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Maare River Culture By Jacquie Windsor [email protected] --- 'A Bavarian is a cross between an Austrian and a human.' --Otto Von Bismarck, German Chancellor. (c. 1870) '[There] are countless people who have lost an arm, and then gone on to lead a perfectly (KOCHANSKI mimes the verbal quote marks using only one hand) "normal" life.' --"Red Dwarf", Series 7, Episode 8, "Nanarchy" --- "Doctor Medwick, get in here. I need you." The authoritative voice of Professor Vukovich stormed over the intercom, into Richard Medwick's small office. Richard fiddled with the knob, trying to squelch the jackhammer static that invariably erupted for several minutes from the speaker every time he was summoned. Tiring of this futile exercise, he returned a book on American cowboy myths to its rightful place on the shelf behind his desk and left the office. The professor's office was a short distance down the sterile corridor of Milk River Polytechnic Institute's Advanced Research wing. "What is it, Perry?" asked the junior academician, stalking into the older man's office without knocking. Although the MRPI had a standing policy of informal addressing among students and staff, the senior department head insisted on using the preface 'Doctor' with his peers, and 'Mister' or 'Miss' when speaking with students. "Doctor. I have found the juxtaposition of the Nineteenth Degree of Euro-Anthropological Certainty." "Are you sure?" asked Richard, tugging on his belt loops. The professor kept the conservative appearance of a white- coated researcher, while Medwick enjoyed the slack dress code at the MRPI. He often wore jeans and a simple button- up shirt. "Yes, Doctor. I am certain. You know our department has been under considerable pressure from the alumni to produce results. And I am sure that we've got the nexus right here." Richard Medwick had joined the fledging Crypto-Ethnology Department partly due to spite. He had the intellectual credentials to apply for an associate position in a standard anthropology department, and had even heard back from several Ivy League colleges. But, having a chance to delve into the uncommon field of crypto-ethnology appealed to him more than a fancy car, a secure job, or a move to the crowded rat race of the Eastern seaboard. Leading edge stuff always came from the well-funded, if spurious, research from the netherworlds of intellectuality. Neural astronomy, parachemistry, Annelid biophysics and deuteronomic hyperbinarism had all sprung from little schools in backwaters like Lincoln, Butte, Coeur d'Alene and Weyburn. The professor was still talking, while Richard spun prospective alternate lives for himself, grabbing coffee for senior tutors at Yale, Princeton or MIT. Here, at an institute so remote that a single gravel road connected the campus to civilisation, he could study actively with a pioneer in his field, and contribute whatever his own ability allowed. "Sorry, Perry, I kind of missed that last bit. Could you repeat it?" Perry Vukovich laughed. "I know where your mind's at, son. In a buick.net 'Sleekster'. Black. Zero to 150 kph in thirteen seconds. What was it this time? Yale?" "Listen. There's no fucking way I'd wind up in Yale..." "Grabbing coffee for someone? Yes, Doctor, you'd be making a mockery of your professionalism. No kidding." Professor Vukovich coughed deeply. His dark moustache quivered with the momentum of the violent exhalation. "Right here we've got it. Look at this map, Doctor. Here we've got the juxtaposition of the pre-Celtic, the proto- Celtic, the quasi-Celtic, the serio-Celtic and even the Cambrian Celtic groups. Right here. See?" "So..." "So that's the place where the nineteen degrees, the thing you spent half your thesis on I might remind you, all comes together. This is our foundation, our trust, basically our jobs, sitting right here." Richard looked at the proud thrusting of his boss's finger, crossing a multi-coloured relief map at a point somewhere in Bavaria. "Germany?" he asked meekly. "Oh yes," barked Vukovich. "This town here is the key. And from there, we could go up the Maare River to the headwaters. Looks like between the Trebelharz and the Burgowald. The proof will be there. You can mark my words. Stake my career. Believe in it, Doctor, the entire process of crypto-ethnology is won or lost on that battlefield." Richard wished he'd been daydreaming about Yale. The professor shouted in a drowning crescendo, enthusiastic, yet materially identical to the static blast whenever the intercom summoned the junior researcher into the office. "To the aerodrome, Doctor. We must be on our way to Germany." "What aerodrome?" shrugged Richard. "The Breitenfeld-Nixon Memorial Aerodrome, you dreamer," announced the senior researcher. "Behind the gym." "Professor Vukovich," muttered the younger man. His use of the formality usually preceded a contradiction between his words and his opinions, which the older crypto-ethnologist thoroughly understood. "That's not an aerodrome, exactly. All they do there is launch weather balloons." "Well dress warm then. We still have those igneo-jackets from that expedition to the volcanoes of Greenland. So, let's up and at 'em, Doctor Medwick. There's research brewing." Forty days later, gasping for breath in the thick atmosphere of the rural highlands of Germany, the two scientists descended in their weather balloon from the icy heights, twelve kilometres above sea level. The pilot, the premier choreo-meteorologist of the MRPI's dance faculty, tiptoed the machine into a Nuryevian landing amid the tall firs of the Saxon hills. "So this is the Maare River, hey?" their pilot asked. "Yeah, thanks for the ride. We're only a kilometre away from the town." Professor Vukovich dismissed the dance/high-altitude-meteorology fusion pioneer with a wave of his hand. "This path will take us there, Doctor. Let's ditch our igneo-jackets to avoid any untoward attention. I was clever enough to pack some local costumes so we'll blend in with the Germans." The MRPI researcher tore at a large backpack and withdrew identical sets of leather pants and puffy shirts, with the old Hohenzollern flag of Imperial Prussia sewn into the sleeves. "How much time did you spend making these?" asked Richard. "Your years of academic research were mostly spent on relatively exotic cultures, and not the Germans. I don't think there's a single living person who remembers the Hohenzollerns." "Ridiculous, Doctor. My scientific prowess is doubly appropriate to fashion and custom, in every corner of the globe, as it is to the grand mysteries of any of the preliminary stages of crypto-ethnology. Now, struggle into your leather pants, too, and we'll be off to town." The scientists, appropriately adorned in the style of nineteenth century Bavarian peasants, climbed over the hilly path and into the modern village of Tronckburg. "Perry, geez, everyone looks like they're right out of a normal American town," Richard said under his breath. "Tronckburg is sort of a set town," answered the professor. "This locale is frequently the site of various Hollywood films, and it's likely that the American style is just a temporary phase. 