Sunday, March 30, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Part V - Slipstream Divine
'To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour'
(William Blake)
Madness Divine
Let me just say that I am not mad. I've thought about it, as one inadvertently does during such long journeys, and I have reached the conclusion that I am thoroughly sane. So with that I'd like to begin: It is only when you really truly understand what lies between suns that you become a god.
It’s the distances; those epic, unforgiving, and magisterial stretches that forge memory blankness that do it you know. How can a mortal mind take it?
Equations you say? But that is not comprehension. That is management. That is you attempting to manage, to fit the unassailable into a little box marked ‘mystery’, so that you don’t have to think about it. But comprehension, comprehension is something well, something else.
When I was little my father used to play a game. We’d be cruising above the desert of our home planet and suddenly he’d throw open the hatch and deposit us (gently) onto the sand dunes (me and my sister). Two seconds flight-time later he’d cut the engines and then it would begin. The idea of the game was that we were to make our way to him - on foot. Two seconds – we couldn’t even see him! It’d take us the best part of the day to travel the distance and even then we could only make out the fuzzy blip on the horizon. What he was giving us was a vital lesson in cosmic empathy.
But that was many years gone past,
Many years have eluded me as I traipse between suns. I can now say that I really truly understand cosmic empathy. I wonder sometimes, sometimes aloud how time tastes to you? Does it taste the same as it does to me? For me time feels like something that accumulates, something that is constantly depositing a fine layer on me. And as we move farther and farther through time this layer thickens and thickens. And the same applies to distance too because time and distance are brother and sister. I understand from others that you probably see time as something different; something that is lost and never to be recovered. That the passing of time is something not good?
Do you not think that how we feel time colours how we see? I think so. I can’t go back. Not because I feel terror at the enormity of the task but because I have no desire to shed the layers of time and distance I have accumulated in my journey. These are precious. And also, there’s the psychological impact of the interminability of the return journey. That would be bad, not good. But full steam ahead as they say; who knows the same interminability may greet me but it will be a different interminability. Not the same.
But where was I?
Yes, I was talking about distances and time – the mere fact of having traversed them leaves a mark on you. Like a visit to a place of poverty, a brush with death or a meet with someone you admire. It leaves an indelible mark.
What kind of a mark you ask?
Well, an intimate empathy of the scale of nothingness, and an even greater empathy for the nothingness of everything.
Everything and nothing
Life and death
Infinity,
I can see it you know. I really do understand it. It sits there in my mind looking at me; smiling. Sneering at me with its black rotten teeth. The realisation.
The moment of realisation – ha!
It creeps up on you at first, insinuates its way through you and then without warning the realisation strikes you between the temples. Whack! Stunned.
Then follows a sort of giddy excitement. Your mind races around. You want to tell someone what you realise. But, why are you so excited? You have nobody to tell. It’s only you here and your toys in the cargo hold! Why then the excitement? Just imagine you’re the only one in the world. Just imagine. What would excite you? Would anything excite you at all? Exactly.
After the excitement there’s a deep understanding. Yes, that becomes part of you; permeates you, until it soaks through your bones and you become this understanding and realisation.
You realise what it means to hold infinity,
Touch it, and in your hand look at it,
Like a god.
Slipstream Divine
The object (for that is what the inhabitants of the planet would have thought if they could see it) hung motionless above the atmosphere. It was a gross violation of nature the way it just hung there, as below it churned the verdant blue planet swathed in white shawls. The curvature of the planet was gilded; it defined itself against the starry void beyond. The sun carved a huge arc across it; slicing it in half – night and day.
I want to kill them people on the planet
Why?
Because I can…And because nobody will know about it. Nobody will find out because they’ll all be dead and there’s nobody to watch me do it.
But why?
I don’t know. Because I don’t know any of them so I won’t be paying a currency of grief.
What do you mean?
I have not seen them. My eyes have not touched them. My heart has not reached out to them. I don’t know them so I have no emotional attachment to them. So I can kill them.
