One
day Cantarel, after having completed the construction of a permanent doorway
between his late 25th century laboratory at Locus Solus, in Montmorency, and
the laboratory complex in the temporal rift stasis warp in O/x space took some
time to relax in the trans-temporal library, which was actually more akin to a
museum, or Wunderkammern. The TTL was a
complex used by many versions of Cantarel, and Cantagrael, as well as Doctor
Welles, and numerous Chlorlock scientists like Professor Majesty. Its appearance was something like that of a
19th century gentleman’s club, but there were no restrictions on any gender or
for that matter, any modulation of the would-be reader’s body at all; Cantarel
was simply fond of the comforts of certain centuries, and cultures, but you
wouldn’t say it was a completely recognizable culture which the TTL
represented.
The
books were housed in massive free-standing shelves of what looked like carved
Cinnabar in the large open area of an oval rotunda whose floors, though covered
in seemingly abstract marquetry revealed innumerable discrete scenes worked
into the abstract overall design, many of these worked out by Cantarel’s friend
Roussel and his workshop of chlortron craftsfolk. There were also interspersed
in this area large wooden reading tables with elaborate lamps, and magnifying
stations for some of the books were inscribed with nearly microscopic texts. At
one end of the oval rotunda whose walls were elaborate variations of cabinetry
and display cases, and mechanical inspection and storage stations, there was a
large area of comfortable divans and low tables, and there were chlorlock
waitors who were perfectly eager to bring one a hot or cold drink, or a meal
for that matter.
Though
the shelves appeared to be Cinnabar, they were in fact composed of Erythrite,
and around the opening to each shelf was a thin hovering frame of yellow glass,
some dull, and some luminous if in operation. From time to time, if one watched
carefully, you might see a hand reaching into the shelf to remove a book, as
there were library frame portals scattered throughout time and space, and these
were in use continually, and sometimes new books would appear. No bodies would
be visible, as the library itself was fixed temporally, a book would be lifted
out, and the hand and the book would disappear as the hand pulled it through
the frame. Above the cabinet of curiosity levels of the outer oval wall, there
was higher up, a library of Erythrite communication busts which was roughly an
analog of the authors list of the library, so that many of the authors could be
contacted by means of trans-referential temporal sequencing, the contactors
thoughts being inserted subtly into those of the contactees and vice versa.
Cantarel
was sitting quietly on one of the many divans enjoying a warm cup of yerba
mate’ and tulsi tea, and reading a book by his distinguished colleague Dr. Bex
Saint-Isles called The Establishment of a New Theory of Genetickal Heuristicks
in Light of Certain West African Shamanic Lycanthropy Traditions, and their
Ancient Roots in Alchemical Yoga Among the Indian Diaspora. In front of him on
the table was a small dull metal tray like a shallow pewter mask on which was
arrayed a variety of fig species, and a smaller amount of cheeses, one of them
pink, as well as something unidentifiable, a smallish waxy cube of cloudy
yellow gelatin with a small but well-formed plant growing in it bearing three
small purple flowers of exquisite construction; each unique, and of an
apparently asymmetrical radiality, the whole item not over 5 cm high. Cantarel
was becoming more and more interested in reading about a special subject which
Dr. Saint-Isles had discovered, a man whose shamanic practice had spontaneously
reverted to something very close to a highly advance alchemical yoga while
still a boy, a veritable lycanthropic prodigy whose skill encompasses
spontaneously what one might consider a mastery of typical yogic practice, but
enlivened by West African traditions of shamanic lycanthropy. The text
described a marvelous event whereby the man, in his late fifties at the time of
the writing of the book was seen to be able to illustrate stories by changing
his body along interspecial lines, though the process was fairly lengthy at the
time, or at least, this is how the book had portrayed it, perhaps so as to keep
the text within the realms of possibility and scientific believability.
Cantarel
could resist the temptation no longer. He finished his last fig, and took one
small bite off of the gelatin cube, and bit off one small purple flower, and
washed it down with a drink of his yerba-mate’ tulsi tea, and climbed the
stairs toward the Erythrite bust of Dr. Bex Saint-Isles which he immediately
attempted to contact. Laying his hand on the small brass contact plate at the
base of the bust, he fell into a light trance and carefully spoke into the
consciousness of the distant personage. “Would very much like to meet Fogar.
Where is he now?” In a few moments came the earnest reply. “Fogar is now quite
old, but lively, and we have him here in Dieppe in a small apartment. I’m sure
he will see you!” Canterel packed a
small bag, and headed for the train station to catch a line to Dieppe, choosing
a more scenic method of travel.
