[AA]: The Roger Thompson Chronicles (4/6)

[Brism Wanor]

      Roger: I think therefore I am thinking I am. I think I need a drink.


               Previously, on The Roger Thompson Chronicles:

      Roger: I'm been working for many years with an author, make that an
Author, named Brism Wanor.
      Daphne: Beats playing more solitaire.
      Roger: We've been together for as long as either of us can remember.
      Sage: Do you know why the universe is the way it is?
      Daphne: Damn it, it's not fair.
      Sage: Why all this exists?
      Roger: Brism's always telling stories, usually to an audience of one.
      Daphne: The continuity note makes your Author look a bit crazy.
      Sage: Brism inspires Brism to create stories to amuse Brism.
      Daphne: We're looking at the twilight of a universe. Its ... sad.
      Sage: The universe exists, because it is observed to exist.
      Roger: I didn't come all the way out here for nonsense.
      Daphne:  We barely have anything to do, and now some screwed up mess
is taking away a potential author.
      Roger: for some reason, beyond my comprehension, Brism has stopped
telling stories. And that cannot continue.
      Sage: Your Author is being expelled from the universe.
      Daphne: So, what exactly *are* you looking for?
      Sage: Look at the stories. Its all their, if you know where to look.
      Roger: I'm not paying for less than half an answer.
      Daphne: It's just (Thump!) Not (THUMP!) FAIR!
      Sage: That *is* the answer.
      Daphne: What are you going to do?
      Sage: Check times, and eye colours.
      Daphne: Here, it says Paradigm's eyes are blue.
      Roger: July nineteenth, its all the nineteenth, but the times don't
work, there's no way they *can* work!
      Daphne: Earlier, they were blue-green.
      Sage: Its a trap, like a Klein bottle, or Moebius loop, and the power
keeps rising.
      Roger: Time slips, Brism can't keep the story moving forward in time,
and this, bleeding of colour ... Around, and around, and around.
      Sage: Either Brism will explode, or be shunted forever out of the
universe. Probably both.
      Daphne: I think we can help each other ...
      Sage: Break the loop. Find Brism an audience, and a muse.
      Daphne: ... and a bunch of other people besides. Interested?
      Sage: Whatever happens, it'll happen soon. I'd say you've got a week,
maybe less, before there's no hope.


                         FIFTH INFINITY PRODUCTIONS

                            with an employee of
                          Mademoiselle Muse, Inc.

                       and a fully paid-up member of
                  United Narrators, Speakers, Presenters,
                         and Other Talkers (UNSPOT)

                            Wetly Bring You ...

