New Edit: Now that I have actually gotten a few nights of sleep (Why do I always end up on these forums when I’m sleep deprived?) I’ve made some edits in grammer and content reflecting the comment below. I’m sure I’ll get a few more edits below this as I see typos I’ve missed.
So, I know I haven’t been around on the forums a lot (A combination of seasonal rush, Seasonal depression, and Pokemon Moon.) However, I bring you a story for the season of Mr. Sacks. Which may only be of interest to myself, but even if I’m just howling into the dark, at least it’s finally out of my head. So, this is based off a conversation in the Inflammatory Salon Thread, but I didn’t have time to post it then, and I decided this is probably the season for sweeter stories.
http://community.failbettergames.com/topic21999-the-inflammatory-salon.aspx?Page=177
Also, expect to see a long list of edits below this post-the story does have some formatting, and anyone who has seen me struggle with spoiler tags (If you haven’t, I can assure you it’s entertaining), it’s not my forte.
From Mr. F’s collection of papers, found upon examination of Wuthering Heights Manor
Our latest failure has caused us to dive back in the knowledge of the ancients and leave behind the modern medical journals for a time. However, this time-at the behest of Mrs. E-I’ve set aside the study of the aether as the breath of life or the possibility of binding guiding daemons to help stabilize the souls.
No, we focus our attention on the peers around the river Nile, those ancient resurrectionists. We’ve already accepted their teachings on the importance of the heart in resurrection, and have attempted to compensate for that lost vital spark with using two hearts in a single vessel, hoping that it will balance out the remnants of the ka to conduct the electricity needed to awaken the ba.
From her readings, Mrs. E believes the issue with the bodies is an invisible defect we have overlooked in our all too hasty examinations of the bodies, eager to preserve their freshness. She advocates a closer examinations and being more selective in what we accept as passable parts. While we quibble over preservation techniques, we have reached an agreement: The importance of excellent specimens of the stomach, liver, lungs, and intestines. If the Ancient Egyptians felt the need to store them in their own jars for the afterlife, they deserve our attention and care.
Charlie had been his name-perhaps named after the bonny prince. Or had it been Patrick? Or Peter?
He had been raised in the countryside, but those memories were just a blur of green and sweat. The memories sharpened as he left that life behind, to go to the great monstrous cities that dotted the coast, working the ships and docks. The memories of the hard working days were faint, but the nights were stronger; hearty drink and relief tied together by music.
An old man picking up a fiddle as worn as he was. The patter of steps on the wooden floor. Laughter echoing through the room. The same worn hands over his own, showing him how to draw the bow. Boisterous voices singing along as he coaxed music for the first time. Bright spots in the smog darkened nights.
One night stands out clearer than the rest. An admiring face beaming from the crowd as the bow danced along the strings. A smile that beckoned as he packed the fiddle away. A whiff of perfume-cheap to a gentlemen, but lovely to a sailor. Soft hands guiding him down an alleyway, groping underneath stiff petticoats-a sharp crack in the back of his head. A rush of red pain. Charlie(?) stumbled forward. More cracks, more red pain that sent him limp. A darkness that didn’t come quick to prevent that last glance of a sharp knife in her hands, or the feeling of it cutting into his skin, breaking his ribs.
From Mr. F’s Travel Journal to Ireland found among his papers
This trip has been productive, more so then we expected. Not only do the stern sea winds help negate the worst of the damage of smoke and filthy city living upon the lungs but the numerous unmannered children of the Irish were raised in the beneficial country air. An additional blessing is that their degenerate morals make them easy sport. We’ve gathered enough materials to fuel our experiments for the next decade.
The only shadow on my elation is Mrs. E’s dark mood. She finds her role in this sport to be demeaning and an insult upon her moral person. Not that my role is exactly uplifting, but she has been glaring at me after every night that she spends-and in her words-“dressed as a common whore.” Her dark mood has only started to lift upon news that we will be traveling back home. Now we must tackle the logistics of transporting back our work without the meddling of ignorant authorities. The good news is that in such an overrun city we have not attracted too much attention from an overworked police force – we could’ve spent months here if it wasn’t for overly ghoulish reporters for the local rag. Mrs. E has a few ideas. . .
