Chapter 2 - Finding Death By Numbers

A RESTLESS SEA can never be quelled by attempting to flatten the waves. Pouring oil on troubled waters merely resulted in pollution. It was perhaps more wise to ride out a choppy sea in the hope that all would be well, but some people needed calm waters to see their way safely to port.

 

The recognising of a problem can become difficult when the problem itself muddied those same soothing waters.

 

"Enough with the ocean theme," one problem-solving Tinker said sternly. "We talk of matters pertaining to the lands around us."

 

"Notably a land called Greenvale no less with its rather nice ale," was said pleasantly by another, at which the first speaker shook his head despairingly.

 

"And an even nicer volcano," chuckled a third.

 

There was a huff and a glare and the first speaker banged his fist down unwisely, for it hurt when it bounced off solid rock.

 

"How did we allow this to happen?" Tinker Jinket said with a sniff of disdain, as if the inclusion of himself in the difficulty was a mere polite form, that the two others to whom he addressed the words were totally to blame for the disaster.

 

"Somebody dropped the ball?" Tinker Bobbin said hopefully.

 

"Or relied too much on the vanity enshrined in human nature?" Tinker Dozen chuckled half to himself. His bright eyes twinkled beneath bushy brows as he toyed with a spiced liquor that soothed his spirits somewhat.

 

The three costumed figures were hunched round a polished block of granite in the corner of a curious cave carved with luminous script in a language best described as symbolic rather than phonetic.

 

These three Tinkers were often together, having a sort of affinity for each other. It was the nature of Tinkers to be drawn to certain qualities in others that reinforced their own views.

 

Tinker Bobbin was a creature of a sensuous nature. The pleasure of feeling was his source of delight as the rotund figure he pressed against the rocky table well proved. Sat upon his left the tall ascetic figure of Tinker Jinket seemed a challenge to such indulgences. With his height accentuated even more by the most pointy of hats among the three, Jinket looked down upon others from a position of self-appointed superiority. He liked high places, high thoughts and a certain abstemiousness that showcased a high order of discipline. Oddly, he also had a passion for tractor racing.

 

Tinker Dozen on Bobbin's right was more a thoughtful calculating character. A strategist with a healthy dose of good humour, he often chuckled to himself as he pondered problems and their solutions. The more outrageous a solution the better, that was his way of thinking. It added fun to the most dire of situations, lightening the mood and carrying success with it. At least, in theory.

 

Plans a hundred years in the making, he mused at this time in the strangely illuminated cave, and now all was threatening to blow sky high in one mighty explosion. Tinker Dozen always liked volcanoes as a rule. They rumbled splendidly, shook the ground in an exciting way and fired off salvos of boulders that might land just about anywhere. And what was more beautiful than a glowing river of lava winding its way down a hillside, cutting through empty holiday homes of the rich and idle, filling swimming pools that would take some effort to clean up and generally remaking the landscape just like in times of old? Volcanoes were world builders and deserved admiration.

 

Unless they threatened a peaceful and beautiful land like Greenvale which had done no one any harm that he could remember.

 

It was not only Greenvale that seemed on the brink of disaster this summer time. Other lands had undercurrents of foreboding too, even if at times they more resembled mere rumours. Such tales of woe had a way of solidifying into something with genuine menace attached to it.

 

Thus a Tinker Conclave had been called later that day in the mysterious land of Affinity, the location of which might be hard to plot upon the Face of the World. It was somewhere between lands perhaps, taking up space, yet somehow not appearing to deprive anywhere else of a single square inch of territory. Matters of high moment were discussed in this strange meeting, all running upon familiar themes. How to solve a problem and who to blame if it all went horribly wrong.

 

This latter aspect resolved itself comfortably into targeted assignments so that names could be named and tasks given out to each and every shaper of future events. Foreboding was donned like a mournful cloak and proceedings more resembled an inevitable march over a cliff for those chosen prize winners willing to sacrifice all in the name of some indefinable outcome. Just so long as that outcome was a good one.

 

Thus amid a buzz of energy and muttered words of anticipation along with a few chants of derision aimed at the unlucky chosen ones, curious figures lined up, received their instructions and then disappeared in a flash of light and crack of thunder. It was like a soup kitchen with oblivion as part of the seating arrangements.

 

***

 

INEVITABLY THE three companionable Tinkers found themselves jointly in the line of fire as their turn came to make some kind of contribution to a future state of things.