                       The Roger Thompson Chronicles

Part Four (of six)
                         Echoes From Distant Shores

      It is as if the beach is just waiting for a photographer to come
along and snap its picture. Gentle, sparkling waves break in pretty, foamy
splashes on a beach of spotless, level white sand, all shining under a
noon-bright sun, in a cloudless sky. The beach extends back from the
water, until it touches the horizon, a landscape of rolling dunes, just
made for sliding, running, and building sand castles. A gentle, cool
breeze flows in from the ocean, all else is silent. No radio blares, no
gull squawks, no voice breaks this tranquility. No one walks these sands,
no one builds the sand castles, no one rides the waves ashore.
      In the air above the dunes, the air shimmers with something more than
heat. The shimmering, wavering image becomes clear, the distorting shimmer
now forming an empty frame. Through this frame, a figure is almost, but
not quite visible. The figure seems to move forward, out of the frame,
before misjudging its footing, and crashing forward, with a startled:
"ooph!"
      The figure picks itself up, and begins brushing sand off itself.
Herself, we realise now, for the figure is demonstrably female.
      The female figure turns back to the frame, only to glimpse the
mysterious portal blink out of existence. Turning, her eyes take in the
dunes, the beach, and the ocean.
      "OK," she calls out, "where are you?"
      Receiving no answer, she mutters under her breath, before strolling
down, toward the ocean.
      "Hey, Thompson! Where *are* you?"
      Hmm. Whoever she's looking for, I wouldn't want to be ... er ... um,
him. Ulp.
      Gathering my concentration, I step back across the fourth wall,
perhaps ten meters from my, er, associate.
      "I'm here," I call back.
      "Where were you?" she enquires.
      "Got caught behind the fourth wall, sorry." At her expression, I add,
"I'm not used to being a character."
      "No, I guess not," she admits, "wish you'd told me about that step,
though. Nearly twisted something."
      "I didn't come that way," I admit, "I didn't know."
      She stares at me. "Then, how did you get here?"
      Shrugging, I explain, "I'm a narrator, among other things. I followed
your narrative track. Got here ahead of you, too."
      "I noticed," she replies, dryly.
      "Anyway," I say, wanting to change the subject, "I don't see any sign
of your cousin, or, anyone else."
      She sighs. "This is just the entry point, Ecce could be anywhere
along here."
      "That's her name, Ecce?"
      "Yep, Ecce Vagire."
      I nod, making a note of the name, before asking, "which way?"
      "Doesn't matter, really," she explains, "it's all connected."
      "I think," I say, feeling tired, "you'd better explain."
      "I told you, my cousin came here because she ... well, she couldn't
cope with ... things."
      "What *kind* of things?"
      Rather than answer, my companion started walking, forcing me to
follow.
      When she spoke again, it was to ask a question, rather than answer
mine. "What did you mean back there by saying you're mostly a narrator?"
      Sigh. I was hoping for some answers, but I guess trust is only one
way in this partnership, so ...
      "I'm not based on books, or old story-tellers. I'm based on radio."
      "So?" she asks, not looking back.
      "Have you ever seen old _Twilight_Zone_ reruns?"
      "Yes, but that's not radio."
      "No, but it'll give you a fair idea. Rod Serling introduced the
story, then helped set the stage. When the episode ended, he'd come back
out, and make some pithy comment or other. A comment to the viewers. There
wasn't anyone else for him *to* talk to, and he wasn't talking to
himself."
      "No ... no ... I see that, but--"
      "Serling worked on radio before he ever did television. I think it's
safe to say that most of his early programs started out as radio scripts.
Radio presenters, back then, talked to the audience, they sold things to
the audience, and they often chatted with the characters, who recognised
the presenter as a presenter.
      "Even now, radio, unlike television, talks to its audience."
      "It does?" she sounded sceptical.
      "Absolutely," I said, then slipped easily into the patter of half a
lifetime. "You're listening to 98.5, WDGF, and its time to tell us what
you'd like to hear, our hot-lines are open at (555) 335--"
      "But, but that's just. You're not talking to anyone!"
      "No, not from my perspective, but you're the listener on the other
end. I'm talking to *you*, not the mike, or the camera, or even the
engineer. *You*!"
      "OK, I think I get it. You're saying a lot of radio ignores the
fourth wall."
      "More than television, certainly," I agree. "On television, there's
another actor to talk to, or a camera to look at, or whatever. There's not
that," I hesitate, searching for the right word, "intimacy," I decide,
"between television characters, and the audience.
      "Books are the same way. Most authors don't routinely break off in
the middle of a paragraph to say, 'hello, reader'."
      She stops, turning to study me. Finally, "that's really weird."
      "Yes," I agree. "Now, how about explaining why we're here."
      "Not now," she says, sharply, "not yet. I'm ... I'm not sure."
      "Of the idea?"
      "That, too."
      Sigh. And, again, sigh. I was right. However much Daphne wanted to
help, we were strangers to each other. And she didn't trust me.
      We continue walking, the silence broken only by the sound of sand
beneath our feet.
      "I'm not human," she says, abruptly.
      "A Muse?" I suggest, "One of the originals? Or one of their
offspring?"
      "Not exactly," she hesitates, then plunges on, "but, we are related.
I'm, I'm a nymph."
      "Hmm, as in spirit of nature, that kind of thing?"
      "Umm, sort of. More like spirit of electricity."
      "Electricity's natural," I remark.
      "Yes, but machines aren't."
      "You're a nymph of machines?"
