Who Knows Where The Time Goes?
The inner sanctum of the Prima Vista’s lower lounge was brimming with excitement. It was utterly overflowing with chatter; stuffed to it’s rickety old joints with snotty nosed teenagers, unaccustomed matrons of honour, and suddenly-initiated individuals. Silence descended as a sprightly youth clambered down the stairs in a maelstrom cacophony of metallic chinks, material swishing and heavy boots on the ancient stairs. It seemed to him like only yesterday was his first time embracing the mahogany descent into the true hearth of the Tantalum.
Gather your wits about you, for the speech you impart is God’s Word.
“Hello everyone, thanks for coming draw today, I’m d’greatful, it’s busy, that I know,” he stopped on the last step to keep his head above the rest, not in arrogance, but to ensure he could maintain eye contact with everyone. “I wouldn’t call you out ‘ere if it dent mean much, you know ‘ow it is!”
Let man see into your eyes, for the eyes are the gateway to the soul.
He swallowed his butterflies and sautéed the dying breed of stallion that was rampaging around the meadow of his heart. Bile was not a particular delicacy anywhere civilised in the world and he was certainly not going to start a new gastronomic fancy. He was sure the more accustomed and well mannered members of the Tantalum would not be altogether pleased with a show of nerves so early on in the day. Tomorrow, at the crack of dawn’s eternal whip, he would set off for the city beyond the water, the city he didn’t know but dreamt of so fondly each and every night for two turns of the moon. Who knew where the time would go?
With this stance, you can command armies to sleep, and sailors to land.
“I ‘ave to go for a while. No’where fancy like, and I sorry for hankering and pankering and not telling’ ya sooner…it’s been a hard decision, and I leave a few commandments for ya to follow; the troupe will keep turning and churnin’ out the plays and performances, and keep up it’s good and charitable work in this district, and ‘hopefully, if Ruby can finish her connections in the upper echelons of society," he glanced over his shoulder to search for agreement from the crimson delight. "Hopefully," he started afresh, "we can work on the far side of the city wall too…”
With these words, the nation of the godless children will find faith.
“I wont’ be long, no more than three weeks and no more with complications than a month, there will barely be a new cheese man in the sky and all will be well,” even as he said it, Duffy doubted he could keep his promise. The time he’d allowed for the completion of an unknown, fantastical, ephemeral task barely allowed him the comfort of the supposed journey length. What would he do when he got there? “Ruby is back’, like summer a comin’ in, so she’ll keep ya all goin for a bit. The stores are full from Lysander’s Flock,, no doubt you’re all fat on wheat, chaff soup and Roddens!”
You are my children, each and every one you. Tantalised by the heavens.
As he allowed a moment to pass in spurious and tightly conversed controversy, he took the time to run his gaze over the shoddy stone work and the cluttered corners of his home. The crates in the far right corner were overflowing with costumes and long discarded dresses, some of which were made by Lilith…others no doubt plucked from their helpless gallows down alleyways and on summer shown lawns. To his left, Ruby and Pete were standing to attention with hands held solemnly behind their backs. They reminded him of puerile and ignorant lieutenants, hanging on to his every word in blind abandon. On the far side of the room, behind the many arrayed cushions, benches and upturned boxes were the hastily erected boxes surrounding the downstairs windows. Beyond these, the streets of Scara Brae started in grim silence, bloody, dusty, repetitive silence. They spread out for miles and miles, and turned into great squares, ancient boulevards and crumbling acropolis boardwalks.
I am sorry I cannot stand and claim to be this creature I profess…
He would miss it dearly. No memory had he of a life before the streets, no recollection of his parents or the melodies of an early childhood; he was not fortunate, or perhaps, if he had held another perspective, he was too fortunate to not have endured those trials. “You’re all rell good people…each and every one of you. From snotty scamps to the more outstandin’ seamstresses, matrons, healers and songtress quintets,” he raised a fist to the four blonde sisters plumped in a line on satin cushions in hues of violet, plum and something approaching melon. They cheered together, a harmonious and ghostly choral sound of gratification. “I’ve left a copy of the play with Ruby, she’s probably memorised it already and most of you know your parts. You’ll be in Sadomy Square tomorrow, o’course, the hidden agenda is to steal the Mangrove’s luscious fruits to give to the old widows on Carnaby Road…I’m sure you know how to pull a distraction sweep - I’ve left the last of the fire wyrds on the stage, you can fin’em yourselves,” he smiled and placed his hands on his hips.
The truth of my existence, it clots the very nature of the Gods - my brothers.
It was a turgid atmosphere, a humid and sodden air, the smell of which reminded the troupe master most ungraciously of a back passage and a long night on the ale. The light from the kitchen broke the twilight and the smell of what he presumed to be veal permeated the air, Guess it’s dinner time… “Well, that’s ‘bout it - let’s eat!”
You are my children, and I am Lucian.
Duffy sighed with a resentment at having to depart with such uncomfortable words. He felt guilty at harbouring such a secret, at knowing Lucian was live. He felt wrong for feeling compelled to find the answers he sought on distant lands, on rocky, barren, alien worlds. Under his breath, so that nobody but his own ego heard him speak, he muttered something he had dreamt of and called out in his darkest of nightmares, his blackest of nights…
“You are my children, and I am Duffy.”