[SPOILERS] The Spoilers of L'nkhania | Forums

[Thietris]

Imagine a world, once celebrated for its great beauty, its teeming wildlife, its turquoise seas, sparkling rivers, dense forests, exotic fruits, and peaceful inhabitants, who strove for knowledge of their universe and who lived together in harmony and love for their land and for each other.

Imagine a world corrupted by ignorance and greed where such beauty is but a distant memory -- a world transformed into a vast and decaying metropolis.

Imagine a world where strangers are viewed with suspicion and who must fear for their sanity or their lives.

Imagine the fate of that world resting in the hands of one explorer.

Imagine restoring peace to that troubled land.

Imagine silencing ...

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The Spoilers of L'nkhania.

[Thietris]

"I'm returning this book. It brings me out in hives."

"Oh? And why is that, sir?"

"I have an allergy to a certain type of fruit. The very mention of the name makes me scratch uncontrollably. Mention it twice and it could prove fatal."

"Let me see. Ah yes, The Grapes of Wrath."

"Aaagh!"

"Sorry! But, you see, gr-, I mean, the fruit of that name is actually mentioned in the title, which possibly might have served as an indication that the aforementioned clusters of succulent comestibles feature in this work."

"Not good enough! There should be a clearly written warning for people like me. The title should be changed. Here. I've written down what I think it should be."

"I hardly think, sir, that the author would have agreed to change the title to [GRAPES] The Grapes of Wrath."

"Aaaagghhhh!!"

"Excuse me one moment, sir, while I take this phone call. Hello?"

...

"Yes, madam. Books on arachnids? Let me see. Ah yes. We have one in stock called [SPIDERS] Spiders of the World. It-- Hello? Hello?"

[Thietris]

Perhaps he'd picked the wrong time. The bookshop was certainly very busy when Professor Thietris entered. A gentleman on the floor near the sales counter was being tended to by paramedics, one of whom was waving a paperback edition of The Times Atlas of World History over the patient's face. The assistant manager was on the phone arranging for an ambulance to be sent to the address of a customer, while trying to convince the ambulance despatcher that, no, the book she'd ordered was not yet available for collection. It wasn't the usual quiet, contemplative atmosphere you'd normally expect in a bookshop, so it was with some trepidation that the Professor began his conversation when the assistant manager had finished his phone call.

"I had a dream," began the Professor.

Oh, that's all I need. All this, and now Martin Luther Squirrel. "Oh, really sir?"

"Yes. I dreamt I was reading a book. I hardly remember anything about the contents, but I do remember the title. It was called The Spoilers of L'nkhania. It's a long shot, I know, but I was wondering if such a book actually exists."

"I'll check our computer catalogue for you, sir. Let me see. Hmm. The Spoilers, by Desmond Bagley. Spoiler, by Amanda Prantera. The Spoilers, by Matt Braun. The Spoiler, by Victor Ullrich. ... Ah! The Spoilers of L'nkhania, author unknown. It's out of print I'm afraid."

"Oh, that's a shame."

"But there's a link here to some further information. Ah yes. The story was based on an ancient text called simply L'nkhania. Anyone who opened this legendary tome apparently vanished into thin air." The assistant manager raised his eyebrows.

"Extraordinary!" said the Professor.

"There was a bit of a hoo-hah around the time of publication, and they had to amend the title slightly. We are finding that we need to do that more and more these days, to avoid confusion among our readers. Hence the name of the shop."

"Oh yes, I was wondering about that."

"We used to be called simply Books. You wouldn't be-lieve what a fuss that caused! We had people coming in demanding soap, toilet rolls, Brussels sprouts, broadband routers, teddy bears, grande skinny cappuccinos with an extra shot -- you name it. But the problems vanished overnight when we changed the name to [BOOKS] Books."

[Thietris]

The distant river below sparkled through gaps in the grass stems as it meandered its way to the sea. They were turning golden now as the first signs of autumn stirred a breeze that rustled the drying blades. Cloud shadows drifted across the harvest fields.

There was definitely a slight chill in the air now, thought the Professor, as he gazed at this view from his vantage point on the South Downs. This was a good place to come and think -- to try and work things out. His visit to the bookshop had not been entirely fruitless (which could also be said of another customer, though with less happy results). Surprisingly, the book that he'd dreamt about actually existed -- or at least one with a title of that name. So what had caused him to dream about it? Perhaps he'd seen or heard about it in the past, and the name had entered his subconscious mind. The other significant thing, as the man in the bookshop had said, was the connection with an ancient text that made people vanish into thin air. That had all the hallmarks of a linking book. So L'nkhania must be an Age. But it wasn't one he'd ever come across. He'd have to go back to the Institution and check the records.

