The End of Cake

Today, March 12 (sob!) is the anniversary of the death of Terry Pratchett, one of the best satirical writers ever to come out of England.

He wrote over 41 books, most of which were in the Discworld series, about a world that rests on the backs of four giant elephants, which in turn stand on the back of a giant turtle which swims through space in an endless journey.  It is one of my favorite series ever.  I love the humorous footnotes, the sly social commentary, the hidden pop culture references, and the surprising philosophical turns taken by some of the plots.

If you feel interested in reading the series, the best place to start is probably either Mort or Guards! Guards! because that's when he really got his ideas organized.  I didn't hate the previous books like some people do, but still.
Both books start two of my favorite sub-series, though between us, the latter is probably my favorite because it's about the Night Watch, led by Samuel Vimes.  If you want more information, you will have to start reading.
...Of course, you could also cheat and look it up on the Internet or ask a friend, but that would be unsporting.

Sir Terry (he was made an actual knight!  How cool is that?) died at age 66, of Alzheimer's, in 2015.  

Thank you for all the stories you wrote, Sir Terry. Many will miss you.  To quote Death in Night Watch, THERE IS NO MORE TIME, EVEN FOR CAKE. FOR YOU, THE CAKE IS OVER. YOU HAVE REACHED THE END OF CAKE.

TANSTAV part 5

Chapter Two part 3

"How-"

"What-"

"Is she-"

The multiple exclamations of surprise all tangled themselves together like pieces of leftover fish skin in a garbage disposal.  The trolls and Harper all fought to get their words in first, while in the background Fleming wailed about all the paperwork we would need to fill out now.  Suddenly, Calla timidly raised her hand, like we were in school.  I shushed my compatriots, and said, "Yes, Miss Gardiner?"

"I'm sorry, but-what do you mean, I'm one of you?"

"It's like this," said Harper kindly.  "You're-well, you're a- a-"

I cut in.

"You are a mage, or magic user, and you belong in our world, where monsters exist, and can hide from the human race without fear of being found out.”

They always say that we should tell newly-discovered monsters the truth, and as honestly as possible.  However, I got the feeling that the others felt I had overshot the mark.  They were all giving me that "you've-put-your-foot-in-it-again-Wormwood" stare that I have become so accustomed to.  As for Calla, her eyes were nearly bulging out of her head.  She stared at my tie, which was the closest she had come so far to looking me in the eye.  I expected her to exclaim something like "What?!" or "Are you crazy?" or "Prove it!"  Any of those would be a natural reaction.  Instead, she nodded slowly, and said, "That explains a lot."

"Oh?"

I was shocked.  Monsters who found out they were monsters rarely, if ever, took the news this calmly.

"Yes.  It explains some things I can do."

"Like what?" asked Fleming, putting his oar in.  He had a pencil and notepad out, and was scribbling everything down feverishly, so he could blab it all to the chief back at headquarters.

"Sometimes I make things happen when I want them to.  I've turned myself invisible before, and once made an invisible shield to protect myself from- to protect myself.  I've made things move without touching them, and I have premonitions about things once in a while.  Things like that."

Yep, she was definitely a mage.  One of pretty decent power, too; nothing overly special, but still cool.

Suddenly, Calla looked alarmed.

"Did I do this?" she asked, gesturing to the surrounding wreckage.  I gave a nod.

"Then have you found my father?  Is he all right?"  She involuntarily put a hand to her throat.

I had figured out the identity of the corpse by now, and so it was with great trepidation that I said, "Yes, we've found him.  No, he's not all right."

"How bad is he?  Can you help him?"

I was flabbergasted.  This man had obviously beaten her up on a regular basis, and she was still concerned for him?  Maybe she had Battered Woman's Syndrome or something.  I took a deep breath.

"Kid...I'm not exactly sure how to say this...but there's not enough of him left for us to help."

It took a moment or two for the words to sink in; her eyes drifted away from my tie, and I realized she was looking over my shoulder, towards the corpse.  As she figured out what I was telling her, Calla's legs buckled, and she began to fall.  Instantly I jumped forward and caught her.  Despite the heat of the day, she had begun shaking almost apoplectically, and her pale face had shocked agony clearly written all over it.  I gathered her in my arms, and then started for the mirror, which had followed us here.  It could only handle two trips at a time, needing a couple of hours to cool off afterwards.  That would give me plenty of time.

"Wormwood!" cried Fleming, "What are you doing?!"

"Taking her somewhere else," I said calmly.

"You can't do that!" he spluttered.  "That's against protocol!  We need to take her back to the station, and-"

I told him in very explicit terms where protocol could go.

"You can handle the paperwork for me, can't you?  Thanks."