'Unforgiven V: The Resurrection Of Gene Hackman' was shot here not three years ago. So don't be fooled. They'll recognise us immediately as locals from the hills." "I guess you're right," admitted Richard. "Look at that guy over there." Seated cross-legged at an open air caf? was an old man with a monocle, appearing every bit the same as Werner Klemperer in "Hogan's Heroes", the longest running holographic sitcom next to "Gilligan's Island" and "The Muriatic Acid- Drinkers". "You doubt me too often, Doctor," proclaimed the senior researcher. "Let's go meet this Colonel Klink." The monocled, uniformed man, whose tattered grey uniform included a faded swastika, looked up at the approaching men with an air of superiority and a sense of long-lost recognition. Richard knew that the very appearance of his uniform and insignia, whether dilapidated or fresh, would earn a summary execution in an American court. The science of crypto-ethnology didn't jive with popular opinion in the United States, and it struck Richard as refreshing that mere symbolism was tolerable in such a cultural backwater as this. "You speak English?" the professor demanded kindly of the old man. "Gah, why not?" spat the epitome of Colonel Klink. "Everyone does!" "Good," smiled Perry Vukovich. "We need an honest and local guide, preferably with the use of an aeroplane. We are American crypto-ethnologists, and we have some vital business in your sector. It's completely unauthorised, of course, but anyone involved would have the full academic and, uh, financial appreciation of the largest research trust in its field, in the world, at his or her beck and call." "Ack. Americans, eh?" The German native gripped the handle of his beer stein with an enthusiasm that turned his knuckles white. "I remember the war. Oh yes. You ask any of them." His hand spread in a wide curve, indicating everyone on the street. "I am the oldest man in Tronckburg! I remember. They know nothing! I was in Italy. The soft underbelly!" The likeness of Colonel Klink chortled and coughed at once. "Sechs-und- Zwanzig Divisione. I had one of the five operating Panzerkampfwagen III F1's. Eighty centimetre fording depth. Koebe-pumped jets of fire at anything, infantry, horses, pigs, motorcycles, pillboxes, or houses. Sixty metre range. "Let me tell you more. Ghurkhas. I think from the British Northumberlands, and I don't know how in Dante's dark realm they ever got separated from Buddha. I mean, the foreigners we couldn't even speak or think about, running around with blades instead of guns. Three policemen and twenty-one irregulars. Native dress. "That was Monte D'Oro or something like that. I was out of reserve just that moment, rearguard support for an artillery regiment sitting right up on the hill. Fuck all was moving in the valley, too. But there was a whole string of woods, running along the side of the hill, and back to a gravel road that was the only way you could get from the headquarters up to the battery and then off to the observer's post. Without that, we're totally cooked. I mean, baked. "So I'm running the engine, it's still hot after running all the way down out of Ravenna and the whole Allied shit is coming right onto the eighty-eights sitting on the mountain. I am sitting my panzer in an alley dug partway into the woods and, shit, if I don't see twenty-one irregulars and three policemen... carrying... carrying... carrying fucking bicycles right out of the woods and onto the gravel. "I'm figuring, these Ghurkhas got to hear my engine but I'm seeing them unpack those bikes off their shoulders and their going to ride right up the ass of our battery, or they're off to shoot the officers at the HQ. Serious. Serious shit. I see them. They're headed off right like that! "What do I do? Gun the fucking motor. I don't care two shits about stalling out and getting stuck in the mud. Tear straight down the road at forty and 'FLAMM'..." The monocled character threw both fingers out towards the American scientists, issuing a tremendous 'shwoosh' from his lips, emulating the sound of jellied gasoline frying the bike-riding elements of the proud British Northumberland Division. At last, the hissing from his lips ebbed into a slow gasping. "So... so... so you're Ghurkhas, are you?" he stammered. "No sir," grinned Richard, as kindly as he could. "We're pretty much Americans. Not Ghurkhas." "Never seen a Yank in Italy," the German shot back. "Welcome to Tronckburg." "Let's watch this guy carefully," Vukovich whispered to Richard as he shook the old German's hand. "We're trying to get to the nexus, I mean, the headwaters of the Maare River," the younger researcher told their new acquaintance. "Despite our appearance, you ought to know we are sophisticated crypto-ethnologists. I am Richard, and this is Perry. You are?" "Just call me Werner. It'll do for now." "Do you have a vehicle you could take us up there in?" Perry asked. "We saw a lane in the middle of the trees up there when we came in by balloon. Too small to land the craft on, but it looked fine for motoring." "Ah, that's the Trebelbahn. They never finished the whole thing. It was supposed to connect Tronckburg to the Carinthian Zotwagenweg. Never got finished, though, so we're still stuck in the wilderness here. However..." "However?" asked the professor, raising his eyebrows. "However, there's always the Se-5a." "What's an Se-5a?" Richard inquired. "Come on. No lazing. I'll tell you along the way." The Se-5a, it turned out, was a dozens-of-decades old scout plane. "Was it British?" the professor asked. "It's an heirloom," bragged the monocled German. "My grandfather took it apart when it came down in Alsace and brought the whole thing up here, put it back together, and handed it down through my father to me." The adventure-borne trio came to a dilapidated barn. In front of the barn was a short track, which could double as a runway in a pinch. The firs towered on both sides of the site, and would require extraordinary skill to clear once take-off speed was achieved. "The Se-5a, in hands of a skilled pilot, will not only take off fine from this strip, but can plop you straight down on the Trebelbahn without a scratch." "How did you learn how to fly that well?" asked Vukovich. "A couple of Austrians taught me. My university days. You must remember them." As they talked, the old bald man stripped back a tarpaulin that stretched loosely over the biplane. "We're college, or college-equivalent, researchers," said Richard. "Say, what are those strange markings along the fuselage?" "That's my fraternity symbol," Werner replied. "Pi Wiggle Tam. Ah, I remember that fight song. Kind of boils the blood just like seeing a squad of elite cyclists in the Apennine woods. Let me see now. Yeah. Something like 'Pi Wiggle Tam! Poot, poot poot!'