 

"We are all agreed then that these three brave souls should cross the barriers to Greenvale and undertake this most important pilgrimage?" the Conclave leader said, indicating the group of bearded individuals who stepped forward with fateful tread.

 

"We are," came the assembled voices of other Tinkers from amid the misty confines of the small and hidden valley. Surrounding them all was even more mist and the occasional lightning flash to add interest to proceedings.

 

"We are?" Tinker Bobbin said with a note of caution at this overwhelming wave of affirmation.

 

"We are," Tinker Dozen chuckled in his good-natured way.

 

"So we must," Tinker Jinket sighed, looking down upon his shorter companions from the height of lofty resignation.

 

"I'm sure the voting system was rigged," Bobbin whined quietly, lest he be heard. "I mean what were the chances of us three going again on a pilgrimage to Mount Monor?"

 

"Inevitable," Dozen replied in a whisper. "We are destiny's soldiers, fighting as best we may against countless odds."

 

"Ooh, pep talk," Bobbin smirked. "Ah well, it's a nice place Greenvale, so I recall."

 

"When sober or otherwise?"

 

"Both."

 

Thus they prepared themselves for the journey by each gripping his staff of power more firmly and then in a flash of light they too were gone.

 

"Right then, that's them out the way. Blomp, you appear to have fallen next in line for a bit of fun."

 

"What you got for us?" the figure so addressed said uncertainly. Uncertainty was one of those things found at the bottom of cereal packets that declared some free gift of inestimable value and delight, with an added guarantee it would be made of curiously-shaped plastic in an impossible lime green colour.

 

"A nice bit of cheese, if that's okay with you," came the curious response.

 

"Sounds splendid," someone agreed supportively.

 

"But I'm lactose intolerant," Blomp insisted. He had been clipping his fingernails in a show of devilish bravado during proceedings and at this outcome one pinged off to hit an unseen figure.

 

"Ouch, nearly took an eye out," came the inevitable complaint that bore little resemblance to likelihood.

 

"Good," was the philosophical response.

 

"Charming I'm sure."

 

"Intolerance is something we have learned to tolerate," came an authoritative voice from somewhere. "You know matters have a knack of resolving themselves in ways of which we do not approve."

 

"End of the world stuff, you mean?"

 

"Blomp, you hit the wingnut on the fly," the voice said encouragingly. "We need someone in place to prod and push, cajole and otherwise persuade matters to take a more agreeable course in the interests of longevity."

 

"But why cheese?"

 

"It is the bedrock of the dairy industry where you are going."

 

"That'll be Poldorama," someone sniggered. "No nightclubbing for you."

 

"Oh, I don't mind. Haven't pulled an all nighter for a while. Not really missed it to be honest."

 

"To be honest is one of the bedrocks of Poldorama society. Frank talking, straight walking and cheese stalking. You'll fit right in."

 

"What are their medical facilities like?"

 

"Enough! The milk is curdling and it's time to go."

 

There was a flash of green light which did the trick and Tinker Blomp found himself flat out on a stretch of grass surrounded by a horizon. Nothing else, just a horizon in a complete circle absent of landscape. Or so it seemed. This barrenness was suddenly accentuated by the solitary figure of a gentleman looking at him curiously.

 

"I hope no damage was done," this individual said as he approached and tapped Blomp on the toe with a walking stick.

 

"You're supposed to ask if I had a nice trip?" the Tinker replied, sitting up, adjusting his hat and reaching for his staff of power.

 

"Why?"

 

"Welcome to Poldorama," Blomp muttered as he got to his feet and noted from this higher perspective a small gathering of cows that watched him with vague interest. They desperately wanted to stampede but thought it impolite to do so.

 

"Everyone is welcome to Poldorama," the man said. "We get few visitors it is true, but their presence is kindly felt and blessed accordingly. Would you partake of my repast? The sun tells me it is lunchtime."

 

"Would said repast include cheese by any chance?"

 

"Several varieties."

 

"Then I shall politely decline. Know you of a place where I can freshen up? It's been a long life."

 

A request for help in Poldorama often led to a complex series of interchanges until the person in need ended up deposited some distance from the place where they first appeared, unannounced and unscrutinised, for to ask after antecedents was deemed intrusive.