But just say if I had spent even five minutes with them. Watching their children running around and playing games (which I’m sure they do), watching the mothers doting after them and bossing over them, then I would perhaps think differently. But I am 20 miles above and I don’t have these feelings.
But you could?
Yes, I could but I don’t. That is a fact.
Isn’t that evil?
I don’t know. I suppose it is. But I don’t feel like it is evil. Ok admittedly it’s a bad thing to do, but that is outweighed by the fact that it will make me feel good.
Why?
Because it is act of doing something that most people would say is wrong or evil. And knowing that you will never be found out gives it a thrill like taking a sly shit in somebody's garden or in a field when there’s no one around to watch you. Or deliberately smacking a little kid knowing you won't be caught – because the kids too small to speak and to have a memory.
That’s sick?
Is it?
Yes.
Look, you can’t kill them.
Why?
Because it is not your right to take life. You didn’t give them life so why should you take it?
But who gave them life?
I don’t know. That’s beside the point. The point is you should give them a chance to live. They’ll only get one chance at living. They’ll die eventually anyway. Let them experience it.
Experience what? Life or death?
Life!
Doesn’t the nothingness you have travelled though make them seem amazing or special? Like brilliant crystals in a dull solution?
No. It makes them look pathetic and puny in the shadow of the vastness of everything. And I am that vastness. It has absorbed me into it. I understand true distance, true vastness, true scale – these people are, you can’t imagine. They’re just nothings.
Look, don’t kill them there’s no fun in that. Interfere a little,
play with them…
You’re mad! And you are supposed to be me my conscience?
And you are I?
And we are one.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Coming soon...Part V - Slipstream Divine
And a heaven in a wild flower
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour'
(William Blake)
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Part IV - The Enchantment of Father Eduardo Conspiratorez
By the light you bring to me
I listen to your ears,
Through your eyes I can see'
On Tuesday, 27th November AD 1095, Pope Urban II made a speech that would change the course of history. He’d summoned a great Council to Clermont in France to make a major announcement. There was tremendous excitement, the air was buzzing and the cathedral that was to host the event was not nearly big enough. Hence the papal throne had to be moved to a nearby boggy field where atop the pulpit looking every bit the regal viceroy he was, the Pope revealed what was on his mind: He had received an embassy from the emperor of Byzantium seeking help in driving back the Moslems; to protect the righteous Christians from the barbarian Moslem Seljuk Turks who were advancing towards the Bosporus to Byzantium. Thus under the banner of the Cross the Pope’s speech was a call to arms. He summoned all Christian warriors to aid their brothers in the East. This was to fire the imagination of Europe for the next 400 years. Thus the Crusades were born.
But like all such endeavours there was a hidden agenda that the Pope failed to mention that day. Historians today acknowledge that there was another kind of fire burning at the heart of this revolutionary papacy; by summoning an army under the banner of the Cross the Pope was extending the Church’s mantle over the whole of Christendom. Pope Urban’s army would rescue Jerusalem, the physical and spiritual centre of the universe, and the Pope would in turn become ruler of Jerusalem and de-facto Arch Monarch of the World. And what did the Pope offer in return to would be Crusaders? Paradise. Those who took part had all their sins forgiven. Thus a purely political enterprise was cleverly worked into a righteous religious endeavour. For the believers the Crusades were a religious and moral obligation.
That is the official origin of the Crusades believed by many scholars to be true.
But this too is spurious and not totally accurate…
‘There is no greater fear for the Papal elite, then the fear of becoming at one with God’s heaving masses’
(21st century poet)
(Scene 2)
The candle caught a draught and flickered tremulously in the corner. Its halo hemmed in by the walls of the cloistered rectangular side chapel. It was a smallish chamber, situated to the left of the main vessel. It had a domed ribbed-roof decorated with arches of formeret beams that began at shoulder height from semicircular decorative corbels. The tiny opaque windows at the front were set in triangular liernes and foliated motifs. A solitary shape sat scribbling away under the single candle flame. The hunched shadow was wearing the habit and cowl of a monk with a long bony hand that thrust out from it and from whose end dangled a quill. The sound of furious scribbling parted the darkness. The bony hand finally grabbed the wax and christened the note with the papal seal of Pope Urban II. The shadow gestured to the darkness and the darkness responded; a messenger who had been hiding in the shadow all along approached the sinewy hand, and upon receipt of the letter, bowed, stepped backwards and headed out in solemn but assured hurriedness.