." "Pi Wiggle Tam! Poot, poot, poot! Pi Wiggle Tam! Poot, poot, poot, poot!" Richard stood amazed, as his boss at MRPI shook one fist in time to the onomatopoeic chant. Soon both men appeared to forget the mission, shaking the rafters with a crescendo of enthusiastic fraternity fight songs: "Pi Wiggle Tam! Poot, poot, poot! Pi Wiggle Tam! Poot, poot, poot, poot!" they continued, over and over, as Richard completed the task of removing the tarpaulin from the flying machine. He mopped his forehead with one oily hand, and returned to where the other two men stood, still chanting to raise the dead. "We're on our way, I guess," he began, when Richard noticed the professor reaching inside his coat. All the while the singing continued. In a couple of agonising moments, the younger MRPI scientist watched his elder retrieve a black object. Then a flash. Then silence. "What have you done?" Richard cried. "You shot our pilot." "Shot our pilot? Or did I rid the world of another Nazi? Simply exercising my right to perform summary justice." "Good grief. I thought, maybe, you just didn't like his fraternity or something," Richard choked nervously. "Funny thing, too. Your gun. That's a Luger. Sort of what I'd call poetic justice." "Look closer," the professor urged. "You see anything unusual about this so-called Luger?" "No." The professor took a small step back, eyeing his workmate with a look of disbelief. "Nothing?" "No," shrugged Richard. "What's so special?" "It's not a Luger. It's a Fabrique Nationale replica Luger. World of difference. And..." He shifted the gun from one hand to the other. "And that's pretty much common knowledge to any American. Doctor Medwick. Exactly what part of the USA are you from?" Richard kicked at the barn floor. "I guess I ought to admit it. I'm from Saskatchewan. I'm not really an American." "I had my suspicions. You have a lot of the characteristics of a foreigner." "Like not being able to recognise a replica weapon from a long-forgotten war? How does that figure? I mean, I was in Canada long enough to see our own Constitution rewritten to include your Second Amendment provisions. Of course, I don't think our bureaucrats really understood the way it works, though. Everyone got a government issue gun in the mail. I mean everyone. Everyone with a social insurance number. So, yeah, a few people who'd gotten one for their pets actually got several weapons in one shipment." "No, your government sounds like it understands the whole process. If we didn't have a Second Amendment, I guess DC would have to do the same thing." The professor pondered that point as Richard beckoned him towards the aircraft cockpit. "It sure made Fan Appreciation Night really interesting at minor hockey games." "Well, with a well-armed militia comes the inevitable responsibility and maturity and so forth," nodded the professor, stepping over the warm corpse of their Bavarian guide. "I don't know if the fans in Swift Current read that far in the instruction pamphlets," said Richard. "I hate to be a Wet Willie, but if Colonel Klink is dead, who's going to fly us up to the site?" "I have a better idea. But, hold on, you grab the legs and I'll get his arms. Okay?" The apprentice crypto-ethnologist stared hard at his boss. "What are we doing?" "Help me pick up this guy. We're going to put him in the cockpit. It will just be one more random accident in the Bavarian highlands." "What will be?" "Doctor, just lift. Okay, that's better. Once we get him into the cockpit, we'll roll the plane out onto the strip and light it up. Right next to one of those pines down there at the end." "Perry, your brain is something else. This is like being in a Hitchcock film or something. Except your taller, thinner and you have more hair. And glasses." "Lift over that side. Just dump him in." The corpse slumped into the forward seat of the two-seat biplane, its limbs strewn haphazardly over the canvas. "Taller, thinner. More like Cronenberg then." "Who?" asked the doctor. He dusted his hands on his shirt. "David Cronenberg. You make a worse Canadian than you do an American, Doctor." Richard watched the senior researcher retrieve two cans of fuel from the corner of the barn. He sat them on the wing, next to the fuselage, and waved Richard closer. "Doctor, we've got to use some elbow grease to move this plane onto the strip. And Cronenberg was a Canadian film director." The two men began to push the biplane out of the makeshift hangar, towards the towering conifers a few dozen metres away. "I must have missed his shows," grunted Richard, surprised at the ease at which the older professor pushed his side of the aircraft. "Did he do anything good?" "'Shivers' was the best one, well, from a crypto- ethnological perspective," offered his partner. "'Crash' was a lot more popular with the snoot set, but you can't beat apartment dwellers going crazy from parasites." Professor Vukovich stopped pushing and drew back from the biplane, sloshing the uncapped fuel cans over the old dried fabric and the dead man in the cockpit. "Doctor Medwick, I've lived in an apartment my whole life, and I can tell you that most of my neighbours have been serious cases indeed. Now stand back." He drew a book of matches from his shirt pocket, struck one, ignited the rest, then threw the whole thing onto the Se-5a. The blaze grew into a magnificent orange inferno as the two scientists disappeared together into the forest. The woods thickened into blackness, until Professor Vukovich beckoned his associate to stop for a moment. He took a flashlight from a pouch in his pack and pointed its strong white beam on the remnants of a trail. "This trail is as old as