But for now, he was happy to sit here quietly and enjoy the view. The years seemed so much shorter now. In his childhood the summers seemed to last for ever. He cast his mind back to those youthful years, running across the fields with his friends, laughing up at the limitless skies, with no care for tomorrow. What had happened to those carefree days? We can but dream about them and yearn for a rural idyll that perhaps existed only in our minds -- a fantasy.

The sudden report of a shotgun stirred him from his reverie, followed by the sound of a dog barking. Time to move on.

[Thietris]

The second blast was much louder. As the terrified squirrel ran along the pathway he felt something whistle past his left ear, and small pellets thudded into the baked earth. He was too exposed here. He darted quickly into the surrounding grass, running and running he knew not where, seeing only the blades of grass and stalks of wild plants coming towards him as though he were passing through a miniature forest. He thought he could smell wood smoke. Does that mean more danger? He didn't know. Were there no trees here where he could climb to safety?

Suddenly, he came to a wire fence. He scrambled up it awkwardly, its thin mesh hurting his paws, and leapt down on the other side. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a man tending a stocky brown and white horse. Now in front of him was a brightly painted caravan. Not knowing where else to go, and becoming exhausted now, he darted beneath it and hid behind one of the wooden spoked wheels.

A man wearing a wax shooting jacket and a flat cap came along the path, accompanied by a black Labrador retriever. The man climbed over a stile, his shotgun now safely broken and held in the crook of his arm. He passed by the encampment and stared sullenly at the man tending his horse, who looked back while continuing to rub down the horse's coat with a curry comb. Neither spoke. A young girl in a headscarf was sitting on the steps of the caravan, mending a shawl. She looked up and frowned at the man with the gun as he passed. He leered at her and winked. She looked down quickly and resumed her mending.

The girl had seen the squirrel darting beneath the vehicle. She climbed down and ran around the side of the van. She peered beneath it. Yes, there was something there -- some small bundle of fur crouching in the half light. She lay down on her side to get a better view. A squirrel was crouching there, staring out at her with a bright, frightened eye.

She spoke now, but the language seemed foreign and he could not understand her. "You're safe now," she said softly. The squirrel blinked, but did not move. She looked at him, sadly. "We're both travellers, you and I. Not meant to be here, or so they say. Always running. Running from folk who'd rather we weren't here. Always travelling, never arriving. Perhaps ... perhaps the journey is more important than the destination -- wherever that might be." Her bright face smiled, sideways on, from beyond the silhouetted pattern of wheel spokes. She frowned. "What's going on in that mind of yours? Eh?" She was silent now, as she looked into the shining dark eye of the timid creature panting beneath the van. And he looked back into her kind brown eye, her sideways face framed by the scarf. And those two beings, one human, one squirrel, seemed suddenly to share an understanding. He didn't need to say anything. Her eye looked sad now, as he continued to gaze back at her from behind the wheel of the caravan.

[Thietris]

"My office please, Geoffrey. Now."

"Yes, Mr Prescott."

"Geoffrey. I left you in charge of the shop. Just for a couple of days, while I was recuperating, as you know. Yet in that short space of time, not only did you manage to hospitalize two customers, but, more importantly, you lost two sales."

"I don't think I can be held to blame for that, Mr Prescott. I was most polite at all times."

"So why were two people taken ill before they'd even reached for their credit cards? One of them wasn't even in the shop. Were there any witnesses to these events? Who else was in the shop?"

"There was no one else in the shop, Mr Prescott. Apart from the squirrel."

The manager stared at his assistant for some moments. "The squirrel?"

"Yes. He came in to ask if a certain book was available that he'd dreamt about."

The manager widened his eyes and prolonged his stare. "Geoffrey, squirrels are wild creatures. They do not dream. They do not imagine. They do not read books. And they most certainly do not speak."

"This one did. He came into the shop and asked about a book called The Spoilers of L'nkhania. I looked it up. It's there in the catalogue."

"So you ordered it for him."

"Well, no. It's out of print, unfortunately."

"Ha! Well, let's see. Let's type it into our comprehensive online catalogue. What was the title again? Spell it out for me. OK. ... We press enter. And: there: 'Your search did not produce any results.' Shall we try a Google search? ... Nothing." The manager turned to his assistant. "You have a vivid imagination, Geoffrey."

"It was there in the catalogue! Honestly, Mr Prescott! And the squirrel was here in the shop. Wait! Just before he left, I told him I would get in touch if I could find out any more information. I have his phone number."

Oh, well, we can clear this up straight way then, Geoffrey. Now, give me the number and I'll give your Mr Squirrel a ring."

"Er ... Professor."

"What?"

"Professor Thietris Squirrel."