Before anyone could stop me, I whispered my address, and then stepped through the mirror.

TANSTAV part 4

Chapter Two part 2

Even though she couldn't be much more than 5'6", she looked 18, only two years younger than me.  She had long dark hair, and wide, serious brown eyes.  Her clothes consisted of what looked like a shirt made out of a patchwork quilt, and jeans that didn't quite reach her ankles, not to mention dilapidated tennis shoes.  They all hung very loosely on her fragile-looking little body.  I also noticed that her face and throat had several fresh bruises and scratches, and her right eye was swollen.  Something about these injuries made me think that they were not due to the rubble falling on her.  After a couple of years as a detective, you learn to tell the difference between man-made injuries and the regular kind, and these were man-made.  I didn't know who had done them, but I could tell they'd been done.  And besides these injuries, there didn't appear to be any other marks on her.  My suspicions were aroused at once.

The girl didn't look frightened by the sight of us, so much as bewildered.  Possibly she was still in shock over having her house (as I deduced it was) fall on her like that.

"W-What happened?  Where's Father?" she asked softly, in a dazed tone.  Her eyes darted this way and that, in what looked like random patterns.

"That's what I'd like to know myself, miss," I said.  "Can you tell me anything about what led up to the explosion?"  I stepped forward, scrutinizing her face.  The girl's shoulders stiffened as I got close, and her eyes finally settled on a patch of ground; I wondered if it was well-concealed, internal fear that kept her from looking any of us in the eye.

"Father was angry with me again-and this time, I got angry back.  And then everything blew up," she whispered.

I realized where she'd gotten those bruises.  And I felt a wave of anger and sympathy.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Calla Gardiner.  Who are you?"

"I'm Tristan Wormwood.  I'm a gargoyle, and a member of the-"

"Should we be telling her this?" Fleming interrupted, glaring at me.

"Yeah, she's safe."

"How do you know?" he demanded scornfully.

"Because of that."  I indicated the particles of magic, which were swiftly floating to Calla.  With each breath she took, they were reabsorbed.  She obviously couldn't see them; her forehead was puckered in a bemused frown.  But Fleming could see them too, and his eyes went wide as he understood what I was saying.

"You mean-?"

"That's right.  She's one of us."

TANSTAV part 3

Chapter Two
In which I have another crisis on my hands (the story of my life)

Next to shooting pool, playing Frisbee, and watching rugby (there's nothing like a good game between the Walla-Walla Werewolves and the Oberpfaffenhofen Ogres to get the blood pumping), there are few physical activities I enjoy more than flying.  I don't mean sissy human flying, in an airplane, or a hang glider, which is the closest they can get to it.  I mean real, actual flying, with my own wings.  The wind whistles through my hair, I can fill my lungs to the bursting point, and I just feel alive, and free from all my troubles.  The open air, especially on a moonlit night, out in the country, is the place to be.

Unfortunately, my intended destination was much less pleasant.  The police station for the MCPD, Western region, is in one of the most polluted areas of town (it flows over from the human settlements), seemingly for the sheer purpose of ruining both my lungs and my olfactory senses.  You'd think, with all these magic users in the area, we'd be able to clear it up, but nooo, the ones in charge of that always make some lame excuse about "modern technology messing with their spell-casting abilities," blah, blah, blah.  I'm sure they could get rid of the pollution if they wanted, they're just too lazy.

Anyway, the station is this 3-story, shabby old building on a street corner, with a fluorescent sign outside (whose letters keep flickering out, or else dying altogether; I don’t know why we haven’t replaced it already), spelling "MCPD-West".  In what turned out to be very bad luck for me that particular day, Chief Ishida's office is on the third floor, with a humongous glass window, so that should he feel so inclined, he can admire the smoky view.  Also unfortunately, there was a stronger wind than usual that day, which happened to blow me off course from my intended landing site on the roof.  And possibly the worst thing of all: Chief Ishida's window just happened to be in the way of my landing.

CRASH!!

To my relief, I was unhurt.  My skin, especially that of my wings, is very tough, kind of like rhinoceros hide; by closing my eyes and wrapping my wings around myself, I was able to safely land inside the office in one piece, without anything getting gouged out or cut up.  However, I can't say the same for the chief's window.  Once the glass stopped flying, I cautiously unfolded my wings, just in time to meet his withering stare.  He was standing in front of his desk; his chair had toppled over, and papers were flying.  I deduced that upon noticing my impact, he had leaped over the desk, out of danger from the glass.  His agility was quite commendable.

As soon as he recognized who I was, his scowl deepened.