the Roman limes up on the hills," explained the older scientist. "You can just about smell the Marcomanni warriors lining up to charge over the foothills and into Lombardy." "Well, it does smell a little punky," said Richard. "Of course, it wasn't Lombardy back then. The Lombards came far later," added the professor, ignoring the pun his colleague had offered. "Raetia and Noricum. Thereabouts. That's what it used to be called. Shit, I can't remember it that good. Sometimes I wish I'd gone to Harvard, since I had a partial scholarship award there. But I had a better offer for a full scholarship..." "...at a school in the South West Missouri Valley State Conference. Football..." Richard sighed. He'd heard the stories of his supervisor's college football days longer than he could sometimes bear. "A school? A school?" snarled Professor Vukovich, putting a heavy emphasis on the indefinite article. "The Moltke College Rifles went ten and two in Division IV-B in my sophomore year. Tough shit, though. One out of division game, and that was against Oklahoma. Man, if only I'd gotten the call off the bench." Richard laughed jovially. He'd looked up the story in one of the Moltke College yearbooks. The Rifles lost 63-3, and the Sooners' second and third-string players played three quarters of the game. "Yes, Perry, I can see how a sophomore defensive tackle would've changed the whole game." The deep gloom of the forested Bavarian hills matched Perry's mood. He felt like turning off the flashlight to leave them entirely in the dark. Then who would need a slighted sophomore defensive tackle to lead them to victory? "Perry!" Richard hissed, tugging on his mentor's sleeve from behind. "What is it?" demanded the professor, still smarting from the reminder of the decades-old humiliation at the hands of the Oklahoma team. "Movement. Over there. Just please be quiet. Quieter. Turn off the light for a moment." Professor Vukovich switched off the flashlight and looked through the heavy woods. "What is it? I can't see there all that great." "Just through there. It looks like some kind of development. This could be the key to the Maare River juxtaposition. It's an irregular array of some sort." "Celtic?" "I just don't know," Richard whispered. "It looks too modern." The doctor looked up towards the coniferous canopy to see how much light came through from the sky. "Listen, Perry, there's some kind of photo-ambience coming right from the site. It isn't sunlight. There's almost an aura, really." "You're not seeing the flame from the biplane, are you?" "No. We're probably two miles away. This is some kind of narrow spectrum light. Probably artificial. Or phenomenal." Professor Vukovich slapped his colleague's arm. "You're always looking for the surreal amid the real. It doesn't work that way, Doctor. The surreal is predicated on the imagery of things that already exist." "Fuck that shit. I mean there's a narrow band of visible radiation, and it's probably about a half a mile. Is this spot anywhere near the nexus you calculated?" The older scientist withdrew a juxtapositor from his pouch and read the dial. "It shouldn't be. I still think it's beyond us by quite a bit." "Then what's this?" puzzled the junior crypto-ethnologist. "We better go find out or we'll kick ourselves in the end." Professor Vukovich ignored the open invitation for a retort and followed Richard carefully through the underbrush. After a few minutes, the pair came upon a dimly lit collection of huts. Each of the four structures was made out of flat stones, piled into a beehive. They were lit by an ambient whitish glow that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. "Doctor Medwick. What have we here? I haven't seen this kind of thing before." "Looks like some kind of set, almost," Richard intoned. "It doesn't look that ancient." "Appearances can be deceiving," chortled his boss. "How many times you've told me that?" Richard approached the exterior of one of the buildings, touching the stone. "These grooves look like they're made by modern equipment. They just don't seem to be that old. Fresh." "It might be a good place to camp. We could stay here and go on tomorrow. That will make us fully rested for the trek to the nexus." "Perry, you make good sense. You know," said Richard, wandering fully around on of the beehive structures, "that none of these things has an opening. I wonder why anyone would build something like this?" "Well, Doctor, the shape is not dissimilar from the tombs of hermits around Dorian oracles. Although, frankly, this is not even near their stomping grounds." "Sleeping by the dead guys. Perfect." Richard helped his boss withdraw a lightweight tent from his own pouch and they stretched it between two trees. The leader of the expedition depended on good weather, and the protection offered by the trees, to allow them to travel and camp lightly. The ground, soft and strewn with pine needles, offered a comfortable mat for the night, and soon both men fell fast asleep. When Richard woke up, he found himself drenched and shivering. He jumped as he found himself nearly submerged in a puddle. His clothes, pack, and sleeping bag were soaked. The cool Bavarian mountain air threatened him with hypothermia, and the shivering was uncontrollable. "Perry! Wake up!" Richard leapt over his waterlogged sleeping bag to rouse his boss, who was equally endangered by the sudden flood. The professor was rolled into a quivering ball, with the inundation inching close to his nostrils. When Richard tugged at him, yelling, he jumped up in the same sense of panic that had overwhelmed the younger man. "Fuck!" he screamed. "I'm soaked! We're going to fucking freeze to death." "Where did this water come from?" Richard cried. "Our stuff is ruined. And we'll both die of exposure in an hour if we don't do something. Perry, your lips are even practically blue." "We have to get out of this wet shit first," urged Professor Vukovich. He was already nearly naked by the time Richard joined him. Naked, cold, wet and scared, the two men looked around them with a growing urgency. A virtual lake had appeared on the ground, lapping at the bases of the giant trees that cluttered the area. Through it all, there yet appeared the soft and unearthly glow that belied the near total absence of sunlight. "Richard. Look over there. At the tombs." The young doctor swivelled his gaze and noticed that one of the beehives had an open entranceway where none was evident when they'd gone to sleep. "It's our only chance," Perry urged. "We're practically