The letter he was carrying was bound for Venice, under personnel protection of the Pope’s personal courier system. The couriers were hand picked and amongst the most trusted. They were trained in warfare, deception, hand to hand combat and protected by Papal decree to boot. They travelled alone, under cover of darkness, in disguise and were instructed to do whatever necessary to ensure delivery. Pope Urban II had just dictated the letter.
From the office of Pope Pious Urban II
To: Father Montezuma Obispo
Venetian Seminary of Priesthood.
Casa Combrecci,
Venice.
Friday 30th, November AD 1095
Dearest brother,
How is Ma? Please convey her my blessings.
These are difficult times. A tempest brews in the East bringing tidings of woe. The Holy lands are besieged by heathen Moslems who dare to desecrate the Holy Chapel in Jerusalem – such insolence! The Temple Mount is stricken by their filthy type. They laugh at us! They jeer at our impotence and celebrate our bickering and quarrelling. And now to add fat to their already ripe bellies they dare to shame us further. Yes, our ears have received tidings that a band of Moslem brigands have conspired to exhume the tomb of Saint Mark, Venice’s patron Saint, who as you know is buried in Alexandria, and are carrying it to the East as we speak! Such daring!
To where?
Who knows? But word has reached us of a possible final resting place beyond Mesopotamia and across the Euphrates in the land of the Dravidians (a brutish people who practice idolatry). But information from these parts being so scarce and poor we have no further tidings. Hence, I come to you my brother for assistance. Can you dispatch one of your most trusted companions on a fact-finding mission? I enclose a Papal Passport that obliges all citizens of our lands to assist the bearer in whatever form necessary – a personnel guarantee from me. And instructions. This must be kept secret. If news of this were leaked I fear the whole of Venice would become a mob baying for blood.
Pope Pious Urban II
Official Seal
[Encl]
‘Has the letter been dispatched?’
‘It has your most Holiness’
‘Good, Good’
‘And your brother your Holiness?’
‘Montezuma has always been faithful. He is too trusting and that is his weakness. I dare he will not raise suspicion. As God’s vessel on earth one is entitled to take liberties, for His exaltation. If this means lying to my own brother then He understands. We must protect His authority. Without His guidance there will be nothing but chaos and infirmary’
‘Yes, of course your Holiness’
‘Any further news from the prisoner?’
‘No your Holiness. I fear we have squeezed this one dry’
‘I see. I think it is time we prayed for his soul departed’
‘Yes – your Holiness’
‘And what of the rumours you’re Holiness?’
‘If they do bare fruit then dark times lay ahead. But pray we will be prepared’
‘How so your Holiness?’
‘As we speak thousands of good Christians have dropped their hoes and are marching towards the Holy Land. The sacking of Jerusalem from the Moslems is a mere pretext for what is to come. The Lord works in mysterious ways’
‘Yes your holiness. The Lords omniscience knows no bounds’
‘Indeed. The Lord is all knowing and all powerful’
And so the two retired to their chambers, one bowing as he left.
There were two loves in the life of Eduardo Conspiratorez:
The Holy Church and the Madonna Countessa – languorous eyes, sensuous smile. Seductively alluring. He still hadn’t decided which one he’d choose. They’d meet in secret. Venice seemed perfect for such amorous adventures. Damp, dark, cloistered, and crowded Venice perched. She was secretive, opaque and rife with superstitions and blind alleys and sinister inhabitants. The narrow streets barely wide enough for a person were twisted with bewildering turns. You’d crawl though one of these only at the end to be greeted by the expanse of the Grand Canal, and beyond the Adriatic Sea – enchanting you. Cobwebs of mist rose from the canals, veiling the lanterns. Rats were in abundance – disembarking off the ships, scurrying along the wharves, gnawing off the wood-beams, and bringing with them the dreaded plague.