"Uh, hi, Chief.  I know this seems-"

"What the h___, Wormwood?!" Ishida interrupted.  Smoke literally billowed from his nostrils and ears; since his grandmother on his father's side is a Japanese fire demon, this was not too surprising.  He also has his almond-shaped, glowing red eyes, near immunity to fire, fangs, and a preference for raw meat to thank her for (traits not uncommon among many monsters).  If it were not for the scaly patches on his neck and chest, and his coffee-colored skin being at a nearly-constant temperature of 115 or so degrees, he could almost be mistaken for a vampire (which is ridiculous, of course, since vampires do not exist).

After the opening "pleasantries", Ishida erupted into an expletive-laced rant concerning my sanity, manners, and character, as well as who I thought was going to pay for his window.  I pointed out that he just needed to ask his secretary (who was a mage) to put it back together good as new, but he told me to shut up.  Not wishing to jeopardize the situation any more, I shut up.  When he finally finished yelling, Ishida gave a loud, world-weary sigh, and then said, "Now get out of my office.  Grimm will debrief you on the way to the transport room."  I left, choosing not to say that I personally wore boxers.  That would probably not amuse him.

"Let the boss bulldoze you, huh?" a voice hissed outside the door.  Leaning casually against the wall, listening to his iPod, was Morty Grimm, Ishida's deputy.  He is a Reaper.  Now, for you who are less knowledgeable about different species of monsters, a Reaper is not the same as a reaper.  For one thing, a Reaper has a capital R at the front, while a reaper has a lowercase r.  For another, a reaper is the sickle used by both farmers and Reapers.  A Reaper, by contrast, is a cloaked and hooded figure with eyes like orbs of fire, who separates your soul from your body when you die.  They collect the souls they harvest, and carry them around in a bag, until either an angel or a devil comes to claim them.  Typically they shape the souls into spheres while they wait, and use them to play marbles.  Reapers also need these souls in order to absorb the energy they had in life, as an essential source of nutrients.  This leads to them becoming greedy, conniving creatures, who will sometimes try to make bargains with you so they can take your soul before your time has come.

But Morty’s all right.  He’s good-natured, if a bit lazy, and doesn't seem to have any interest in collecting souls.  Perhaps it is this that makes his cloak gray instead of black, and his eyes the color of moonlight, not fire.  Other Reapers shun him, considering him a heretic and a traitor to his species.  Morty doesn't mind, and since it makes him more tolerable than most Reapers, neither do I.  In fact, he’s more or less my best friend.

"Good to see you too, Morty," I sniped.

"Sorry."

"It's fine.  I should be used to it by now."

He gave a dry chuckle.  Of course, his voice is always rather dry and raspy, like dead leaves skidding across pavement.  I've suggested throat spray, but it doesn't seem to have worked.

"So, what happened?" I asked as we headed for the transport room.  Morty said, "At 0900 hours, there was an explosion over in Idaho Falls, Idaho.  It resulted in the complete obliteration of a house on 63201 Crescent Avenue."

"Any police in the area?" I asked, referring to the human variety.

"There were within minutes, but we got some of the magic users to put a confusion spell on them, and make them leave, so they won't be in our way.  If any humans come by, they won’t feel any interest, and will forget about anything they saw soon afterwards."

Before I knew it, I was standing in front of the teleportation mirror, flanked by two big trolls named Bjorn and Stoick, a mage named Fleming, and a Dark Fae (Note: There are two types of Folk in the world: Light Fae, and Dark Fae.  'Dark' does not mean 'evil' in this sense.  It refers to their being nocturnal.  The fae accompanying us was a Yoon, one of the four types of Dark Fae; they are well-known for their healing powers, which come in handy in this line of work.  To keep herself awake, this fae, Harper, had taken to drinking copious cups of coffee, which effectively kept her alert and moving, but also made her slightly jumpy and hyper).  I murmured the address we'd been given, and touched the glass.  Instantly our reflections vanished, to be replaced by a pile of twisted, smoldering wreckage.  I was confused, until I noticed the mailbox in front with 63201 Cres----- written on it.  The rest of the address was completely obliterated.  As I slipped on a pair of sunglasses, I wondered what it was that could do such a thing.  A dragon?  A salamander?  A flock of rogue fire-breathing butterflies?  Any of them had the capacity, to be sure.  But what was the motive?  Still pondering this, I stepped through the mirror's surface.

As I have mentioned previously, teleportation is not good for my digestive system.  It's hard to describe exactly, except that it makes you feel as if you have been turned inside out, had some child play tug-of-war with your guts for a few minutes while jumping up and down violently, and then you've been turned right-side in again, and you wind up at your destination.  For some reason, other species can stand it, but not me.  As soon as I found myself back on solid ground, I collapsed to my knees and began retching violently.  Since I had not yet eaten breakfast, all that came up was some quantities of bile, which is still pretty disgusting.  My companions, who were familiar with my traveling problem, waited patiently until I was finished.  Finally, I stood on shaking legs, adjusted my sunglasses, and wiped my mouth.