fucked unless there's something warmer in there." "You're right," agreed Richard. Both men, entirely naked, skin mottled by the cold, struggled half-paralysed to the structure. "Hah," Perry snorted, reading from a Latin inscription over the arched entranceway. "It says '...but I'm witty'. Good laugh, if I wasn't about to drop my yarbles." "Perry, there's a couple of robes in here," Richard gasped. He seized a pair of heavy woven garments from a stone bench at one edge of the small interior. "It might be just enough to save us." Professor Vukovich examined the robes. They bore no decorations, and the fabric was thick, almost spongy or sinewy. Shivering against the elements, he put it on and was instantly struck by the warmth it provided. "It kind of itches, though, Doctor. What's yours feel like?" "The same. However, look here too, some sandals." Richard bent down, tying his robe at the waist, and retrieved two pairs of plain, gnarled, leathery shoes from the gritty hut floor. "Well, it's better to be itchy than to freeze our butts off," grinned the younger researcher. "And these sandals aren't quite what I'd call comfortable, but they'll do." The MRPI department head kicked one sandal into the dirt. "I'd take an old pair of adidanikeboks any day. Hey, what's that under your foot?" Richard looked down. He'd felt something under his bare foot before leaning over to retrieve the footwear. Leaning down again, it looked like a partly buried box, roughly the size of a loaf of bread. "I don't know." He scooped some of the dirt away from the container's perimeter and pulled the discovery free. "It's a pretty simple looking box. Kind of fragrant though, wouldn't you say?" From the exterior of the box, a pleasant scent wafted into the tight quarters of the beehive hut. "This reminds me a lot of cinnamon. What was that old saying about cinnamon?" Richard looked over the object, to determine how it opened and whether the lid was locked in place. "The wonder spice, Doctor," Perry said. The itchiness that began when he tried on the garments slowly subsided. "There was an old joke that you can make anything better with cinnamon on it. Cinnamon coffee. Cinnamon bread. Cinnamon roast beef. That kind of thing." Richard pried at the lid with his fingers until it clicked open. Inside the metal-sheathed container was an engraved handle, much like the hilt of a sword. "Let me see that. What is it?" "There's some kind of writing, I think. Definitely not pictographs. Actual characters," Richard nodded. He peered at a row of four distinct letters cut into the wood. "Could it be proto-Celtic?" Professor Vukovich bent forward to examine the object. "No. This is basically Sur-Aetolian and possibly Orchomenosian, one of the permutations." He pointed at each character in succession, identifying it for the younger crypto-ethnologist. "If you were to translate directly into the Hellenistic alphabet, you'd get 'chi', then 'rho', followed by a vowel that bears some resemblance to an 'upsilon', then almost a Latinish 's', not quite as Hellenistic, which would be 'sigma'. That's a sign this is probably later than the period we'd expect to see from the cultures we're looking for." "'Kris'. It's a handle from a kris," Richard guessed. "Indeed. The favourite dagger of Edgar Allan Poe," agreed the other researcher. "You know, when I hold this thing, I'm very much reminded of this story he wrote. A guy wanders off into somewhere in western Maryland or Virginia. There's a kris mentioned in the story, and the guy comes across a village which he can't remember seeing on any map." Richard laughed tentatively. "From what I remember about Poe, he was so drunk he'd never know where he was if he stepped out for a carton of milk." "Not true. In 'The Purloined Letter', he is very specific about how to solve the puzzle by remembering a game where you find an unknown word on a wall map. 'Descent Into The Maelstrom' is in a very well-defined location off the Norwegian coast. A place that exists, but the maelstrom doesn't." As the professor talked, Richard moved around him to look outside at their drowned encampment. The constant dripping from the curtain of branches overhead told him it must yet be raining, although the area was nearly as bright as if the sun was shining far overhead. "My masters' thesis was soundly defeated by a jury of Atlantic Coast doctors," continued the senior institute director. "It was all about the chronology of events that specifically eradicated all the verifiable aspects of Poe's work." "What did he do that was so spectacular? Didn't he just write mystery and horror stories?" "The story I was just telling you about, it was 'The Town In The Hills', is actually easy to mark out on any map. Now it just happens to be that Poe died in Baltimore roughly thirty years before the Shenandoah Campaign. Events swung into place right around the time that his work suddenly regained its popularity." The professor adjusted the sinewy garments that wrapped his legs snugly. "The Shenandoah Campaign was in the American Civil War, a deliberate policy of scorched earth under Philip Sheridan and the Union Cavalry..." "You wrote that in your thesis?" challenged Richard. "You can't believe that the American Civil War was fought to destroy the evidence of a mysterious village in the middle of the Appalachians." "If you keep interrupting me, you'll remain stupid forever. If it was only the Shenandoah Campaign, then you'd be absolutely correct. But the Rue Morgue and the palace where Hop-Frog danced were specifically targeted by the Prussians during the German Wars Of Unification, and the Communards sought out those exact places to set up enfilading fire against government troops. The 1870's. Right around the same time. By the time of Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee, none of those places existed any longer. We get the modern era straight out of the obliteration of the grotesque." Professor Vukovich touched the camera slung from the side of his pouch. Its film was drenched and useless. "Humans invent chemical means for recording visual evidence and it's gone." Richard turned back to examining the contents of the tomb- like building. Next to the box containing the remains of a weapon lay a book, heavy, dusty and bound in dark leather. Since entering the structure, his eyes had become accustomed to the lack of illumination, and what was hidden became thoroughly evident. If he'd seen the book first, he would have surely picked it up before searching the box. "Look at this, Perry. Maybe this place