Throughout Europe travel was supremely hazardous and not to be taken lightly. But in Venice, small in size, compact, with a merchant aristocracy, fiercely independent, commercial, with a global outlook; travel was the norm. Everyone in Venice was either a traveller or a merchant. The variety of goods that poured in from the ports where a veritable feast for the senses. Minerals, sandalwood, cinnamon, nutmeg, figs, pomegranates, hides, ostrich feathers, pearls, ivory, copper, silk, gums and Asian slaves. But underneath this cupola of a global bazaar, Venice could be cruel. Women were treated as chattel. Slavery was common and abuse rampant. A popular piece of advice to prospective Venetian husbands urged:
‘The wife, who has not sound judgement, must not guide the husband. Her weak constitution borne by the excess of bile humours propensities her to capricious rumbustiousness’
Yet, amidst this chauvinism Father Eduardo Conspiratorez was more enlightened then most. Blessed with a strong mother he had developed a deep respect for the female kind. Which was why the beautiful Madonna Countessa loved him so.
They’d meet secretly under the roof of the Casa Barone, a building belonging to one of Eduardo’s merchant uncles who was away. His heart would soar like a bird in anticipation. His joy knew no bounds. A little bird would start flitting in his heart and would not stop until he’d held her tightly in his arms and nibbled on her ears and devoured her lips. Those were frivolous times. But more then anything it was the way she looked at him that did it. A look of brilliant, radiant and carefree happiness – a look that said anything is possible with you darling.
But Eduardo also wanted to love Him. A women’s love was for now but God’s love was forever and what better way to show that love then to give up this frail carnal love, a love of the flesh, for an immutable love of the infinite soul.
For the love of God is something real to the 11th century mind. In-fact, there is no question of its existence; it is taken as real, has form as substantial as the things you see with your own eyes.
Thus the tempest raged in Eduardo’s heart. But for the meantime as he lay in Madonna Countessa’s arms, it was becalmed. Bestricken by shame:
‘I love you’
‘I know’
‘But what do you know of my love?’
‘I know it exists’
‘Exists. What a funny word that is eh? Exists. My love exists. But it says nothing of what it means to exist. What it involves. What it feels like. Does it say anything of the knots in my stomach? The joy of the heart? The dissolving away of my troubles. How it feels when I touch your skin. To feel your sweet breath on my breastbone. The smell of your hair. The warmth of your body. Exists. Hah! What an impoverished word it is!’
‘What would you have me say then darling?’
‘It breathes. It soars and it swoops. It gets angry and it gets jealous. It rages. It belittles. It hates. It…
‘Exists?’
‘Ha ha ha!’ and so they kissed
The Venetian Seminary of Priesthood is situated on the eastern flanks of Venice. It is the oldest and most respected seminary in the land and specialises in the training of priests. Many of its members would one day be ordained as cardinals, acolytes in the courts of the Holy Roman Emperor and ambassadors to countless others. It was like a modern day university and taught many subjects that nowadays would be called scientific disciplines all under the guise of ‘Natural Philosophies’. One of its many trainees was Eduardo Conspiratorez.
‘Eduardo we must talk’ said Montezuma
‘As you wish’
‘Perhaps you’d care to come to my chamber?’ Montezuma said holding out his hand gesturing the way in. This gesture was more an acknowledgment of the rarity of this event. For none of the trainees had ever seen Father Montezuma’s office before. Eduardo senses this was a portent for what was to come.
The chamber was large and smelled of sandalwood mingled with incense. It had a high ceiling with a cornice but was otherwise, in keeping with tradition, rather austere. The shelves were lined with little niches that held scrolls and on one side the entire wall was devoted to books. The look was finished off with a large painting of Pope Urban II with the Papal emblem affixed to the wall above it. He was after all his brother. This was another reason why this was such a good seminary; it had connections right to the top. Montezuma gestured towards a chair but he himself remained standing with his back towards Eduardo staring at his brothers portrait.