Canterel had debarked to have
dinner at a restaurant he adored in Rouen called “The Four Emplaced Views”
which served a very special dish whose impetus was Canterel himself, or rather
one of his creations. On the menu was an item called, Mousse De Faux Escargras ala Cantarel Superb whose history was
rather interesting. In the early days of Canterel’s genetics work which was
carried out under the special tutelage of the great Nobel Prize winning physicist
Louis de Broglie, Canterel had developed a hybrid free-living chlortronic goose
liver snail which by exposure to certain frequencies and intensities of light
would not only gorge itself, but would become engorged and grow to a great
size, weighing roughly a kilo, and the flesh, neither true animal or plant,
still retained its delicious character, which could be prepared as any regular
foie gras would be. After his small repast, which the staff had prepared in
innumerable variations over the years, Canterel finished his small glass of red
wine, and asked for a small neat Espresso which the waiter brought with a small
tan sugar cube and a helix of lemon zest, exactly as Cantarel liked it. Sitting
there in the wonderful restaurant, Canterel began to get an inkling of a project
for his Orientalist club, and for a new transtemporal deviation. He wrote a short
note to Abu Dakni, folded it, and enclosed it within an envelope and scrawled
the address, then affixing the stamp, bid adieu to his trusted friends the restaurateurs
who had all lined up to hug him, or shake his hand, as he had pledged not only his
ideas to this particular restaurant, he was part owner. Canterel continued on
to Dieppe, dropping his slight parcel in a post-box near the departure
platform.
In
Dieppe, he debarked later that evening, and took a cab to 56 Rue de La Barre where his family owned a
small townhome whose first floor contained a business called “Ideal Shop” which
was a used clothing store operated by a Turkmenistani family called Bakzoushi,
to whom he rented the space at an affordable rate. Across the street was a
little restaurant called “Kabob Anatolie” which was good for a light lunch, and
which served a spicy green relish to which Canterel was especially fond. As he
passed quietly through the Ideal Shop to reach the private inner door of his
townhome, he noticed a faded print for sale on the wall within a crackled white
painted frame. The image was of a ghostly naked sexless pale child hovering
above a remote mountain lake surrounded by gigantic American Sequoia trees, its
face obscured by the intense light it was projecting into space as it gazed
upward into the starry void. At the bottom of the image in a cleared little
space of its own was the title: ‘La Perfide Albion’. He made his way up to his
rooms through the cluttered dusty staircase which had come to be an erstwhile storage
area over the intervening years of the home’s disuse.
In
the morning, he recalled his dream, obviously stirred by the delicious meal of Mousse De Faux Escargras ala Cantarel
Superb. It was the year after Dr. Orson Welles had revealed to him the
existence of the distant future, and had given him the corroding Eloi texts
which he later took to Louis de Broglie, and from which they developed the
remarkable new mathematics and prostheses which allowed Canterel~ “Terroriste!”
A man in a red Phrygian cap was chasing Canterel through a series of brickwork
tunnels. Canterel looked down at his heavy workman’s boots, his ragged wool
coat, as he passed before the sooty windows of strange puerpoddities his
mirrored self was goggled, Maldorored, his hair stuck up like an anarchiste in
the manner of a sail-backed lizard. Finally, he turned quickly into a small
doorway and pulled a heavy iron pipe from his coat. When the man rounded the
corner, this ‘Cunterel’s Theorem’ bashed his skull. Then, Canterel was standing
with de Broglie looking at a large blackboard of equations, on which some were beginning
to jump and chase themselves. One of the equations was chasing another through
a derivation, the chunky brash expression suddenly reciprocal’d tearing off a
chunk of the other expression’s variable for coding the probability lemma of
this very dream, ejecting an H which created a sample space where at once the
GREEN VICTOR HUGO was standing. “Romance Unites Science With Revolution,” said
the indomitable H over the fundamental lemma. Canterel approached the great
variable, and pulled out his key, a large golden key on which was written:
NIHIL
REI CONVENIT
Then he slid the big golden
key into the navel of Victor Hugo and they were both swept away by an avalanche
of green and wondrous worlds.
Canterel
was shaving as he recounted the dream back to himself, making some notes in a
little book:
Revolution
cannot be appropriate, or it will not be revolution, but every Revolution
results from inappropriateness.
Your perception is my disease.
IT’S AWFUL CONVENIENT.