isn't so old. The cover looks like it's Latin. Rough translation: 'The Gospel According To Saint Astarte'." "Astarte is a proto-Phoenician deity, Doctor. Are you sure it says gospel?" "More than once, actually. Hey, inside here, the frontispiece is a marvellous example of medieval art. See, Perry? It's a snake, rising, writhing out of a whirlpool, clutching a cross in its jaws. Fuck, I don't remember anything like that from Sunday school." Professor Vukovich tried smoothing a crease in the folds of the garment he had tossed on, to no avail. "Let me see that, and stop the amateurish conjecture." The older researcher peered over Richard's arm at the illustration. The snake appeared as Doctor Medwick had described it, with a golden halo over its head. An inscription curved within a flowing banner that stretched around the image. "Doctor Medwick!" Perry exclaimed. "That inscription is in Ugaritic! But you are correct. That is a genuine twelfth century hermitic pictolith from right around the High German countryside. The drawing is utterly contemporary but the writing is not." The scientist touched one temple with his forefinger and concentrated deeply on the meaning of the inscription. "Fabulous. Completely fabulous." "What?" Richard asked quickly three times. The professor chuckled and shook his head. "It says 'But I am witty'. In Ugaritic." While Richard continued to hold the strange book, he turned several pages. "The book is Latin. Obviously Latin," shrugged Richard. "Was the frontispiece added later?" "It could have been, easily," Perry nodded. "I am not entirely familiar with the binding process in this era, but there's time to figure that out later. Let's see what it says." The pair sat on a stone bench on the floor of the beehive and began to read. The story was vaguely familiar to each of them. A star appeared over an inn, but the location was Kadesh rather than Bethlehem. Someone called 'Joshua The Anointed' was born there, and introduced the Pharisees to a game similar to poker at the age of twelve. He began to speak in incomprehensible parables about blind men who could see invisible people, iron that floated on water, and icebergs appearing in the Arabian deserts. This 'Joshua The Anointed' wrestled lions and fought the Assyrians, wielding a fearsome weapon known as the 'Sword Of Typhon'. "This thing is a whole lot like the New Testament, but it's all wrong," Richard said. "The name is pretty similar to Jesus Christ. Joshua the Anointed. But he didn't have a sword, did he?" "No." "Perry, is it my imagination, or is your hair just a lot longer and wavier than it was yesterday?" The senior researcher twisted a single lock near his ear and noticed how it bounced off his cheek before he brushed it back. "You are entirely right, Doctor. Yours is too, I might add. Although more of a kinky russet kind of thing." Richard shook his head from side to side. He felt the weight of added hair mildly tugging on his scalp. "Geez. I thought this book and that handle thing was strange. Definitely more hair." "That handle," Perry repeated. "The letters on that handle are exactly what's described here, the Sword Of Typhon. Holy smokes, Doctor, we were totally wrong about the meaning. The letters spell out the Greek for 'The Anointed'." "So all that crap about the reason for the Civil War was wrong," Richard offered. "I didn't say that. Don't put words in my mouth." Richard looked at the last three pages of the book. The scene was set for a grand party among 'Joshua the Anointed' and his social group, at a marina in Tyre. Then the tome ended abruptly with an unsatisfying promise that everything would be explained in a second volume. He scoured the floor of the beehive structure, yet there was no evidence of another book. "It's still raining outside, Doctor. Although it isn't as bad as it was. All I know is that I am getting hungry, and I'm sure our sandwiches are waterlogged and inedible." Richard, too, felt hungry. "Perhaps we ought to try and forage." "I don't know enough about the botany of this area. I imagine we'd have to root for grubs. I know, it's a little unsettling, but we have to find something before we lose our senses." Richard wished aloud that his footwear could have been spared from the overnight flood, because the sandals they'd found were tight and uncomfortable. "Speaking of losing my senses, Perry, I could swear that robe you've got on makes you look a little, well, a little top heavy." "Well, if it wasn't this chilly, I'd remove it. But you are one to speak, Doctor." He paused, staring at Perry's face. "And you had your moustache this morning, right?" The professor rubbed his upper lip, surprised by its smoothness. "Maybe I shaved it off and forgot," he muttered slowly. Richard tucked the box and the book under one arm and smoothed his hand over his chest. The sinewy garment bulged over both breasts, and his fingers produced a sensation that they had grown significantly. They stepped outside, where a cool breeze guarded against loosening the robes. "I guess I ought to have taken a materials engineering course or two," remarked the younger man. "We'll have to take these back to the Institute for analysis." "Just hope they're water resistant. It's still dripping," added Professor Vukovich. Richard kept the box and the book dry, partially shielding them with his arms, and tucked beneath his breasts. Indeed, the robes seemed to be impervious to the drizzle. Richard followed his mentor in the search for something edible in the eerie light of the Bavarian forest. As they crept silently, a careless murmuring alerted them that they weren't alone in this wilderness. They had lost sight of the beehive structures, and had gone some distance in the direction of Tronckburg. "It isn't German. It can't be the police," explained Professor Vukovich. "I see... it looks like... maybe six or seven people." "Maybe they've got provisions. Listen, it's worth a try..." "Like this?" Richard glared at his boss from the Institute. "Even your face and hair, Perry. You look quite a bit like a woman, you know." "What's your idea, then, bright boy?" For a moment, the older researcher forgot decorum. There was an issue of survival at stake. "Just tell them we're women?" "Sure. We'll say we're tourists. From... from..." "Our voices, though, Doctor. Our voices don't sound female at all." "Okay," Richard admitted. "We're escaped circus freaks. How's that sound?" "Circus? No, Okay, how about this? We're researchers from Wyoming. Studying, um, relics in southern Germany." "Perry. That is