Subject 5 fidgeted nervously, stressed at the end of one of the strange interviews with their parents. This time it had been instigated by one of Subject 5’s bouts of boredom. Rummaging through the library, they found a cheap chapbook of poetry. They went to the garden, to spend the morning entertaining the neglected flowers and curious birds as if they were an adoring audience. And then they were.
Men and women-just like Mother and Father-looking up at then. More than Subject 5 had seen in their life-visitors were few and fewer ever stayed. Subject 5 stood there in a sunlight room highlighted by cheery wallpaper – a sight never seen in the damp manor. Their voice faltered and they could see a man in the back give a cruel amused smile. Looking around in panic, they could feel sweat on their hands where they clutched the chapbook. Hands that didn’t belong to them.
A slap from Mother had broken them from this vision. The vision that brought them into their parent’s study. Father was ecstatic at the report, questioning the details of the vision again and again. He even hugged Mother in joy, a sight rarely seen. At the end of his celebration, Father handed them paper and pen.
“What I am to do with that?”
“Write. Just write like you used to.”
“Aren’t you being presumptuous?” Mother asked. “Just a few memories is not proof that the ba has fully awakened.” Subject 5 looked at the expectant expression of Father and the contemptuous one of Mother. They looked at the chap book and thought of the light lyrical words inside. They looked down at the paper and felt the words inside their head, heavy and awkward. Trying to find words that would appease their parents, they start drumming on the table. A tune starts to form, a tune that soothed them in the past, a tune of warmth and salt air. A tune with light words. Taking this inspiration without question, they quickly write down the light words.
They were not the right light words. Father was disappointed, Mother was vindicated. Subject 5 was sent away while they talked in low tones.
From the papers of Mrs. E, collected posthumously from the Estate of Wuthering Heights-
Subject 5 has showed the seeds of awakening the bas stored in their hearts. However, taint from the other bodies we gathered has also awakened. I was willing to compromise the soul of my husband with that of Mr. F’s wisp of a sister. But in his current vassal, he is lost to a crowd of strangers.
I wish we could just dissemble Subject 5, and retake the hearts for another attempt. However, our backers will not allow us to focus our efforts entirely on our own pain. I cannot entirely blame them. Mr. F consoles me that practice with other’s souls will allow our next attempt to bring back our beloveds to be so much more successful. Still to see my beloved so close and yet so far away. . .
For now, Subject 5 will be allowed to continue to lumber around. They are able to talk and walk at the very least, which places us far above our rival resurrectionists. Even if they are a horrible mockery of my beloved, Subject 5 is wonderful advertisement for interested backers. Maybe we can find something in the work of those from the school of psychology can help salvage Subject 5.
There was a crisp snap and the squeeze of a hand in theirs that woke Galatea. Morning Glory looked at them with concern, and gave their hand another squeeze. The smoky port and the decaying manor in the marsh faded in the clean light of their parlor. Dr. Hargrave, a student of Freud took notes down in his notepad.
Morning Glory-that one who gave Galatea her name. The one who did not scream but instead took Galatea away from the decaying corpse of manor. Their lawfully or close enough to lawful wife of over five years. For her, Galatea would do anything. Even visit Dr. Hargrave, a young man desperate for respect-both for himself and the discipline he claimed to master.
“You fell deeper into the trance today then your previous sessions.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s an enlightening one.”
“Doctor, just give it to me straight.” Galatea was not the must patient with Dr. Hargrave, despite his earnestness. They disliked being placed under his mental microscope.
“The source of your mental fatigue leading to your bad nerves has root in the conflict between your Shadow and your Super-ego, leading to a general confusion of Ego.”
“Shadow? Super-ego?” Galatea tried hard to contain their frustration. Morning Glory trusted this man, and that should be enough. But why did he insist on giving everything such confusing names?