‘Eduardo, allow me to be frank. But none of this leaves this room. I feel comfortable that I can speak to you like this, with candidness. We’re a training college. We, as you are aware, train priests who will one day be awarded desirable positions in the greatest cities and monasteries throughout Christendom. But lets be clear on one thing: We may preach the word of God but as people of flesh and blood we are subject to the vagaries of the flesh. Look, many here are here because of who they are. We are a coterie. That is the way the world works and one must be pragmatic about such matters. We require funding, and as you know, the fees we get from the Venetian treasury are trifling. It is the alumni, our powerful alumni that really support us. But that is another matter. My point is, and I will make it in the form of a rhetorical question – how many of your colleagues are here for the right reasons?’
Eduardo sat silently not wanting to answer
‘I’d hazard a guess and say not many. Look I’m sure they will make great priests and cardinals but, but what is in the deepest recesses of their hearts – who knows. Apart from Him. But your heart Eduardo! Your heart Eduardo I can see. You wear your heart on your face, not hide it like the others. Look, the Pope has sought my help in a certain matter of utmost exigency. Take a look at this letter. Take your time. Read it here. There is no hurry. But remember everything you have heard and are about to read stays in these four walls.
Father Eduardo Conspiratorez watched from the deck as the ship sailed out from the Venetian morning. It was too-ing and fro-ing from the swell and the wind was lashing at the stern and flecking the sapphire sea with white. He watched this city that had been his home with a curious detachment that gave it an otherworldly spectre. Viewed from a distance, this bustling centre of the universe now looked strangely dethroned and debunked of all its mystery. The spires shrunk until they were no more then rude interruptions in the monotonous horizon. He drew a deep breath and sighed. Not because he needed to but rather to draw a line under a new beginning. This would be an arduous journey. He was heading for the Levant and from there it had been arranged that he would join an overland camel train to take him into the interior of Asia Minor. He’d be travelling under the guise of a lunatic monk, the only Christian in a sea of churning Heathens. Instinctively he felt for the Passport in his inner pocket. There it was snugly resting against his breast. His breast. And then he remembered the Madonna Countessa and began to cry.
‘Have we received tidings from my brother?’
‘Yes, your Holiness’
‘And?’
‘A certain Father Eduardo Conspiratorez has been despatched your Holiness’
‘I see. Is he any good?’
‘My people say he is a good man. Honest. Steady. A rock. The type who would do anything for His holiness’
‘Anything? those are exactly the type I should fear'
‘Anyway, any news from the source?’
‘There is much rumour and speculation your Holiness and if…’
‘Spare me the details. What at least can we be sure of?’
‘The Turks too are getting nervous and jittery - that we are sure of. We’ve intercepted some of their emissaries and they speak of a great power in the East your Holiness’
‘This is a portent. I see dark clouds ahead. We must not let such intrigues beset us. Tread carefully’
‘Yes, your holiness’
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Coming soon...Part IV - The Enchantment of Father Eduardo Conspiratorez
'I am enchanted by the light you bring to me
I listen through your ears, through your eyes I can see'
(21st century poet)
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Part III - The Vaults of the Museum of Modern-Antiquities
‘Bet yer can’t guess wot I do?’
I looked him over.
He looked pitiable; like an emasculated door mouse. He was in his dotage. Small of stature. Fidgety. Skin wrapped in centuries of folds that held god knows what secrets. He had a hooked nose, large furry ears, and bushy eyebrows. His face had a sulphury complexion under the light bulb that hung above us; its feeble glow our only source of light. His eyes were like diamond cutters – two magnetic bright blue beams that shone out from amongst the folds of flesh and pierced the smudgy blackness.
‘No you’re right, I can’t’
He looked up at me. His eyebrows reproaching me with their bushiness.
