early stages of the conflict were mere mirages of the total, ubiquitous fray which would soon be unleashed. During this time, the two belligerents were merely engaged in a period of gestation, known merely as Pre-Mobilization, whereas the entirety of the Royal armies of the Politics valleys, encompassing the second, first, and third regiments had already clashed at such fantastically and heroically indecisive battles, such as Timeun, The Battle of Opening Night and Chalons, in what became known infamously as “The Five Nights of Doodly Squat.” And what these battles lacked in historical relevance or headway for a seamlessly endless war effort, they did not lack in heroic exploits and namely… sheer, unsaturated…awesome.
But I digress.
And really, who cares about all that, when you have a boy, a village, the woods, and the nice calm, tranquil life of a people whose very existence was at jeopardy; without them even knowing.
So Yoav lived in the gentle borderlands, in the newly named nation of South Tom, alongside one of the many tributaries of the River Politics. Here, across the early foothills of the Ecuadorian mountains, life was, for Yoav, miraculous.
The smooth slopes would arc in fantastic bows to the higher mountains, as they were glazed in beautiful green spruce and pine. The hills were cut by roaring rivers and sinking creeks, making calm pools on the lower calm edges. The slopes would lead with raveling bends and twists into the forests, where the wilds called both human and animal souls together.
The people of the foothills were always peculiar folk and enjoyed a culture most unique to all Nitzanland. They were secluded people, overcome with a deep connection and responsibility to the wilds and nature herself. They would practice old customs and rituals in homage to their lands, their guardians and their parents.
For example; the dead were always buried in the forest, alone.
They believed in smiling and being downright kind to people. And as secluded and apart as they were from the rest of the nation, they still lived in harmony and joy.
They did not know about any war.
Their culture has since gone extinct. Along with all the smiles.
Yoav was a special boy. Although no one in his village knew, Yoav had the ability to see ghosts and the dead.
He would love to have long conversations with them, following them deep into the forest. They would bring him to the most beautiful places, into caves, into ravines, into tall eloquent waterfalls, and in the meantime Yoav would sing in his grave deep voice.
A smile, always on his face.
He would visit his friends, the ghosts and ask them: “Why did you die? What was your name? Do you like to swim? What do you like to do then? Where did you live?”
And they would always answer and join him, go swimming with him in the lake, beneath the cliff on Mondays. Because, as we all know, ghosts love to swim. But only on Mondays.
And Yoav loved his home, loved the forest, and loved his village, even if everyone pretty much thought he was insane. Although it goes without mentioning they still needed him for the choir with that lovely, world renowned voice that he had.
One night, Yoav was enjoying his vegan sandwich just outside of town on the rock he liked to sit on. It was nearly midnight, and the moon was augustly full, its orange glare beating down on all the shadows of the night. He did this because Yoav knew the coolest ghost came out on the moonlit nights.
Then suddenly he heard a soft whisper come from behind him.
Any normal human being would have of course been completely perplexed and terrified. But young Yoav was only excited to hear a voice he did not recognize. He turned around to look into the forest and see who it was, and just barely caught, out of the corner of his eye, a sudden white light disappear.
He smiled because he had been waiting for this.
Then the voice called again, sounding like the very breeze against the treetops; “Yoaaaav.”
It beckoned him, and he walked straight forward, into the dark night forest.
He saw in the corner of his eyes a slight limpid figure of a ghost, a young woman with long brown hair, a svelte face and green deep eyes. However, she was light and slowly retreating like the wind.
‘Yoaaaav.”
She seemed to be moving away, so Yoav followed her, now more intrigued than ever, for this was a ghost he had never seen before and she was somehow different than the rest.
And so she led and Yoav followed; his curiosity endless.
She led him through the wheat fields which tinged and jiggled in the late night breeze. She led him through the silver forests, she led him across the laughing brook and the giant folded stones. She led him through the high bushes and the still ponds. She led him up the steep ravines and across wondrous waterfalls. She even led him near a grave of a friend he had, but tonight it seemed that the forest was lifeless and still.