 

Thus Tinker Blomp found himself comfortably at the table of some shopkeeper in a nearby settlement eating bread and onions and listening to pleasant tales on how the world was doomed.

 

Matters had proceeded farther than he realised.

 

"Got here just in time," he said as he crunched and cried through his pungent repast.

 

***

 

THE END OF THE world is a popular theme among certain types. It gives focus to the mind and allows a relaxation of the spirit. For if there is no tomorrow there is no need to wash those pile of old socks. Or mow the lawn. Or pay off debts.

 

"Blessed Serenity is upon us," one such character opined in tragic tones as he stood on an empty walkway outside Placid Meercart's Shop of Little Delights. Many of the delights were little indeed, trinkets and bangles and discreet pieces of personal jewellery that went well with the most sober and undemonstrative of souls.

 

On hearing these words, Placid himself wandered out into the quiet street. It was the eve of the Day of Blessings, and here on the edge of the Blessed Hub in Poldorama very little business was expected to be done as everyone prepared for the morrow.

 

"Seems it is still very much above us friend," he said pleasantly to the quivering figure before him, having scanned the skies and found the great moon glowing a splendid golden yellow in the mild twilight. There was nothing to suggest it was about to fall.

 

The doomsayer sought among the pockets of his dark coat a moment and then withdrew a new but already well-thumbed almanac. Adding more thumb-wear to it he found the page of tables he was looking for and brightened at his discovery.

 

"On the third day of Churning Month in the Summer Pause of the Dove Star Era, it says here," the man insisted, a trembling hand gripping the fat little book meaningly, "the Blessed Serenity would enter a space at a time already occupied by the Face of the World. Sounds cataclysmic to me," and his shining eyes told a tale of woe at the circumstance.

 

"Let me see that, my friend," and Placid Meercart deftly took the almanac from the other and peered at the table indicated. By this time his friendly foreign visitor to the shop had decided to make an appearance outside also and squinted over Placid's shoulder. Two passersby, a young couple, also stood and watched this discussion, glancing upwards nervously at the glowing orb in the sky destined to end everything by crashing unwittingly into the world.

 

"Is that a zero or a nine?" the visitor said. To those around him he was a curious-looking figure in a shapeless robe of some dark fabric difficult to describe. Upon his head was a rather unfashionable pointed hat, but the subdued tones of his costume would have met the approval of the most conservative member of the nearby Chapter of Thoughtfulness.

 

Placid scraped a fingernail upon the page to see if some spot had defaced the figure and grunted when no change was made in the appearance of the suspect number.

 

"It appears a nine indeed my friend," he said ruefully, and the other beamed happily at the thought his prediction of disaster was correct.

 

"A moment," and from a hidden pocket within his shapeless robe the curious visitor produced another copy of the almanac. This too looked well-thumbed but the binding suggested it was a very early edition. "Mole's own copy," he said to no one in particular as if embarrassed to be seen in possession of such an archaic item. He quickly found the page and matched the tables with the other's newer book.

 

"There!" he said triumphantly. "Thought as much. My copy shows a zero where yours shows a nine. Printing error. Does happen at times you know," and he eyed the publisher's name of the other almanac with a knowing shake of the head. "Quality control these days not what it was," he added.

 

"There, my friend, a possible flaw in the table has sadly misguided your welcome efforts to watch over us all." Placid handed the book back to the trembling man, who, truth be told, trembled even more at this discovery. "Perhaps you would do us the kindness to remeasure your figures, requantify your estimates and settle our consciences by means of the splendid instrumentality of mathematical precision."

 

"Grnn," the man said in response to this kindly meant suggestion.

 

"Needs a spot of rejigging," the pointy-hatted gentleman added with a nod that made his greying beard twitch with suppressed amusement.

 

"I will get started on it right away," the doomsayer said, rekindling his enthusiasm for finding death by numbers. He was completely convinced that there was a total ending of everything due to happen at some point in his lifetime and he wanted to be there to witness it. Right to the end.

 

The two men watched the frustrated figure rush off down Clean Street, nod at the Chapterhouse of Thoughtfulness on the corner and then disappear along the canal road out to Shivering.

 

"We are blessed to have such a wellmeaning soul in our midst," Placid Meercart said as he lost sight of the distant figure, turning to the young couple who had paused to watch the incident.

 

"Shame he can't pursue more cheery things," the girl said with a sniff.