‘Garn!’ he cried with a playful shove. ‘Wot’s yer bleedin’ game, eh? Can yer not take a guess matey!’
‘Alright, alright’ I said.
‘Let me see. You’re the esteemed curator of the museum, right?’
I waited for another exasperated look of indignation.
Instead he smiled and nodded approvingly.
‘That my friend is coweckt-a-mundo’
‘You, you are?!’ I stuttered, surprised.
‘You? Me? Yes me, who else can yer see with us laddy?’
The poor man had been summoned up to the surface to fetch me - to be my guide. And he seemed rather pleased about it too. I suspected he was nocturnal and didn’t get out much. The two of us were crammed in an elevator heading downwards; the ancient winch and pulley mechanism variety; its cogwheels moaning and complaining to each other. I got the impression that the elevator wasn’t used often.
‘Sorry I didn’t quite catch your name, what was it again?’ I asked
‘Again?’ he replied ‘I’ve not given yer my name laddy so there’s no again about it! but as you ask so kindly you can go callin’ me Kenny’
‘Ok, so tell me Mr Kenny, do you get many visitors down here?’ It was pretty obvious they didn’t. The elevator itself would scare them away.
‘V’zeetors? V’zeetors! Wot wud we wont v’zeetors down ere’ for? Wen der’s plenty of em’ ponces crawling up der!’ he shrilled.
‘Ahh the bo-em’ Kenny sighed. He’d reached home. The bottom.
What surprised me was that we hadn’t so much stopped at the bottom but landed on it. Before I could add anything further we we’re off. It was dark below. The air was dank and draughty. We walked through a warren of corridors and tunnels lined with vaults. The floor was stony and it echoed with our footsteps. All sounds were amplified down here; like mortars tearing through the air. You could hear your laboured breathing, the steady drip-drip of distant leaking pipes, and the furtive scurrying of a large portion of London’s rodent population and all this to the backdrop of looming shadows that lunged at you with vengeance. You could hear the constant drone of the overhead light bulbs; amberesque balls of grimy-yellow that ran along the ceiling in single file like soldiers and disappeared into the depths as far as the eye could see. How long the tunnels were!
Kenny went into his (little used) tour-guide routine:
‘Four miles of corridors serving 153 individual coffered domed vaults. We have 3,567 light bulbs, each of which I have personally changed at-least 5 times…’
Suddenly there was a deep rumbling under our feet followed by the sound of grinding gears. It sounded suspiciously like a train.
‘and that is the Piccadilly Line westbound train to’ he paused, ‘to Russell Square’ – Kenny was on a roll.
‘When were these tunnels and vaults built?’ I asked.
‘Ooh, ages ago mate. Yonks before the fire n’way’
‘The great fire of London in 1666?’
‘Yus, dats wight. If yer look up T’ ceilin’ he said pointing ‘In them corners yer can still see the blackened stumps of the wood beams that wer burnt. The inferno must ‘ave raged ‘ell above, but the roof is made of stone so the vaults wer saved. Them vaults r’ old laddy. They wer around well before the Great Sewage Works Building Program of the 1500s. I know this cos me mate who works in the sewers and he say’s to me one day the sewers go around these vaults. There wer som arch‘ologists that came round er last year; pokin n’ peepin’ and wot av yer with der fancy E’kwipment n’ all. Dunno wot they found tho’ – if anyfink dat is’
‘Oh no, the current building above was built in the 1600s. It first belonged to some o’ganization or suffink and then they turned it to a museum. Before all that there was a church ere on this sight. The museum building was built on the foundations of the old church building yer see. The underground vaults however ave always been ere’. Even before the church. I’m not sure if anybody knows wen tho. Maybe those archi ‘ologists know. Who knows?
‘But you’ve been here for years right? Do you not have any ideas?’
‘Wot I fink don't matter. But I fink these vaults go back years, as far back as the Crusades’
Then he paused
‘Look there’s suffink ere’ I wanna show yer. I think those arch’ologists missed this. Yer game?’
‘Er, Yeah. Sure’ I said.