"Let's go and see what this is all about."

Even though it had been a while since the actual explosion, the rubble was still smoking slightly.  I could see no signs of life.  Cautiously we began to maneuver our way through the remains of what had once been a house.  I could tell that the blast had been on the ground floor (it had been a 2-story house), and magically based.  Small pieces of it were still floating around.  I could see them, but since I have no magical ability myself, I would let Fleming handle them.  It was more of his department, since he's a mage, though in my opinion, he's a pretty lousy one.

Of course, this might be based on my intense dislike of him.  Not only is Fleming whiny, but he is also obnoxiously closed-minded, and worried about trivial things like following rules, listening to the chief, etc.  The others are almost as bad; Harper is annoyingly hyperactive from all that coffee, as I said, and Stoick and Bjorn are just kind of slow.  It's sad how often I get on the same team as them, and so have many occasions to recognize their flaws, and become even more annoyed with them.  Technically I’m not a cop, but when Ishida wants me to investigate something for him, I get put in this group.  I wonder if he does it to annoy me.

Sorry, got a little sidetracked there.  Going back to the magic, when a magic user performs a spell there's almost always some residue left over; even if not, I can see the spell that was used.  That was the scraps of magic floating around, and they're the same colors as that person's aura.  To me, they look like floating scraps of light, if that makes sense.  It's best if the mage or whatever retrieves and reabsorbs as much of the residue as possible, since magic is basically their energy, converted into power.  Since there was so much of it in the air, I figured that whoever-or whatever-had done this had to be nearly comatose, if not completely so.  Either that, or they were extremely powerful; if that was the case, I hoped we wouldn’t have to fight, as we would all die horribly.  I managed to catch a piece in my claws and examine it.  This magic was quite pretty: pieces of blue and green light, with small gold flecks here and there.  The colors swirled and swished around, like water.  It felt comfortably warm in my palm; I gave an involuntary smile.  This magic was so nice; I did not think that the being this belonged to had hostile intentions in this mess.  Granted, this was more of a gut feeling than an actual deduction, but I’ve learned to trust gut feelings.

"Wormwood!  Come look at this!"  The shout startled me into releasing the residue, which floated lazily away.  I gave Harper a dirty look, but she didn't even notice.  She was staring down at something on the far side of the wreckage.  She had on sunglasses too, so her eyes were shaded from me, but her mouth was shaped into an expression of disgust.

I meandered over, and did a double-take.  The object of her attention appeared to be either some insane artist’s grotesque idea of an abstract painting, or the charred, bloody remains of a body.  Little bits and pieces were scattered here and there away from the main chunk, and it had already attracted flies. 

"What was it?" rumbled Bjorn; he, Stoick, and Fleming had joined the party.

"Given the bits of clothes, and the few pieces of bone structure I can make out," I said, scanning the mess, "I'd say it used to be a human being."

Fleming clamped a hand to his mouth and gagged, the wimp.  Crouching down on my haunches, I pulled out tweezers and a few plastic bags.  I meticulously plucked a bone here, a chunk of flesh there, and a rag over there, and put them into individual baggies.  Harper took them, and slid them into her pocket.  The pathologists back at headquarters would be glad to see what they could learn from them.  I could already tell that when the explosion occurred, whoever this had been was actually in the house at the time, and got blown apart by it.  And I was pretty sure it had been an adult male, probably late thirties to early forties.


However, for the moment, I was baffled as to what had actually caused the explosion.  I like to think I'm a good detective, but it's really hard to come to a conclusion when you have minimal evidence, no suspects, no-  My moment of wallowing in self-pity was interrupted by a loud groan that nearly made me jump out of my skin.  I looked down at the corpse.  Had that-?  But no, the noise came from behind us.  We all turned around, and saw one of the piles of rubble shifting.  There was something under there; something alive.  The trolls and Fleming ran to the pile and began digging, while Harper and I watched from a safe distance, just in case.  They uncovered the heap in record time, producing-a girl.

Tragedy, Gloom and Doom

Fans of Redwall will be saddened to hear of the unexpected death of Brian Jacques, age 71. It was on Saturday, in Liverpool, England. He was a great man, and a great writer. Never again shall we read the works of another like him. He has a wife, Maureen, and two sons, Marc and David. We are sure that they are all feeling the same loss all us Redwall fans are, if not stronger. In pace requiescat, Brian Jacques!