Yoav followed even though the forest looked strange that moonlit night. It was still in an uneasy way as if silent in some dreadful waiting. The forest was suspenseful and unclear.
But still he followed, too captured by the white specter in front. And she led him up and up and up, into the golden fog of the night, till he was atop a small plateau to a hill overlooking the entire valley where the town lay.
For a moment Yoav looked down and saw the gleaming beauty of the forest below him. He could see the mellow frothing ponds glow scintillate with the weary stars which remained in the glow of the moon. And then in front, there was the ghost, completely still. And she was translucent and almost disappearing through the moonlight.
And Yoav, breathless from following her, asked: “Why did you take me here?”
And after several seconds of complete silence, where the wind of the night made the trees whisper amongst themselves, she opened her mouth and told him, “I simply thought I would let you see the forest we both love, one last time.”
Then she completely disappeared, up into the stars dazzling above. Yoav was left alone, standing, just in front of an ancient grave, a single stone, standing on its side.
He stared at the rune silently for a moment, unable to comprehend what had just happened or what he had been told. He waited, unsure of himself, for some time.
But then, the forest, so beautiful around him, would not let him be uneasy, and he instead laid down on the soft grass surface of the hills about him.
And he fell asleep, a smile on his lips, once again.
The next morning, Yoav woke to find the sun on his eyes, and the winds beating against his eyelids.
He returned to the town, not nearly awake enough to remember his trip back down the mysterious grave, but from then on he would wish he had.
For when he arrived at his village, strange men were there on horses who immediately took him and every other young boy or man in the village away forever.
The men would go to war.
The boys would go to learn war.
The smiles were stolen from Yoav.
And from the many many many many ghosts he would soon meet.
The Sirens of Ifan
Back, far too long ago, there was a shore just north of the cove of scum and villainy, today associated with all sorts of business ventures and piracy beheld by people who are sincerely into that sort of thing. And this shore was a shore which bore a rather pleasant and sandy coast, which some most unfortunate people, far in the future would dare call a BEACH. But until that most melancholy of future came to be this was a most dull and unnecessary coast.
It was sandy and pleasant, but most of all, uneventful and on TOP of all that stuff it was sinfully boring. It was in fact SO boring and unnecessary, that most cavalier sailors who for some unknown reason needed to pass by this coast, usually with the highest degree of indifference, would look out to the sandy continent and usually with some hostility think:
“Wow, what a wonderfully useless coast.”
And then sail on by with not the smallest care in the world. It goes without saying that these very men would thereafter go on to dock at the ports of the early settlements near the valley of the river Ideology, and THEREAFTER, make quite a considerable amount of money. And even THEREAFTER, would become wealthy men. Which goes without saying would make that previous statement about cares and all that, no longer true.
But anyway, all the calamities which were to come came about when one of these sailors’ blokes had a most unusual thought when sailing by the uneventful coast. And this unusual thought, which before then had, of course, never been thought, making it most unusual was, as follows:
“Perhaps we can put to use this horribly useless coast…”
And it was only then that the useless, previously thought incredibly dull coast was given a name. And this name was: Ifan, Which means in the ancient tongue of the Southern fishermen of the cove…. Purposeless.
And then, one day, years later, the very next sailor to make his way across the brine of Ifan would turn his head in that most unfortunate turn and not see, any longer an uneventful coast, but instead, something quite different and unusual.
He would see instead, a magnificent palace, deep and expansive, set in blue mosaic walls. And this immense palace was no ordinary palace. It was instead a house of Learning, it was the University of Ifan, as it was engraved on the archway of a magnificent gate. And these Golden letters would sparkle across the clear azure waters, and into the eyes of these sailors, who passed by. And as all sailors who would then after see no longer a dull coast, he would comment:
“Um…”
And from then on, Ifan was no longer simply a coast, it was a place of learning.