what we're doing." Richard gesticulated frantically. "Just, you know, try to concentrate on talking a bit more sweet. Just softer or whatever. Let's just go over and find out if they've got anything to eat." "Sure, all right. You have your way. Fine." Perry began toward the sound of the voices. He had thought that the sandals were collecting dirt, raising the heel out of the solid earth underfoot. Yet as the two men struggled through the scant underbrush, they grew aware that the sandals were apparently growing heels. "Remember, just speak softly," whispered Richard. In a clearing ahead of them, the researchers saw a group of people, five men and two women, setting up a camp. One of the men saw them and approached with a sense of authority. Perry nudged Richard. "He looks really familiar." A torrent of German greeted the two men as the familiar man stepped forward and extended his hand. "We don't speak German," Richard offered. "We're American." "What do you say? So am I." The man who had approached them smiled broadly. "I'm Gavin Stubonski. You might have heard of me." "Stubonski?" Perry's voice cracked. "You're from that show about antiques." Stubonski, even in raingear, was recognisable as the garrulous host of the widely viewed television programme. The show moved about the country, setting up fairs in civic arenas and inviting locals to bring their treasures in to be assessed. "Well, I'm Nancy," offered Richard. "And this is..." "Kathy," the professor said quickly. He couldn't get his voice to sound as clear and sweet as Richard had, so he vowed to remain quiet. "So what brings you up here, then?" Both Gavin and Nancy asked the question simultaneously. "You first, Mr. Stubonski," grinned Nancy, brushing a soft reddish curl off her forehead. "We brought the crew up here to Tronckburg," began the television host, "to film an old biplane that some fellow up here has. Sadly, we heard that he crashed it into a tree only yesterday. Poor sap. Completely dead now. So of course we're looking for anything else up here that might be worth filming. The crew's done a few episodes of 'Alien Creek' and 'Carnivorous Forest' before, so we might yet provide the studio with some value. Even if digital backgrounds are the 'in' thing, some realistic footage would be just about superb. "What about you two? I mean, you look like you're right out of 'Neutrino Blaster'." The professor stared blankly as Nancy grinned and giggled. His research kept him from seeing anything as frivolous as television programmes, although he was aware of Stubonski's reputation. "Kathy, 'Neutrino Blaster' is a space show where two strippers save a new galaxy every week. From certain destruction. Gavin, I love it, I mean, my boyfriend always watches it." Gavin beamed, chatting with these two adorable beauties in the middle of the German woodlands. His gaze swept over their unusual garments and stopped at the box and the book, which Nancy still kept partly concealed. "What have you there?" he interrupted. "Oh these? Well, we haven't a clue. Say, you know, they are old family heirlooms. Maybe they're actually worth something?" "You've got an idea there. You know, we're setting up the cameras anyhow. Why don't we get a makeshift awning overhead, unfold one of the tables and do an assessment right here." "Right here?" asked Nancy. As the host turned to give directions to the crew, Kathy grabbed Nancy by the arm and asked her what she thought she was doing. "We only came here for some food. I don't want to be on TV." "Oh, settle down, Kath. It'll be fun." "You know, Doctor. I think you're into this role a little better than you let on. I mean, you're practically fucking that guy with your attitude." "Kathy, if you're that upset about it, don't worry. You don't have to be on. You can just watch and learn, I guess." Nancy changed the subject to avoid having to tell her boss anything further about her occasional preferences for wearing women's clothing. The peculiar robe, with the illusion of large breasts forming within its folds, allowed her to fully project an image of femininity she'd only fantasised about as Richard. After a protracted discussion, Nancy talked Kathy into appearing at her side as she explained the objects to Gavin and the camera. "We're ready," nodded the host, beckoning Kathy and Nancy under a broad awning. The crew had set up the light and sound equipment quickly and efficiently, and the segment was ready to be filmed. As the two feminine researchers stood where the director told them to, Gavin reached across the table for the cinnamon-scented box. He briefly introduced Kathy and Nancy to the imaginary television audience. "Now this is an uninteresting object in its own right. It appears to be a crypto-ethnological artefact. Wouldn't say it's older than the eighteenth century." Kathy grinned nervously, the white light from the camera partially blinding her. "Crypto-ethnology? How does he know about that?" She bit her lower lip. "That was the... in the Age Of Enlightenment, of course. Reason over passion. Bishop George Berkeley. That sort of thing. The Word of God began to pass over to the word of logic. Critique. "Now you in the audience can't smell this, of course, but this particular item has a scent. Cinnamon, in fact, I would have to say. Has this been in your family long?" "Maybe a hundred years," Nancy shrugged. "Any idea where they got it from?" Nancy and Kathy shook their heads in unison. "The lid is undamaged, which is good. And inside...well, isn't this interesting?" The host gingerly withdrew the hilt of the ancient weapon, pointing the etchings towards a female crewmember with a hand-held camera. "This is undoubtedly the original handle of the 'Pythonblade'." "What's that?" Nancy asked timidly. "The Pythonblade was a product of the Hospitaller forge in Nicosia. On Cyprus. It was a relic of the Eighteenth Degree of Euro-Anthropological Certainty. Only one degree away from the Nineteenth Degree." "Eighteen. Nineteen. That makes sense." Nancy shrugged again. "In and of itself," Gavin continued, "this is an artefact of interest to several prominent museums, most notably the Baltimore Museum Of Natural Philosophy. You'd get, I think, about $40,000 for this piece alone." Gavin paused. This was where the editors would later post a graphic with a tiny treasure chest and a row of text showing the name of the piece and the amount the owner could get for it. A jingle of falling coins always accompanied the graphic. "Well then, and what could this be?" the show host asked, retrieving the