[Thietris]

Dawn broke with grey skies and a fresh wind from the southwest, bringing rain. Black clouds gathered over the Channel. The site was too exposed now for them to remain here any longer, so the horse was gently backed up between the shafts of the caravan. They had to push the heavy van from behind to get the wheels turning, but soon they were on their way again, heading northeast. The caravan trundled along on its heavy spoked wheels, its bright colours muted against the grey morning. The rain beat down on the solid brown and white horse as it pulled its load along the lane.

The rain beat down too on the small clearing that had been their home for the last few days. That small area that had been dry now began to blend with rest of the ground, a pale-coloured rectangle that darkened with the wet and became indistinguishable from its surroundings. You would not know that they had been there, save for a small heap of ashes that smouldered in defiance of the rain. The sound of the raindrops beating upon the ground was interrupted by the rasping cry of a pheasant as it rose into the air. A single gunshot rang out, and there was silence again, but for the rhythm of the rain.

A final curl of grey smoke dispersed in the breeze and was gone.

[Thietris]

Some say they can stand on the Downs of southern England and hear the cries of ancient tribes in battle against the invading Romans. But the illusion is transitory, and the clash of heavy swords and the shouting of men at war quickly fade, to leave only the sound of the breeze stirring the leaves and the merest hint of an ancient past.

But here, far removed from that spot, there was darkness. No light from the surface could penetrate this far down. The last one to leave had extinguished the lamps long ago, perhaps with one final glance at what had been home. The echoes of distant voices, of laughter and of tears, had faded to a sad memory of what once had been. The echoes of an ancient civilization were more distant still, but the ruins of the abandoned city remained, crumbling gradually to dust. But nothing could be seen now in this perpetual night. And there was silence.

Into that silence there suddenly intruded a plaintive note, an evenly pitched warbling tone that lasted a few seconds before stopping as abruptly as it had begun. A few seconds later, the silence was broken again by that sound. Several more times that persistent tone rang out, before the silence descended once again, perhaps even more profound than it had been before.

[Thietris]

There must be a strong breeze blowing, as the tree seems to be moving back and forth quite energetically. The autumn leaves will be falling. I'll need to replenish my store in time for the onset of winter. But for now, it's quite comfy sitting here in this—

"Thietris!"

The Professor opened his eyes and found that he wasn't in his tree at all. He was in some sort of wagon. He could see the back view of a man in a brimmed hat who sat in a doorway, jogging and swaying with the movement of the vehicle. Beyond that he could make out a horse trotting along the lane. The interior was beautifully furnished, with polished wooden cabinets. But, incongruously, between him and the driver in the hat were several stacks of traffic cones. What was it about cones? There was definitely something--

"Professor!"

"Cones!"

"Oh, Professor, you're back with us. Thank goodness for that. You remember me, now, don't you? Alice? You've had a nasty shock. Some idiot took a shot at you. He just nicked your ear, but I've bathed it with a special herbal mixture, so there'll be no permanent damage. I've put a bandage on it, just to protect it from infection. What you need now is a good strong cup of tea."

"Oh. Alice. Yes. Thank you." He looked into the wise face of a dark-skinned woman in hoop earrings. "There was someone else."

"That'll be Rawnie. She found you, cowering beneath the vardo. You remember my daughter Rawnie? Oh, of course, it was a good few years ago. She was just a child then. Rawnie! The Professor's come round. Come and say hello. And speak in English, or he won't understand you."

"Thietris? Ah, you're looking a bit more like your old self. Do you remember me?" The young girl sat before him. She had removed her headscarf, and dark curls fell to her shoulders. Of course. She had rescued him that first time too, when … but he didn’t want to think about that. It was stupid of him even to think of coming back to the countryside. "It was lucky we were here," said Rawnie.

"More than luck, I'd say," said her mother. “But you need to get back to familiar territory. The world is a cruel place, and if I were you I’d get straight back to your Institution. I can arrange the link for you just as soon as you’ve finished your tea.”

Of course. The Institution. He needed to get back there as soon as possible. Now why was that?

[Thietris]

Geoffrey, former assistant manager of [BOOKS]Books, sat in his car and stared out of the windscreen at the grey autumn day. The car park was almost full, but there was little activity as most people were still at work at this time of the day. Mr Prescott had fired him on the spot. The final straw, he supposed, must have been the squirrel. Had he really imagined it all? He could have sworn that the book about L'nkhania was in the catalogue. Ah well. He removed his tie with a sigh and undid his top shirt button -- a gesture which perhaps symbolized his breaking free from the constraints of those stupid rules and regulations enforced by the manager. Well, there would be no more capitalized words in square brackets for him. Perhaps he'd grow a beard. He looked in the rear view mirror and stroked his chin thoughtfully. Maybe this could be the opportunity for a complete change of direction.

He was right on two counts: he would experience a complete change of direction before the day was out; and he would grow a beard. But his life was soon to be haunted by a capitalized word in square brackets.