Saving the village

An attempt at something different. I'm very conscious my normal style is verbose and we all know that less is more. So this is much tighter than usual. In feel, I was going for 19th century fairytale with a point that is still relevant today.

Once there was a village set in the shadow of a great mountain. On the top of the mountain was a huge boulder. It hung right over the village, on the edge of a precipice. Every day the villagers were afraid it would fall and destroy them. They would often say that something must be done, but nothing ever happened. They were too busy with their sheep and their crops.

One day, a young man came to the village meeting and said "I will climb the mountain. I will topple the boulder. I will save the village."

The other villagers said "But if you topple the boulder it will bring many other rocks with it. We don't know where they will fall. They will come down through our fields and destroy our livestock pens. It will come through the village and destroy our houses. It will destroy our granary. Then how will we live?".

The young man said "We can control the fall. We can move the livestock pens to keep them from harm. We can move the houses and the granary. The village will be saved."

Many villagers didn't want to try, but after a long night of talking they decided to accept the young man's plan.

And so it was begun.

Every day, the young man climbed the mountain and sat by the boulder. Below, he could see the villagers working.

One group of villagers tried to see where the rocks would go. They had to climb the steep slopes. They had to take many measurements. They had to fell dozens of trees. It was hard work in the hot sun, and it took many weeks. Every day, the young man would encourage them to go on with their work.

Another group of villagers built new livestock pens. There were few places to build them. The fences were heavy. Access was difficult.  It was hard work in the hot sun and it took many weeks.Every day, the young man would encourage them to go on with their work.

Another group of villagers built new houses and a granary. The old buildings were taken down, brick by brick. The new ground had to be levelled. Paths had to be made. Water had to be carried. It was hard work in the hot sun, and it took many weeks. Every day, the young man would encourage them to go on with their work.


At last it was done. The young man and all the villagers climbed the mountain. The way was hard, and they all helped each other over the rough ground. At last they reached the top and the young man stepped forward. The villagers all watched. He put his shoulders against the boulder and used all his strength. But it just rocked back and forth.

He tried everything he could, but it would not fall. 

Then the strongest men stepped forward. Each of them  tried in turn, but the boulder just rocked back and forth a little more.

They tried everything they could, but it would not fall.

Then all the old men, and then all the women tried, but the boulder just rocked back and forth a little more.

They tried everything they could, but it would not fall.

At last all the villagers sat exhausted, trying not to think of their wasted work.

A little boy was playing, unnoticed, and he wandered near the boulder. He had seen all the grownups pushing and pulling. He touched the boulder - and it fell. With a roar and a rumble it gathered speed. Other rocks joined it, and from the top of the mountain the villagers watched the huge avalanche in terror.

It roared down the mountain.

It was channeled between the trees.

It  missed the new livestock pens.

It rumbled past the new houses and it roared past the new granary.

At last, the boulder ran out into the river and was gone.

And the young man stood up in front of them all and said, "You see? I told you I could save the village".

The imponderable message

Another little piece that echoes a writer influential on me. Or at least, kind of. I think I had the sixties film "The Time Machine" in my head for this, rather than Wells' actual writing. The feeble dance joke - well, it was funny at the period this is set, ok? A weak ending as ever, and it's looking already incredibly dated, written as this was in 2008. In retrospect, the ending also makes even less sense than it's supposed to, but hey, there's the lesson for me, so it achieved something. 

The Memsbury Lecture Hall was the venue for the Wednesday night “Exploration and Beyond…” series of talks. Each week an amateur scientist from the locality was invited to talk on what was exciting him at that moment, whether it was coleoptra or dendrochronology. To be honest, both Ginger and I found this entirely dull, but it was a good way of meeting up with him, and he and I would pretend to take an intellectual interest for the sake of appearances; the main event, of course, was the evening at the Waggon and Horses afterwards. 

Ginger sighed next to me. “This”, he said, “looks to be most enervating evening yet”. 

I looked down at the card that had been handed to me on the way in. 

“Tonight’s presenter will be “Palliass Macarthy”, I read, and groaned. 

“Not old Pally Ass again. Last time he went on for hours about that new star he’d found. Turned out to be the new electric light up at the Hall”. 

“I know!”, said Ginger. “The man’s a complete buffoon. But I suppose there aren’t that many interested parties who want to speak, so we’re stuck with him. Anyway, we’ve got gammon and eggs to look forward to”. 