8H à? “offal”//
Madame Bakzoushi knocked on
the door. She had brought up a lovely tray of coffee and some of her wonderful
little breads, and a cup of orange juice. “Madame!” cried Canterel, “You grow
more lovely with every passing year!” “You wish!,” said Aisha Bakzoushi. “Aren’t
you hungry, it’s 10 o’clock?” Canterel was something of a late riser.
After
a lovely breakfast, Canterel had decided to stroll across town passing in front
of the very train station from which he had arrived when he saw none other than
his good friend Abu Dakni. “Doc!” called Canterel, the good-natured Orientalist
happy to see him, and quickening his gait to the impact of their embracing. “How
could my letter have reached you so fast?” “What letter?” said Abu Dakni. “Indeed,”
mused Canterel. “I’ve only just arrived here to investigate an apparent
sighting of our crazy demi-goddess Nedda!” “Skariovsky is here?” “It seems so,”
said Abu Dakni. “Curious.” Then Canterel began to recount his plan to Abu Dakni:
“You
and I, for a long time, have been interested in the world of Pre-Islamic Persia.
What if we were to create an alternate time-line where Zoroastrianism suddenly
achieved technological power, and was led to global dominance by an amazing
African shape-shifting Yazata! What if we were to lead the Zoroastrian Sassanid
Empire to Euro-Asian dominance?” Abu Dakni looked serious for a moment, then
smiled. “As long as you don’t mind me exporting a few relics back to this
timeline for sale in my shop!” “Of course!” said Canterel, “Capital Idea!” They
strolled through Dieppe briskly lost in their thoughts of Fogar, the divine
Yazata shape-shifter savior, while unknowingly Nedda Skariovsky followed at a
discrete distance dressed as a man, wearing a deep blue rough silk three piece
suit, and a bowler hat, blue alligator shoes, and a carrying a cane of milky
blue lapis with a golden head which resembled a hybrid of a gazelle and grasshopper,
a grazelle, no doubt.
Martial
Canterel, and Abu Dakni knocked on the door of the townhome of Dr. Bex
Saint-Isles unaware that Nedda Skariovsky was stealthily closing in behind
them. Jovial Bex answered the door wiping his mouth with a linen napkin and
wearing a bright green silk yukata patterned with tiny golden bats. “Aaah
Canterel, Dakni, and Skariovsky!” Canterel and Abu Dakni whirled in place to
see that Nedda had indeed stepped up into the group unbidden, but before Canterel
or Abu Dakni could utter a word, Nedda Skariovsy pulled out a small ornate pink
marble video tablet which showed what was obviously a movie of a magnificently
dressed Fogar in a beautiful pink marble palace, in an indoor garden strolling
surrounded by his grandchildren to whom he was candidly teaching his
shapeshifting techniques, as some of the children were covered in patterns of
fur, and some had hands which had become cobra heads. “I have come back here
from the future you created Martial, I am Yazata Zairi-Gaosha, a temporal
guardian of the Sassanidae Empyre, whose unquenchable flame must never be
extinguished! I came here to witness the birth of our great world!” Jovial Bex,
smiled broadly, putting his soft hand on Canterel’s shoulder. “Always milking
the cyclopean nipple of paradox! My beloved Canterel!” “Astonishing!” cried Abu
Dakni. Canterel, feeling a wave of relief, but also seizing on an opportunity
for further leverage on other projects immediately, and noticing his own
immense power in the situation suddenly and gravely spoke, “Zairi-Gaosha, We
have no way of knowing absolutely if Fogar is amenable to our plan, but if he
is, I must ask you to make a solemn promise to leave the American continents
alone. Nedda smiled. “The Nations of Great Balam are Sassanidae’s truest ally.
The Uinicob are safe, and they travel to our lands unhindered, and are equals
in the eyes of Zoroaster, as are all beings.” “I can’t wait to see the pottery!”
Abu Dakni unexpectedly chimed in. Everyone laughed, as Abu Dakni’s child-like
enthusiasm for material matters seemed so incongruous in the midst of such heady
developments. “Every action negates entropy!” Canterel said softly as they all
went into the home of Dr. Saint-Isles.
Bex
Saint-Isles set out several large platters of fruit, some containing washed
fresh whole fruit, and others with little dishes of fruit salad, and bade his
guests eat. His wife Martine brought in a wheeled cart which carried an amazing
Russian samovar which she parked underneath a stained glass window she had
made, the guests were told, and whose image had been gleaned from Boris Kustodiev’s
painting, The Merchant’s Wife, which figured a robust and elegant woman raising
her tea cup in tribute across a table of cut fruit while a frisky tabby cat hat
been caught in mid-leap about to disrupt the serence scene unbeknownst to the
madame whose graceful serenity all at table admired.