And each pious student would shuffle in every morning to class. They would take seats in their class, and write and write and write. And then turn and stand to go to yet another class. And so forth and so forth, for a very long time. And then at some point in the day ,when they were supposedly slightly smarter from sitting and writing, they were sent away, to small rooms where they would sleep and get ready to sit and write some more.
This was called an Education.
And all over the whole of Nitzanland, fathers and mothers would send their children too Ifan because they were promised they would come back smarter.
And for a while, it was said that Ifan was purposeless no more, and the people of Nitzanland believed that any person who was meant to be important would go and come from Ifan. And for some inexplicably complex reason which no one will ever understand, especially the people who come from Ifan, no matter how much smarter they were supposed to be, people believed this nonsense.
However, there was a girl who came very very very very very very very very close. And her name was Zuza.
One day, Zuza sat at her desk in classroom #512, in building C #23, in complex Alpha Nu, just left of the Quad, and the fountain in the shape of a swan which is just spitting day and day and day, again. And as she sat there, she had a very strange idea. And this was a very unusual idea indeed. In fact it was such an unusual idea that it had never been thought before.
And as she looked out the window, down out the clear glass window of classroom #512, in building C #23, in complex Alpha Nu, just left of the Quad, and the fountain in the shape of a swan which is just spitting day and day and day, again, she saw the ashen sails of a boat just on the water, heading away from the campus.
And as she stared at the distant waters, not even stopping to write, a most preposterous thing on its own, she noticed a man who seemed to be watching her.
And while I can assure you that the sailor’s thoughts were: “Um.”
Zuza’s thoughts were something far more special. She thought: “Maybe I am tired of only writing and sitting. Maybe I don’t want to write and sit at all.”
And then Zuza, did something she had never quite done before. For you see, Zuza always liked to keep her hair in a neat pony tail, but this time she stood up and loosened her hair. And as her hair flopped all over, she raised herself and began to scream.
And it was such a loud, unheard of scream, that every student sitting around her in classroom #512 who were sitting and writing stopped to look and see what was so strange and loud. And when they did, something even stranger happened. For some strange reason, the sound of the scream passed on to every sitting and writing student the same idea that Zuza had just had. And as soon as they saw what she had thought; they also got up and began to scream.
And these also, ran out of the classroom, in a strenuous roar, and made their way down the hall to classroom #511, and also they got up and began to scream. And then also every student in building C#23 and then onward and onward till the entire campus resounded with the boisterous din of screaming.
And the student did not only scream, but also ran down hallways and threw away their papers, into the air and burnt their papers, and broke their chairs.
And then even better, somehow, still unexplained to me, the students of Ifan found all sorts of musical instruments. They found trumpets, and trombones, and flutes, clarinets, pianos, marachas, guitars, sirens and even one instrument native to the highland Ecuadorian people known infamously as the loudest instrument of all: the Charango.
And they grabbed every instrument they could find and they beat them ferociously and played them as loud as they could. And the noise broke the air and travelled for miles and miles all the way to the students’ parents who most probably looked in the direction of Ifan and thought: “My darling ------ must be working so hard. Good for him.”
And the papers danced in the air, as the cacophony continued, the instruments of all sorts, sounding like the very screams from before, endless and chaotic. They screamed with all pitches in all corners, through all ears.
And on the shore, the white sails far off who could certainly hear the raucous epiphany of Ifan, thought, as have all who pass by Ifan:
“Um.”
And the sonorous chaos continued for hours and days, the student’s never exhausted of their never-ending release. The calamity went on and on and on. They would lay on the sand of the shore and beat and blow on and on, with all their strength. The eternal palpating sound of the Sirens of Ifan went on and on and on, the madness of the students never to subside.
Until something just as outrageous and insane as musical instruments falling from the sky occurred.