It has to be said that Ginger was looking forward to that meal more than I, but for reasons of delicacy I won’t elucidate. 

After a little more of this mournful banter, the lights dimmed and old Pally Ass himself appeared on the stage, looking like a stage magician. He was still wearing his topper, and the cloak in which he traversed the streets was still fastened about his neck. Indeed, he looked as if he had only just arrived, and was breathing hard. 

With no preamble, Pally Ass began. 

“Gentlemen. GENTLEMEN”, he said. “I bring news to you tonight of the most incredible variety. Seldom can tidings of such import have been communicated, and certainly not with such swiftness, to the common man.” 

“Get along old horse”, whispered Ginger good naturedly. 

Pally Ass continued. “As many of you will be aware, I often choose to while away the evening hours in search of the mysteries of Outer Space. I do this not through some wish to become famous, but simply to make discoveries that will advance the knowledge of all humankind.” 

“He do go on”, said Ginger a little less quietly. 

“In my time I have observed the luminescent trails of comets, observed the extension of the Martian civilisation and of course discovered new stars”. 

Ginger laughed, but I shushed him hurriedly. Any diversion at this stage would be likely to extend uncomfortably the time that still lay between me and my dinner. 

Pally Ass appeared not to notice. “Well gentlemen,” he continued, “I am here to tell you that I have been recently investigating other means of Universal exploration – to wit a move away from the optical range and into the suboptical.” 

Here Pally Ass paused to see the effect his words were having, a grin on his face. It faded as he quickly realised nobody had grasped what he was talking about. 

“I refer of course”, he went on, “to wireless transmissions. Ah! I see glimmers of understanding upon your countenances! Yes, gentlemen, wireless! Ever since Guglielmo Marconi published his results last year I have been fascinated by the topic. At no little expense I have over recent months procured the necessary equipment to undertake experiments of my own. If, as I thought, Marconi had set his sights on communications across the Atlantic ocean, why then it ought to be possible - nay, it would be a certainty! – that wireless communications over a far greater distance should also be achievable. Indeed, gentlemen. I have been sending messages – into Space!” 

There was immediate uproar in the room. From the far corner came a voice decrying such a thing as unnatural. Another declaimed that there was some danger involved, not from the equipment but from the possible hostile intent of Martians upon receiving our communication and realising we were so advanced. Ginger was red in the face and pounding the bench, although this was more through hilarity at the utter ridiculousness of the idea than of any innate objection. 

Pally Ass stood his ground, and I will give him that he maintained his composure admirably. He had the air of a man who is above petty squabbling, who has already answered all possible questions, and indeed, who has more to impart. 

Gradually, as Pally Ass declined to respond, the hubbub in the room dwindled, until at last the Lecturer could be heard once more. 

“I anticipated your reaction would be along these lines, gentlemen”, he said. “It is for that precise reason that I did not in fact make this information public when I first attempted the experiment. In fact, I intend not to make public the precise method of transmission and reception at this stage – allow me to say that I have simply combined the work of Marconi with that of Samuel Morse, and as such have constructed an apparatus that allows me to compose a message letter by letter. I can however tell you now that message I sent out to Space left me in fact a good three weeks ago. Yes gentlemen, I see you are eager to know what I said. In fact, that is of little import. I am here tonight, gentlemen, to tell you. To tell you – I have received an answer!” 

If the previous noise had been unbearable then this time around it was indescribable. Shouts and cries, a number of intense arguments and even, I am ashamed to say, a sporadic outburst of fisticuffs ensued amongst the audience, who were nonetheless spellbound by this revelation. 

“Hang the Waggon and Horses”, said Ginger. “This really IS something!” 

After a short while cries of “hush” and “let the man speak” began to permeate through, and once again, the hall fell silent, waiting for Pally Ass to expand upon his extraordinary revelation. 

“I have here”, he began again at last, “The message I have only just this evening received from Space”. He paused, looking for a moment slightly discomfited. 

Ginger could bear it no more. “What does it say, man? For heaven’s sake!” 

Pally Ass drew himself up to his full five foot three and looked Ginger straight in the eye. 

“I’m afraid”, he said, “I have absolutely no idea”.


Three hours later, Ginger and I were in the Waggon and Horses. Ginger had his gammon, although he was only toying with it, and even I, who can usually be relied upon to do justice to a fish pie, had ample left on my plate. We had other things to think about. 