“The Super-ego is the self-critical part of us, commonly called the conscience. It’s the internalization of the standards of society, particularly that of our parents. If you allow me to speak plainly; even for those who are born with a normal psychology, your childhood isolation would already lead to certain myopic traits in your Super-ego. Namely, by placing too much emphasis on the instructions of your parents and too little on any other authority figure. However, your unique psychology allows for additional complications in the Super-ego.”
Galatea couldn’t hide a smirk at unique. Even plainly speaking, the doctor couldn’t bring himself to drop his euphemisms.
“Judging from the notes that your wife brought me, your parents were interested in fostering only a certain set of memories of the many you already contained at birth. Thus, that leads us to the shadow. While the Id is knowingly repressed urges and emotions, the Shadow is ones that we suppress subconsciously. Feelings and urges whose very existence pose a threat to the integrity of our Ego. However, your Shadow is more than just unwanted feelings and urges – they are memories and traits that are your inheritance. Thus it’s strong enough to pose a challenge to your Super-ego. That conflict between the two is the reason for all the trouble in your Ego-what you think of yourself-in the form of your symptoms.”
“Lovely lecture, doctor. But how does it help me?” Morning Glory gave Dr. Hargrave a sympathetic look.
“Galatea isn’t normally this rude.”
“I’ve dealt with worst, ma’am. I think that you need to confront these aspects of your Shadow in a way that isn’t a threat to your Ego. You’ve already shown remarkable strength of will in dealing in the memories you weren’t forced to repress. You were given memories of a writer, and thus you write-but of a much a different character.
“That’s a nice way to say gothic penny dreadfuls.”
“You are too critical of yourself. You were given memories of a violent man, and thus release those urges in your appreciation of boxing. You just need to confront those memories and recontextalize them as part of your Ego. My first suggestion is that you visit the sea port from your dreams yourself – to experience the place with your own senses. That may help quiet those memories.”
“It’s an excellent idea,” Morning Glory cut in, “We have been long overdue for a vacation.”
“Are you sure-“ Galatea interjects.
“Yes. I need a break from this dreadful summer. Between the muggy heat and Mrs. Darvish still throwing a fit about the dinner party last month, I need a change of scenery.” Galatea could point out that the summers were hardly worst then Morning Glory’s childhood in India, and that Mrs. Darvish was also throwing a fit about something. But there was something in their wive’s eyes that made them think that this trip was not for the benefit of their mental health. Dr. Hargrave gave Galatea an encouraging smile, eager for their affirmation. Outnumbered, Galatea acquiescence.
“Fine doctor, I will give it a try.”
-Taking from the correspondence between Mrs. Shelly and Morning Glory-
My dearest Mary,
Writing to you provides a pleasant distraction from shrieking chords. The shrieking I refer to is my beloved practicing the fiddle. Sometimes they play so beautifully, and sometimes they play like they’ve never seen a fiddle before.
It is here that I realize I should explain why Galatea has decided to take up a new hobby in their already overflowing collection. During the first evening walk in this city-I know you will write to me, worrying of my safety, but trust me there is nowhere safer then at Galatea’s side-that’s when one of the many pubs grabbed Galatea’s attention.
That’s how I found myself drinking a pint, amidst the suspicious looks from the crowd. Poor Galatea never quite fits in anywhere, and in my traveling clothes, I looked out of place amongst the sailors and working women who drink here. Galatea did not notice, their attention focused on a crippled man with a fiddle. There was peace in my beloved’s eyes and after the performance was over, I helped with cajoling the man, whom we now call music tutor O’Henry. I think he finds us foolish, but amusing.
While Galatea works to master the fiddle, I’ve worked to capture the music in my own way. I’ve sent you some of the music sheets of common reels and jigs. Hardly polite society, but then you don’t converse with me for polite society. In a strange way it reminds me of home – though it’s been years since I’ve returned to India. . .
The doctor’s advice had been sound, despite Galatea’s initial misgiving. As they practiced the fiddle, they remembered the sounds of laughter and stomping feet from their memories. As they fought to claim themselves from the wreckage of the man who may or may not have called Charlie, the dregs of summer were cast away by the fall winds. When the frost clung to the windows of the parlor, Galatea finally found a way to center themselves in the music. The feel of a warm fire, the laughter of visiting nieces and nephews as they gimbled upon the rugs. The playful dances of visiting friends, of family filled with a bit too much liquid cheer. The coy smile of their wife as the family retired to bed for the holidays-dancing a bit that was of India, a bit of what she learned in her finishing schools, and bit of the world they traveled.