 

"No shame in truth, no matter how unpleasant," the stranger chuckled. "Beg pardon for seeming to disagree," and he bowed, remembering he was in Poldorama at the moment where the manners of the people could at times be painfully nice. Though unlikely to take offence at strangers and their flashy ways, the people of the land tended to become extremely reticent if they felt they were among errant souls.

 

This was exemplified by the young couple stiffening a little, bowing and then walking off arm in arm whispering to each other upon matters the bearded man could guess at.

 

Placid Meercart turned to his helpful visitor and gestured at the doorway to his shop.

 

"Shall we proceed with our most rewarding discussion, my friend?" he suggested.

 

"With pleasure," and the two men re-entered the Shop of Little Delights on Clean Street where they began thrashing out a way to ensure the world did not end prematurely by the helpful process of anticipating danger and nullifying its potential effects. Tinker Blomp had been directed to visit this particular shopkeeper by others for his greatest delight among the little delights that surrounded him in his shop was to absorb and radiate the gossip of the neighbourhood.

 

***

 

ANTICIPATION CAN manifest itself in various ways, the most pleasant being the gleeful rubbing of hands, for this usually signalled the anticipation of some agreeable event. Such as a generous repast of cheese and crackers washed down with a rich and satisfying tea.

 

Madam Wishful had laid her best cloth upon the hexagonal table, in spite of the fact it draped unkindly for the form of the one lent no consideration to the function of the other. Even the pattern tended to create conflict. Yet this was the nature of things and a blessed lesson not to be ignored.

 

Upon this clean and bright surface of half-seen and half-hidden floral sprays, plates of matching crockery now gleamed in the window light and soft brown crackers were laid in floral sprays of their own, crunchy petals open to the sun of anticipated hunger. A tray of even softer mellow cheeses were arrayed in the centre, the pride of place for the display of the glory that was Poldorama. Milk made solid and fragrant.

 

Next to this grand spread a silver tea table stood, upon which a simmering pot and delicate cups and saucers clustered in happy company and a jug of milk lent a coolness to the steaming atmosphere.

 

Madam Wishful rubbed her hands gleefully as she awaited the return of her sole tenant and smiled inwardly at the pleasure he would have at seeing such a welcome repast.

 

Toil Hannen had been renting rooms at the Comfy Haven for only five years but already Madam Wishful felt he was like one of the family. This was partly due to the fact she was a widow of too long standing and in possession of no known relatives that she could bring to mind. Remarrying was in her blood as much as refinancing among those curious folks in the mortgaging business. She felt akin to those people in a slightly vague but pleasing way and she rubbed her hands together again, for the sound of the bell in the hallway told her the solitary gentleman at the Haven had returned from his pilgrimage to the Blessed Hub.

 

Her pleasant anticipation was marred for he seemed out of sorts as he entered the parlour and almost upset the tea trolley in his haste to be rid of whatever demon pursued him just then.

 

Madam Wishful had often noted her guest seemed possessed of some inner turmoil and felt it her life's work to soothe his troubles and rest his soul.

 

"Madam, forgive me," he said in a gruff voice. "I have no time for thirst for a matter of numerical perplexity has assailed me."

 

He stood there, gazing at the display of six different cheeses, the soft brown crackers, and Madam Wishful in her most colourful and clinging frock with hands gesturing towards the consumables before her. Eyes glistened and curls quivered and Toil Hannen sought within himself to make time to solve perplexities. The brain needed food for calculations. A chair scraped upon wooden tiles and a body slumped heavily upon strangely stuffed cushions that creaked in response.

 

"We are at leisure, even in the most trying of times," the lady of the house opined supinely and without awaiting a response, poured two cups of tea in quick succession as a cheese knife with its curving end was grasped by the man opposite.

 

"You are as ever wisdom in human form," he said gallantly as crackers clattered onto his plate and cheese slices softly tumbled among them to create a medley of taste followed by a symphony of sound as the repast was devoured.

 

"One might be busy, and yet relaxed," the widow pursued her theme as she too took a cracker and dipped it in the steaming tea before nibbling a softened corner while watching her guest consume whole wedges of dairy and wheat products with mumblings of appreciation.

 

When rumours abounded in some circles that time was running out for the world as a whole, keeping the shadows at bay was a tricky business. It was all about how you appeased the fates. A good feed was essential. Along with a generous sacrifice.