On one soft, evening, as the ceaseless noise continued and some students had taken to lay on the sandy coast in that calm 6pm sun, which always, I assure you, comes with a nice gentle breeze, something very strange happened indeed.
Far off in the distance, off the last walls of the complex which aim off into the continent, there could be seen the silhouette of a man, walking slowly down the sandy banks, and dunes.
It was only a black figure which some students noticed approaching, slowly but consistently. It traced along the sand like a cloud, floating across the sky.
As everyone obviously knows, just beyond the purposeless coast, then known as Ifan, there lays a much more pointless desert, which stretches as far as the foothills of Ecuador.
But everyone knows that.
And what was so very odd, so very, very, extraordinarily odd, was that this being now came from the dessert. And to make matters even worse for the students of Ifan, he was the first visitor to come after the students of Ifan had literally and with all due honesty: Gone Bananas.
So, needless to say, as the figure approached, all the students of Ifan who saw the man put down their instruments, and watched his approach.
And as he came into view, every creature within the walls of Ifan, had laid down their instruments and consecutively shut up, like no one has ever shut up.
And an unnatural silence, never matched before extended all across Ifan, all across the coast and far across the water, where I assure you, there was a sailor who turned his head and most certainly thought:
“Um…”
And as all the students in Ifan stared perplexed at the approaching figure, their silence was suddenly broken by something sweet in the air. It swooned and flowed between their ears and no one could truly say what it was, but instead exchanged looks which most admirably exchanged the thought: “Huh?”
And none knew what sound this was, or could even begin to comprehend what it meant until the approaching figure came so near that the students of Ifan could see the man was carrying some instrument.
And then did the students of Ifan realize that the sound they heard was the sound of the man playing his instrument as he approached. And most assuredly one would expect the students of Ifan to have simply grabbed their own most unexplainable instruments and joined the mysterious man. However, there was something different in the way the approaching man played his cello.
It had a grace and a charm no one seemed capable of explaining. The sound would carry itself to them all, with magic unknown to them before.
And as he approached, the students, now perfectly still, did not take their eyes off the man. As he entered the gate which read, “University of Ifan,” as he passed, the corridors and buildings, as he passed the dorms and verandas, they watched him intently. Their eyes never wandered for a second.
And then the man came onto the grass of the quad and stood next to the fountain in the shape of a swan which is just spitting day and day and day, again. And he stood there, completely still.
So all the students of Ifan ran to the quad and stood, just below the fountain in the shape of a swan, spitting and circled around the man playing his cello. And they all simply stared at the man till all the students of Ifan had gathered together at the quad.
And they all stood there, silently listening to the tune of the cello and the standing man, till with a sudden abrupt end, the man stood playing and all of Ifan was dead silent, for an entire second. Not one of the students of Ifan could speak, they could only stare at the man as he stood there silently as well, his cello to one side.
All was dead silent. So still the air was mute, just like every human being around.
Until the man who had played the cello opened his mouth and spoke a single word. And this word, in all its magical intent pervaded the air and echoed through the halls of all Ifan. It jumped through the ears of all its students and down out across the clear waters of the sea.
“Um…”
And as this single syllable bounced from the ears of the students, something happened within their heads. The crazy ideas of Zuza simply melted away and all the students felt a sudden and immediately lightness, as f they could fly into the sky.
And as this occurred, not only did the man pick up his cello and play again, but now the student of Ifan knew exactly what to call this sound; it was a song.
Its sweet melody, now clear to all the ears around, it was beautiful and soft and clear. So much so, that every student in Ifan leaned over and picked up their instruments.
They blew and drummed and sang, no longer in the voice of madness, but instead followed in the tune of man and his cello.
Even better, the students ran wildly through the hallways and grabbed their pencils and paint, their, markers and pens, their shoes and their voices. And they wrote in the tune, danced in the tune, painted in the tune, spoke in the tune of the cello. All of them madly, overcome by its beauty.