“I own it’s a rum thing”, said Ginger at length. “To receive a message from space and not be able to decipher it”. 

“Well don’t forget that Pally Ass must have taken it down verbatim. Perhaps he couldn’t hear properly”, I said. “Maybe what he wrote down sounded like the words he was given, but they weren’t actually the words themselves. Like, oh I don’t know, hearing someone ask you to send reinforcements, we’re going to advance, and it coming out as send three and fourpence, we’re going to a dance.” 

Ginger looked at me witheringly. “Are you saying we’re in the middle of the biggest Chinese Whispers game of all time?” he asked. “Anyway, you heard the old goat. He got the answer back on his apparatus letter by letter, in the same way as he sent it out”. 

“Oh. Yes indeed“, I concurred. “Well let’s look at what he wrote down again anyway”. 

Ginger sighed, but he once again pulled out the paper on which he had transcribed what Pally Ass had told us. We looked it over gloomily, with no success. It simply made no sense at all. Pally Ass was simply going to have to try again to communicate, but it we could see it was going to be a long haul, using the best translators in the land, and would take years. 

The agony of it of course, was that the message undoubtedly contained secrets that Mankind could benefit from, ways of enhancing our civilisation, perhaps a new social order that would relieve poverty, would alleviate hunger and misery, that would perhaps spark a little divinity in mankind. 

We stared at it in silence. 

“Wtf”, it said. “woot. ASL? Lmao omg this fone is so gay lol.”

The Kingly Gifts

This little piece was written with fifties sci fi in mind. When I was a teenager I read the stuff avidly, and learned from writers like Clarke and Asimov that sometimes the gadget idea is more important than the characterisation. 

Take that half learned lesson, par-bake it, and you end up with this kind of thing. It's a weak ending, for which I apologise, but this one was more about trying to find my "voice", rather than the content, particularly.

Way to go. Set your reader up for disappointment, Tim. Note to self - just keep trying.

  

“I’m sure they’ll be pleased,” said Cxxhrll, nervously, inasmuch as a blue cubic creature composed almost entirely of silicon can be said to be nervous. 

“Pleased?” oozed Captain Meh. “Pleased? They’d better be more than pleased, lieutenant, or there’ll be Spug to pay!”. He odoured sour for a moment. “I’m still not happy about this, you know,” he went on, half to himself. “It’s all very well the Yellow choi back at home telling us it’s time, do it now, but they’ve not seen what I’ve seen.” 

Cxxhrll straightened his edges wearily, although he kept that from the Captain. He knew this was likely to be a long story, about how the Captain had single facedly dealt with the Huemains, how he’d been floating in orbit around Ourf for 30 years, using all his personal powers to make his ship look like a cloud, the sun, a star, or a lampshade as the occasion demanded. And how no Huemain had ever yet suspected the choi presence, and how the Captain was personally responsible for that. He’d heard the story many times before. He’d hear it many times again. 

Whilst the Captain vibrated thrummingly, Cxxhrll thought about the gifts they were to give. In Huemain terms they would be kingly gifts (Cxxhrll prided himself on the use of Huemain language), although of course to choi they were almost no more than playthings. Still, the Yellow choi felt that if Huemains were ever to reach the next step on the ladder they must be given a corner up, so to speak, and now was the time. 

“…And then there was the case of the Huemain called Adamski,” the Captain was saying. An orange light set in a bank of twenty interrupted him, blinking four times a second. “Spug!” he said. “Go and get the cargo hold sorted, Cxxhrll, whilst I talk to home. And get those gifts distributed!” 

Glistening with relief, Cxxhrll made his way out of the Captain’s office and started to slide to the lower depths of the ship. On the way, he showed a face at the door of the recreation room, hoping for some help with the task ahead. Pluurt was alone in there, polishing his upper face as usual. 

“Pluurt! I need you! Come with me!” said Cxxhrll curtly, and slid off. Pluurt moved over grudgingly, muttering to himself. 

“Dunno why he has to pick on me, always picking on me, just polishing my upper face, can’t a cuboid sharpen his edges in peace, it’s not like there’s nobody else here to pick on.” This last was a lie so bold even Pluurt was embarrassed into silence, but he slid most ungraciously after the lieutenant, following him to the cargo hold. 