“Today
is Saturday, and Fogar usually meditates on Saturdays, but I have a method of
communicating with him in cases of emergency. Bex suddenly sat a rather ornate
bamboo cage on the table which contained a hairless ferret wearing a tailored
velvet suit. As Martine removed the gentle animal from her cage, Bex
Saint-Isles wrote a note in some obscure form of short-hand, rolled it up and
slipped it into a short wooden tube which he attached by means of two small
clasps sewn onto the back of the little messenger’s jacket. Martine then
released the animal who clambered up a tiny staircase along one wall and
happily got inside a brass and glass capsule which sat before a hole resting on
a brass chute extension. Martine then pulled a purple tassel which hung from
the ceiling which activate the pneumatic tube with a schlepping ‘fonk’ sound,
and the creature was gone. “It may take several hours before he arrives, or he
may send back Lalalique with a further query. Everyone sat contentedly munching
fruit and sipping tea, until finally Canterel spoke to Nedda proffering a
question, “Are you aware of the insertion point? You say you are from the ‘Sassanidae
Empyre’? The ending the Sassanid empire was a rather messy business. It might
take some time, for Dakni and I to figure out the best of all possible
insertion points.” Nedda Skariovsky, or ‘Yazata Zairi-Gaosha’ smiled. “You
obviously did figure it out, Martial, but let’s further the temporal paradox by
allowing me to tell you.” Canterel and Abu Dakni listened closely. Nedda-Yazata
continued. “In the early 900’s as you are certainly aware, there was a social development
in Islamic society which was called Qarmati(…)” Abu Dakni broke in
unconsciously as was his slightly rude habit, “COMEDY?!” Nedda waved his
comment away and continued. “I misspoke. I had meant to say Qaramita.” “My
beloved?” enjoined Canterel, joining Abu Dakni in a boyish echo of their usual
Orientalist parlor semiotics hijinx. Nedda made a mock angry face, and continued,
“No Cara mia, Qaramita, or ‘those who
wrote in small letters. A paradoxically revolutionary movement which contained
elements of Zoroastrianism, a Vegetarian Utopianism, and a millenarian paranoia
about the coming og the Mahdi, and the rise of the Magians, and which
culminated towards our insertion point with the bizarre power handover of the
Qarmatian collective to an unknown Persian man who by careful archaeology we
discovered to have been called Yazfogar Uruz’el. “Fogar!” Canterel and Abu
Dakni said aloud in unison. “Précisément.” A subtle chime and cold flash went
through the room. “I’ve got to take this,” said Canterel, pulling out a pair of
heavy Erythrite sunglasses with yellow lenses, and strange looking snail from a
box.
In a
small antechamber Canterel received a trans-temporal call from Professor
Majesty. MC could hear the call through the snail which fitted itself into his
ear, and he could see through the temporal frames of the glasses. “I have just
completed a rather delicious experiment here in O/x, Martial. You know how we
have always loved Rabelais’s Gargantua and Pantagruel? Well, I have inverted
the symbiotic pathways, and have created a Chlorlock Gargantua which can house Eloi
vehicles carrying chlortrons, or even a supporting feature for making an Eloic
substitution for Chlortronics!” “How has the sui generis program been
proceeding?” “We have closed the gap on the frequency shifting problem which
allows us to open a portal to any universe n, and pipe its flow and any n
material into this one, but there are certain stability constraints like portal
size, etc, but velocity wise, this could be weaponized, or conversely used as a
powerful terraforming tool.” “Do the standard portal messaging protocols convey?”
“Yes, we can open one or more of these portals in most any space or time given
proper reception. You can’t open up a gate in a lightning storm.” “Would you be
able to use the Sui Generis program to replace biochemical cloning?” “Certainly!
You yourself worked on the precision framing mechanics phase. Portal framing
allows nearly infinite complexity, which certainly includes cloning.” “Gear up
a 15 frame set to produce Gargantuas. By the way, who is in it at present?” “It’s
me, Professor Majesty, ready to piss on the world!” “Good work Professor, I
guess you could even fit their big Par-is’s with a portaling frame generator
controlled by the Eloi within?” “It’s just a slight rewrite!” “Make it so!”
Canterel tapped the little snail’s back so that it knew to retract, and he
removed the glasses, and returned to the group. The Ferret had returned, and
Fogar would be there within the hour.