And so, as the wildly enchanted students continued to be, in truest sense of the expression, ‘Completely Bananas,” they built out of Ifan, a majestic monument to the arts, a city where they could continue to live to the tune of the cello.
And of course, as time does to such fantastic stories, the people of Ifan eventually forgot all about the man and his cello and went on to make up some nonsense about a sacred Ukulele. Which is why to this day the city created over Ifan is known only as, “Ukulele Town.”
And so on, the people of Ukulele town even adopted a pseudo-monarchy, with near despotic authority and powers, which would in certain intervals of the township, nearly destroy itself.
Even so, Ukulele town survives to this day, as a testament to the sandy coasts just above the cove. Its history just slightly enchanted with the legend of a man and his cello and the thoughts of Zuza which drove an institution to complete madness.
As some still say, in the darkest alleyways, where only the most nefarious poets locked in shadows write, that the man and his cello still wander the passageways of Ukulele Town. He strums the tune which continues to churn the streets and the people within them.
And he appears and plays only for those few strangers who come.
And are tired of sitting.
The Sunken Road
There was nothing ultimately lonely about the existence of Tucker Barrows. Nor was he in any way or conceivable manner a recluse. And yet this was the irrefutable perception that all the people of lower Nitzanland attributed to the solemn, travelling monk who curtailed the highlands of the Ukulele Desert.
And it is far from the truth in saying that Mr. Tucker was unhappy, as he toured on his spiritual journeys through all the valleys and hills and river beds he desired. He was not far from the people, as his occasional visits to neighboring towns and villas native to the area made him more an honoured guest and a friend to all who knew him.
But then again, who actually knew the man who would become the legend of Tucker Barrows?
Silent and contrite, as he toured the lower valleys in their warm color, calm and all the while mild existence.
One could sit on the calm dirt road, deeply embalmed in the warm summer sunshine only to be astonished by the sudden ringing of some metallic artifact soaring down the path. Riding such a bicycle was a mysterious figure with a red beard, some stylish leather boots and a stern face which would not depart before calmly uttering:
“Hello.”
And then vanishing in a sturdy veil of sneeze-inducing dust.
And this mysterious erudite, named Tucker Barrows mind you, would ride down the pastures and dunes and mountains and hillsides with but a single thought on his mind. And this thought, as he was a mystery to all those who saw him pass by, was a mystery to himself.
For whatever thought he had been thinking when he was thinking of that thought was lost when thinking of the thought too hard and had been thinking to remember that thought that was lost that day he was thinking oh so hard, and thinking he thought was all he seemed to do these days.
And this thought, he thought, felt very very very very important.
It’s a certain sensation you see, a certain emotion you see, a certain conservation you see when a person knows he looks for something, something fancy, something funny, something weird, something new. And that something, something, something is always, always:
What?
And what? Was exactly the thought on Mr. Tucker’s mind as he tumbled down the hillsides on his pair of metal wheels, trying oh so painfully to think and think again:
What?
He would grasp so attentively at his all belabored head, seeking deeply, ever mining for whatever he had thought. Day and night, weeks and months, rain or shine.
What?
What?
What?
He had imagined it was a deep thought, so he traveled places clever, where old masters and philosophers postulate and plan, where the greatest minds and wizards come to scheme and to conceive.
He imagined it was a strange thought, so he crawled and tumbled places unknown, down the silent, most obscured, most mystic sights of all. Where old magic and incantations, spirits and ghosts dance in forests lost and sacred. And he swam to islands forgotten and heard legends long and pure.
He imagined it was a creative thought, so he rode to Ukulele Town, and heard the most absurd, saw the most obscene, and read the most enlightened stories, long, fat, lean, stout, short or serene. And he listened with such care, to songs of cadence, beautiful and free.
But nothing, nothing of the sort would free his:
What?
He was stuck in his mind, wherever he would roam. The dust spoiling behind him, as he rode, despair at hand, so transfixed, so contained by this ever eluding fascination.