A soft blue light illuminated the darkest corners of the hold. As the two choi glided over the floor, Cxxhrll was thinking about the gifts they had given before. He looked back at Pluurt, who was young and unfamiliar with the proceedings in cases such as this, and he pointed a lower corner at him in apology for his earlier curtness. 

“This,” said Cxxhrll, already unconsciously mimicking Meh’s intonation, “This is the dust we gave to the Ipaxis!” 

Pluurt was unimpressed. 

“Looks like dust to me, just ordinary red dust. What would anyone want with red dust? I don’t see how that can possibly have –“ 

Cxxhrll interrupted him hurriedly, knowing that once started Pluurt would be unstoppable. 

“It might be just dust to you and me, Pluurt, but on their planet dust is in very short supply. Very.” He said the last word firmly as he saw Pluurt begin to start another complaint. “Their planet is 99.9% water,” he went on, “and dust is like ferpla to us, or gowld to Huemains. So you can see that the economic implications were…” 

He stopped, sensing he was losing his audience, but to forestall Pluurt’s next outburst he went on hurriedly, “Look Pluurt, here’s what we’re giving the Huemains!” 

“What, those old scraps?” said Pluurt. Cxxhrll squared himself up. 

“They might look like scraps to you – in fact they do look like a lot of old trash to me too – but I can tell you now it will utterly transform their society. Transform them, make them superior beings, so at last they can take their rightful place in the cosmos, move on from –“ 

“This one’s broken,” said Pluurt. 

Cxxhrll pushed it to one side irritably. “Oh it’s just a little crushed, it’ll be fine.” 

Pluurt poked at the pile. 

“What are these things, anyway? Some of them look like they’ve been here years.” 

Cxxhgrll said “That’s because, young Pluurt, we need to give them technology they can replicate for themselves, once they have seen how it works. It’s no good using neutron displacements or fuzzy energy. We have to let them start with what to them will be superior to their ‘electronics’ and ‘computers’, odd though it may seem.” 

He took three items and put them carefully on the floor in front of them. 
“This one, for example,” he said, “is a Shielder. It will render the wearer entirely invulnerable to attack from any source whatsoever, be it sticks, bullets, acid – Spug, it will even filter out insults!” 

“How is that useful?” asked Pluurt. “Anyway, it’s got four straps. It might fit us perfectly but how are Huemains going to wear it with their spindly soft two-limbed approach to life?” 

“It will fit like...this!” said Cxxhrll with the air of a party conjuror. Swiftly he took the main working part of the Shielder off the straps, and thrust it deep into the pocket of Huemain coat they had gathered from one of their previous abductees. “See?” he said, throwing the now redundant straps to one side. “Could have been made for it. As to what use – why the promotion of World Peace of course! Once they realize that no threat, no matter from what source, will work anymore, why they’ll talk and resolve all their problems!” 

Pluurt laughed cynically. 

Cxxhrll said “Look, it worked for the Grobees and it will work for the Huemains, ok?” 

Pluurt didn’t reply, but prodded the next item with a disdainful vertex.

“And this?” 

“Ah, you mean the matter transporter?” said Cxxhrll. “Well, that little toy is going to utterly transform Ourf. Look, you turn it on, it lights up, and then it will move any item, no matter what size, to any place instantly. No more transport, no more pollution problems, no more…” 

“I KNOW what a matter transporter is,” said Pluurt. “Obviously.” 

Cxxhrll thought he had won the point with that one, until Pluurt said 

“Jobs.” 

“What?” 

“Jobs. You’re going to put the whole of Ourf out of a job. Transport, delivery, pipelines, goods – all done by people. Jobs.” 

Cxxhrll turned a little green. “Pluurt. Listen. Yes, jobs will suffer in the short term, but then everything will be free! There will be no ridiculous ‘costs’, as the Huemains have invented, to move produce about. Why will they need jobs? Anything and everything can be obtained instantly!” 

Seeing Pluurt begin to shine, and once again trying to prevent further objections, Cxxhrll took the final gift. 

“It’s an antigravity platform”, he said. “Need I say more?” 

“Yes,” said Pluurt. “Yes, I think you do.” 

Cxxhrll looked at him. 

“Well, if you’re giving them a matter transporter, why will they need an antigravity platform?” said Pluurt. “That’s for lifting things. Why will they need to lift anything?” 