Secret Vault
We headed into a vault in the corner. There was nothing especial about it. It had a coffered-domed ceiling just like the others. On the far side there was a rectangular niche built into the wall. This too was not unfamiliar but on closer inspection, when you poked your head into it, you noticed that one of the sides of the niche had a narrow passage that a single person could pass through sideways. When you went through to the other-side, you was in another vault. A vault onto another!
But this second vault was different. It had a ribbed-ceiling not coffered like the others and patterned cornice running around its knees. It was much older -12th century Romanesque style I'd guess. But what was really startling was what adorned the wall on the far side. I walked towards it. It was a large arch structure, containing a ‘Jali’ or latticework screen with geometrical patterns. There were two panels on either side of the bottom with fret patternage. The outer rim of the arch itself had further layers of herring bone patterns, floral undulations, carved stone and finally a series of inscriptions. The design had arabesque motifs. It looked like a ‘Mihrab’ found in mosques indicating the direction to Mecca but the inscriptions at the top and those surrounding the arch were not Arabic at all. On closer inspection they looked liked 'Sanskrit'. It was wholly inexplicable - an Arabic design but Sanskrit calligraphy? I had never seen anything like it before! I would have liked to have studied it further but Kenny was growing impatient. So we headed back out.
The Diary
We entered the vault that housed the Dr Alexander Von Nutterboffin collection. The air was gristled with the unmistakable smell of old paper. The vault was lined with sheaves and sheaves of it. Floor to ceiling; buff and yellowed and dog eared by age and covered in a thin patina of dust. The paper lined the walls and it seemed to buttress the ceilings; our only protection from the roof caving in.
'jus press the buzzer if yer need me - yeah?’ and then he was off
Soon I was rummaging through the paperwork. I found a diary belonging to the doctor and began reading...
Extracts from Dr Nutterboffin's Diary:
May 17th, 1963 – Soil mainly sandstone with occasional Syenite crystals indicating igneous rock history. Nothing extraordinary there. It’s lovely to sit here at sunset under the shade of the cool elongated shadows, especially after the furnace of the day. The scene is landscaped by the Karakoram Range in the far distance under whose feet the gentle undulating curves of the Pamir foothills ripple like satin sheets. Beautiful!
Carbon – normal
Sodium – normal
Sulphur – normal
Helium – less than normal (due to reduced biomass – living organisms)
Cadmium – abnormally high concentrations
Potassium – abnormally high concentrations
Unknown – traces of unidentified element (further analysis required)
May 29th, 1963 - Have dug through the main soil substrata level. Nothing so far. Hard chalky layer next. Took the afternoon off to pay a visit to the nearby village of ‘Nanga Ghandu’. As I entered, the village shamen jumped out from under a tree where he had been masticating some betel leaves. His eyes were vacuous as if he were stoned. He performed a little ritual on me; reciting some incantations all the while jigging his arms from side to side. He made me drink some philtre, and then put a talisman round my neck – presumably to ward of evil spirits.
Thought: Who are they protecting? Me or themselves!
Anthropological note: animalistic nature of ritual at odds with Islamic teaching, yet somehow the locals have fused it into their beliefs – ritual practiced in many other villages bordering the dam. Found no evidence of its existence in farther afield/outlying villages.
Village elders were very kind and hospitable. We had chai. Told them I wanted to know more about the history of the area. So was taken to a hovel that belonged to the oldest person in the village. A women whose birth certificate claimed she was 147 years old (unable to vouch accuracy but record keeping 147 years ago would have been lacking!) – but she did look very old. Her name was Masi Jaan Jalebi. There she stood in front of me. All 4ft 8 inches of her and rather sprightly for her age too! A wizened creature; shrivelled by the heat, her teeth having long departed her, and her husband an even more ancient memory. Looking at her eyes was like looking through layers of tree rings. She lived alone with her chickens, which could be heard clucking and cooing under her bed. The inside of her hut was cool, the walls covered in baked mud and blackened by the soot from the indoor brazier.