He could not allow himself to go on if he didn’t know:
What?
Some strange thought that he couldn’t forget had sunk its claws deep within. And all the while trying to remember with that God-awful feeling you have when you think there is something very important just at the tip of your tongue.
On the cusp of your head.
And some say many many many years had passed, till Mr. Tucker did at last hear the calling off in the distance as he rode on by, the weak calls of someone he had just passed.
Mr. Tucker had just returned from a marvelous cross country tour of the beautiful Ecuadorian beach and was merely riding past the upper mountains when he heard this awkward call.
And for some odd reason this, above all else, seemed to cut him through his head and make him stop right in his tracks. Maybe it was that no one had called him before, or maybe it was that he truly was tired of continuously riding, riding on.
But he turned and, walking back, very slowly asked the dust behind him in a timid silent voice:
“What?”
And the voice of a child, which he could not even see, since the dust of the road had not yet cleared, told him.
“I hear you travel and travel without end. And I can only imagine there is something you have lost. But here in this country we have an old, ancient legend. And it says: “For those who have lost something which cannot be found there is always the sunken road.”
And Mr. Tucker, his stern face still vivid, paying close attention to the voice coming from the dust, asked, “What is the sunken road?”
And out of the dust came a young boy’s arm which pointed out towards a deep crack in the mountains, where a river had once run and now had only left a steep trench, overcome with riddled trees. “If it can indeed be found on this earth,” the boy replied, “It will be found in the sunken road.”
And without another word Mr. Tucker turned his bicycle and immediately sped off towards the sunken road, just through the ravine. He looked only once more to the young boy in the dust but saw nothing at all.
As he curved and plowed through the steep crevice, the sides grew closer and closer and closer till he could ride his bike comfortably no more. He took to walking and stepped lightly, over limbs and roots of old, ancient trees. He could hear up ahead stones falling and crashing from the cliffs above.
But all this time Tucker felt no fear, for in his head, then and before, only one thing mattered:
What?
He did not know what to expect nor what it was he intended to find. He did not even know if there was truly a little boy or whether it had been a hallucination. And yet he carried on until, out of thin air he suddenly saw an entrance to a cave, at the end of the ravine.
The cave was utterly dark with not a light able to penetrate the indefatigable black. From within, Tucker swore he could feel a cold, damp wind surface from the overwhelming depth. It would heave and blow light the breath of an animal or some horrendous monster. And yet, as Tucker looked into the darkness he felt absolutely no fear. For he cared only for one thing.
So he stepped into the unutterable doorway, and as he did he felt nearly all sound die. It was like a muted chamber as his senses perished. His eyes were blank and the air around him became a tepid stillness which he swore he could not feel. The wind around him died, and the cave swallowed him in an irreversible stillness. Time was slain in the portal behind him.
And yet, there was no fear, and he continued to walk, until the light of the doorway was but a speck behind him.
For what could have been but an instant or maybe eons of time, Mr. Tucker stood in the cave, silent and observant. The umbral mute around him did not speak nor did it show him anything. It was quiet and namely calm. Calm enough that for an instant Tucker felt he had forgotten his thought and could live on in peace.
But then, with the same abruptness he felt the desire again and called out into the empty cave with all his force: “Give it back?! Give it back?! I want it back!”
He did not know why he said these things nor why with such force or with such a voice that he could not even recognize it was his own. But he did, and as soon as he had, he felt it was sinful, a terrible thing to break the silence of the cave.
He was ashamed, and as he allowed the cave to instantly swallow his words with no echo, he allowed himself to begin walking back, out of the cave. The same sad wonder on his mind, once again.
Until, as he turned around, he felt the indistinct curl of lips which did not belong to him breathe against his ear.
And then out of the darkness, a cool and stark breath whispered against his ear with such calm and suave demeanor that his entire body twitched shut.
And it whispered to him:
“What?”