      "Yes. Computers, mostly, but almost anything electrical. I used to
climb inside the TV, while it was on, then get stuck in the story when
someone turned off the set."
      "Oh, dear," I said, sympathetically.
      "Yeah, well, thought you should know, because, well, you'll be
meeting my cousin, and," she stops, so suddenly that we collide, and end
up in a pile on the sandy ground.
      "Hey," I say, picking myself up.
      "No, it's ... I'm sorry, this's harder than I thought, and I'm not
sure ... No, Ecce can help you, if she wants."
      "If I might ask," I start, "what does she do?"
      Daphne sighs. "Ecce's not, well, she's a nymph, like me. I call her
cousin, but I've no idea if we're related, really. Except, we're, you
know, alike."
      I nod, understandingly.
      "Ecce, well, how can I put this," she sighs again, then, abruptly,
she asks, "have you ever heard of Narcissus?"
      "Greek prince," I answer promptly, "cursed by Nemesis to fall in love
with his own reflection."
      "Right," she agrees, "but, do you remember why?"
      "Because he hurt a nymph who fell in love with him. She couldn't tell
him because *she* had been cursed, so that she could only repeat back what
other ... people ... said in ... an ... Ecce?"
      "Yes, that's her."
      "*Ecce!* Ecce, Ecco, Echo! That's brilliant! Absolutely *brilliant*!"
      "Thanks," she blushes, "though it's not brilliant, yet."
      Walking along, once more, I remarked, "I thought Echo had, that is,
the myth says she ... "
      "Starved away to a thread? Nothing left but her voice? You're a
story-teller, you know how that kind of thing goes."
      "So, what did happen?"
      She's quiet for a while, gathering her thoughts, I think.
      "Nemesis wanted to help, but, well, there were *some* gods, and
goddesses, even she couldn't hurt with impunity. So, she sort of ...
cheated.
      "I don't know if she made this place, or found it, or had someone
else make it, but she brought Ecce here, to heal, and get her own voice
back."
      "Is that possible?" I ask.
      "I don't know," Daphne admits, "even if it isn't, well, can you
imagine how horrible it is, never being able to say what's on your mind,
always being a parrot for someone else's words?"
      "Yes, I can," I tell her, gently.
      "Yes, I can," says a voice, which is almost, but not quite, mine.
Mostly, because *I* didn't say anything.
      Turning toward that voice, I see a girl. She is, as I should have
expected, a classic example of Greek beauty, perfectly in proportion with
herself, and possessing those attributes which a man would find most
appealing. She is also, apparently, posing for an absent sculptor, or
about to enter the Olympics, or possibly, simply following the nature of
her kind. Greek nymphs were depicted au naturale, if I recall correctly.
      This female figure regards us both, a frightened look on her face,
before spinning away, and running.
      "Ecce!" Daphne cries, "Cousin! Wait! *Please*! We need your help!"
      "Need ... help ... need ... help ..." the voice answers.
      She whirls, and I think I can see tears on her cheeks.
      "Ecce," I say, not shouting, but speaking clearly, projecting my
voice, and my confidence. A confidence I do not feel. "Ecce Vagire, if you
can help us, you may be able to help yourself."
      "May ... help ..." my own voice replies.
      "The old gods are weak now," Daphne explains, "new powers work in the
universe. There is one, who may be sympathetic to your state, someone who
will help."
      "Someone ... help ... someone ... "
      "An Author, like the Poets and writers of old, a human with a god's
gifts," Daphne persists. "I've seen what they can do."
      "Human ... god ... I've ... they do ... they do ... do ... do ... "
      "No, not like that," I say. "They're careless, and irresponsible,
they have to be, but they're not mean."
      "This one, the one you can help," Daphne says, "is Keeper of the
Echoes. Do you understand, Ecce, Brism Wanor may be able to heal you!"
      "Echoes ... Brism ... heal ... "
      "If we can *find* Brism," I growl.
      The nude girl makes her way back to us, still suspicious, but I think
I see a flicker of hope behind that suspicion.
      As she approaches, I kneel in the sand. "Ecce Vagire," I begin
formally, "if you help us, to the best of your abilities, I promise my
Author, Brism Wanor, Lord Dugl, Keeper of the Eighth Echo, will do all
that can be done for you."
      "I ... will do all that can be done," Ecce replies, resting her hand
on my cheek.
      "I suppose we'd better start," I say.
      "Yes, and right away," Daphne agrees. "Time's funny in here."
      "How do you mean, funny?" I ask, with a sinking feeling in my
stomach.
      "Er, well, um, every hour in here's a day out there, so ... "
      "We've been going for," I look at my watch, "two and a half *HOURS*!"
      "Um, oops." Daphne rubbed her forehead. "I forgot to mention that,
didn't I."
      "And," I ask very, very, very calmly, "how do we leave this place?"
      "Um, from the same point we got here."
      "Which is ... another two hour walk!"
      "Um, yes," she says, very meekly.
      "Which means," I continue, with lumbering logic, "we've spent *FIVE*
*DAYS* in here."
      "Er, um, yes."
      "And," I continue, "Brism had less than a week to go, *FIVE* *DAYS*
*AGO*!"
      "I'm a complete idiot, aren't I?" she moans.
      "Yes!"
      "Yes! ... Yes! ... Yes! ... Yes! ... "
      "Ecce," I say as gently as I can, "there's no point in rubbing it 
in."
      Daphne just whimpers.


            IS THERE, JUST THIS ONCE, A POINT TO RUBBING IT IN?
                         CAN ECCE HELP SAVE BRISM?
                       IS DAPHNE REALLY SO FORGETFUL?
                              IS BRISM DOOMED?

Do you see what I hear, on the next Roger Thompson Chronicles

-----------------------------------------------
Brism Wanor, Lord Dougl, Keeper of the Eighth Echo
brism at earthlink.net

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