Cxxhrll was more confident this time. “I see you’re forgetting the Huemain love of speed! This will let them invent whole new sports, new forms of personal transport – after all, the pleasure can sometimes be in the travelling, not the arriving. Frankly, I can see endless uses for this one.” 

Pluurt knew better than to keep arguing.. After all, it was certainly within Cxxhrll’s power to force him through holes for a week, and he still had some most unpleasant memories of that little round one. 

“Well, let’s get on with it then”, he said, and the two choi began to assemble the goods ready for dispatch. 

Captain Meh was enjoying a well-earned polish when there was knock at the door. “Ah, Cxxhrll!” he said expansively. “Come in, do.” Meh was in a better mood since his last conversation with his lieutenant, largely because of the not displeasing call from the Yellow choi. 

“Cxxhrll! Have you dispatched the gifts?” 

“I have, Captain, three packages have been sent – well, deposited, strictly to the coordinates you ordered.” 

Meh smiled. “Well done Cxxhrll. I knew I could rely on you. Always get someone you trust to do the actual work, that’s what I say, and then you know where you are. And now - we’re going home! Yes! After so many years, our work here is done. Oh I dare say more choi will come and check on the Huemains in about five hundred years, by which time their gifts should have worked their magic, don’t you think, Cxxhrll?” And he gave that special ooze he reserved for when he was in a good mood. 

Cxxhrll glowed a little yellowly himself. Going home at last! And the Captain was pleased with him too, which promised a good voyage. And Pluurt wasn’t so bad either, even if he did complain a lot. Give him more responsibility, that’s what he needed. After all, he’d sent out the gifts on their allotted course perfectly well – that was what a young choi needed these days, responsibility. 

The choi craft headed back to the home planet. At the same time, three small packages parachuted their way down to their carefully allotted places. One landed on the plains of Russia, one in the Australian Outback, and one in the mountains of Wales. All three were picked up within a day of landing. 

Pluurt sat in his room, muttering to himself. He was almost sure the coordinates had been right, but ever since he’d been a young choi he’d had trouble with his fours. Oh, it would be all right. It would be fine. After all, what difference which Huemain picked up the gifts? They all looked the same anyway. Then he looked guiltily down at the papers he’d forgotten to include. But they’d manage. After all, a great civilization on the dawn of a New Age? They’d be fine without these. Pluurt pushed the gift instruction manuals under his nightly resting platform and went to dinner. 

Three weeks later, the gifts were in use. It would be untrue to say the Huemains were radically altered by their arrival. There had been a few scratched heads in the local villages, and one or two people had made suggestions as to what they might be for. But in general, they found their way to hands of those who would benefit from them most, in the local area, so everyone was happy. 

The Shielder sat undiscovered in the pocket of the old coat that now resided on a scarecrow in a Russian field, where it was performing the admirable task of keeping pigeons from corn. There it remained until the coat, tattered by the wind over the steppes, dropped the silver machine to the ground. A few days later it was magnificently shielding the earth from a cowpat. 

The matter transporter, once it had been turned on, had produced a light so bright that there was clearly only one thing to be done with it, and so it sat under the stairs at the local Welsh Vicarage. Some years later there was a power cut and the Vicar, remembering the gadget, thought to use it as a torch. His instant appearance in Abu Dhabi brought a surprised look to his otherwise imperturbable face, and the consequent shock made him drop the transporter. It rolled into the nearest drain, causing low powered havoc. For some years after there were irritated squeakings to be heard at all hours of the day and night as the odd rat found itself mysteriously moved from one end of the drain to another, and on occasions pedestrians would vanish, to return some months later in much confusion. One unfortunate was so pleased to be back home he inadvertently walked over the “hotspot” once again, and discovered that the smattering of Chinese he had so recently picked up proved utterly useless in Buenos Aires. 

The antigravity platform had been seized upon by an Australian sheep farmer who had stumbled over the on switch, discovered its function and was now using it to hold up the corner of the ill repaired pub in the Main Street where Bob Killigree had once (with the aid of an inordinate number of beers and a fearsome heft from a number of hearty drinking pals) put his head through a vital support, rendering the lounge bar unusable. And now, every Tuesday night, the locals all raise a beer glass first to the Prime Minister, then to the Queen, and finally to the little gozeundah in the corner with a cry of “You ******* little beauty!” 

It was going to be a long five hundred years.