What had become a simple exercise to calm nerves had become a tradition along with those German pine trees and overly enthusiastic wassailers. Galatea watched as the nieces and nephews grew, dragging fiancées into their games. As their daughter joined, being hoisted along the shoulders of Great-Uncle Walt. Even as Morning Glory’s dances grew slower, and her breaks lengthened, due to her complaints of arthritis.
Then that year came. They year of fever that claimed their daughter. The year that her grave was found unearthed during a thunderstorm. The act that Galatea saw as hateful mockery that gave their wife desperate hope. The year of searching, for anything that would finally confirm or deny their daughter’s possible second life. The year of knives, like the one found in Morning Glory. She had been waiting for Galatea to return home from their investigation that night. The police told them, that Morning Glory must have opened the door thinking it was Galatea.
The fiddle stopped when the house was draped in mourning colors. When there was no daughter to learn at their knee, when Morning Glory no longer could give coy smiles. The Christmas seasons would come in and go in a hush, Christmas that never thawed no matter how much Galatea stirred the fire. The fiddle was left when Galatea went to travel down below.
-Lifted off an unlucky courier
Dear Dirae Erinyes,
Your marks of credit have been found to be valid and of significant value. In exchange for your payment to our department, we are prepared to accept your request for: One musical instrument from the vaults of the Bazaar, particularly a violin as you requested. We cannot however verify its history in the matter of its previous ownership, despite the rumors that echo on the streets of London. . .
Dirae Erinyes held the fiddle tightly, only lifting the bow after the Mr. Sacks who probably was not a Mr. Sacks had left.
“I didn’t know you could play,” said a voice from the top of the stairs. Dirae Erinyes looked up into the shadows. A pale figure poked out of the shadows, her nightgown still clinging to the dark. Their wife in this life, as dark and pale as the world denied a sky.
“Evensong, I don’t understand why you hide when Mr. Sacks comes to visit.” Dirae Erinyes commented as they started to pack the violin away.
“I don’t trust the Masters at the best of times, especially when they refuse to come as themselves.” Evensong slipped down the carpet stairs, instead of retreating back to the bedroom. “The irony is not lost on me.” She sat down, with her back to the fire, looking up at Dirae Erinyes. Dirae Erinyes gave a glance out the dark windows, just to be sure.
“You want something, don’t you?”
“I’m scared of masters roaming the streets filled with the acidic tears of the being we call home,” Evensong replied with fake cloying sweetness. “Can you play something for me?”
“Really?”
“Maybe I’m just jealous that you play for the Masters and not for me.”
“You aren’t going back to bed are you?”
“Why haven’t you played for me?”
“It’s complicated.”
“You played for her, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Dirae Erinyes, realizing that they were in immediate trouble of spending the rest of the night on the sofa in the den, picked up the violin again. Sliding the bow across the strings, it all came back, two lifetimes worth of memories. Amidst the storm inside their own mind, they focused on Evensong.
She danced similar to Morning Glory, with a little bit of everything. But there was nothing in the way she danced that reflected the surface. She copied the sky worship gesture of the Khanate, the quick stepped turns from the nearly infinite states of the presbyterate, the leaps from the performance rites of the boat bound cults. A lifetime spend running across the zee, generations of a hunted people distilled into series of movements. The way only Cousins could dance.
The dance ends with Evensong sunk to the floor, her loose hair clinging to her face. The silence ended with the sound of chimes and the piping sound of rattus voices.
“It sounds like we have company,” Evensong remarked, pulling herself back to propriety. Upstairs a sleeping roar sounded, leading to the chorus of chirps, growls, and squelching noises. “It’s going to be impossible to convince them to go back to sleep now.” Not needing additional commands, Dirae Erinyes sets the bow onto the strings.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 12/30/2016
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 12/30/2016
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 12/31/2016