dusty 'Gospel of Saint Astarte'. "Some old book," Nancy replied. Gavin thumbed the leaves of the volume. His fingers sped over the words, as Kathy read his eyes. "He seems to know what it says," she thought. "How is it possible that someone from TV could know so much about dormant languages?" "Now this... this is truly something." Stubonski's voice deepened. "This is the key transitional document from the period... out of the Age of Faith... and into the Age of Reason. From the transliteration of Python into Typhon." "Transliterwhat?" Kathy gaped, forcing her voice into a squeak. "You have the Pythonblade, a Hospitaller reconstruction of the weapon Marduk used to kill Tiamat, and the Gospel of Ishtar. Ishtar was the Levantine goddess most closely associated with two things: the storms that batter the coasts of the Eastern Mediterranean, you remember the storms in the book of Jonah, and the storm that hit St. Paul's boat later; and the Star of Bethlehem. Ishtar, as the mother of Lucifer, which literally means 'The Bringer of Light'." "Too complicated for me," Nancy murmured. "How much's it worth?" "Probably a cool million," the host nodded smugly. Another pause. A long pause. Even the crew gasped audibly as the pronouncement was made. "But now we come to the greatest treasures of all," emoted the host, in a slow baritone that would have made Rod Serling shiver. "Your cloaks." "Our dresses you mean?" squeaked Nancy. "These old things?" Kathy looked at her Nancy's robe, which clearly had the appearance of a gorgeous, soft, low-cut gown. She gasped, in a tiny and unaffected female voice, when she looked down at her own dress. In the time since they had emerged from the forest, the clothes had changed. Kathy wiped a long blonde curl out of the way to see her own deep cleavage. Her breasts thrust outward against the rich fabric, their firmness and volume holding it in place in lieu of any straps. "Inestimably superb," Gavin said, emphatically winking at the researchers as the filming continued. "Those garments are the original 'Cloaks Of The Indus'. The blossom of feminine youth would be the envy of all. Every woman on the planet would want those dresses. And you two are lucky enough to own them." Nancy grinned nervously. "What about, say, a guy. What if a guy put it on?" "A guy?" Stubonski bellowed in laughter that crashed through the trees. "Why would a guy want to have enormous soft breasts, luxurious hair, terrific legs and big pouting lips?" "I could think of a couple reasons," Nancy answered, while Kathy's jaw dropped in alarm. The ambient forest light grew in measure as the film crew looked up, pointing, almost as one. Kathy grabbed Nancy by the hand and pulled her to the far edge of the awning. As they looked up, they saw the forest crown explode into a brilliant orange flame. Tiny pieces of wood cascaded, scorched, onto the damp ground. Everyone cried out, hurrying in several directions at once. The treetops appeared to be disintegrating, showering debris everywhere. Larger branches started to drop onto the ground, and each individual ran for whatever cover they could find. "What the fuck is happening?" Nancy cried shrilly. They peered out from beneath a large stump, the best hiding place they could find amid the growing torrent of burned and blazing wood. "I don't know!" exclaimed the professor, in a dainty soprano. "Wait. It's weird. There's all kinds of stuff falling all over there, out there, but nothing right straight around where we're hiding." Nancy doubted her partner. She looked around at where the camp was set up, and saw that the cascade had nearly destroyed it. The film crew, including Gavin, was nowhere in sight. Whirling around, she saw that the rain of broken timber continued throughout the area, except within a rough ten metre radius of Kathy and her. "Total fucking unbelievable weirdness," she asserted. "There's stuff falling all over but right here where we are. I don't get it." The researchers stood cautiously next to the stump, gazing upward. A thin radiant column extended from that spot up to an object in the sky. Within a few seconds, they discovered themselves rising, invisibly tethered to some long and sturdy rope, as the mayhem continued around them. "What's happening? We're... flying?" Kathy squealed. "That... thing up there. It's a fucking flying saucer," added her friend. "We're being abducted by aliens! Fuck!" Minutes later a door slid shut beneath their feet, obliterating the view of the shattered Tronckwald. Its proud trees, centuries old, had been reduced to kindling by the powerful weapons mounted in the hull of the spacecraft. Both researchers shivered in fear at the thought of meeting the inhuman monsters responsible for such an atrocity. "They're probably reptilian," mused Kathy, "because the dinosaurs were sort of like reptiles, and they'd have evolved into super-intelligent bipeds with gigantic gnashing teeth." "I don't think the dinosaurs actually were reptiles," corrected Nancy. "I'm pretty sure they were warm blooded." "Still, though, gigantic gnashing teeth." Kathy surveyed the interior of the ship. It was neither spacious nor cramped, appearing more like the interior of a cargo plane. "Do you hear that?" Nancy whispered. "It sounds like music. Faint, though, but it's over near those doors. Or that kind of aperture." Kathy looked over to the opening, just as a human-like being entered their chamber through the same space. It appeared to be a male human, with dark, tousled hair, and wearing a pair of black vinyl pants, tight, with a low waist. "Greetings earthlings," he said in understandable English. "You've gotta be kidding," Nancy snickered. "Greetings earthlings? Is this a spaceship? Or 'Forbidden Planet'?" "Silence, creature. I have taken this form so that I may be less threatening to you. In reality, I possess gigantic gnashing teeth, and a hideous countenance that would probably drive you insane. Both of you." Kathy gave Nancy the 'I-told-you-so' look. "My navigator shall be with us shortly, of course. I have chosen this form, that of Lux Interior, the lead singer of your earth band, 'The Cramps', in order to prove to you my largely honourable intentions since your abduction." "Largely honourable?" Nancy asked sceptically. "Follow me, young She-Males. I shall explain on the way to the Courtship Chamber." "She-Males?" cried Kathy. She grabbed at her crotch while the two meekly followed the incarnation of Lux Interior. To her surprise, she found that her penis was still intact. It was insensitive to her touch, though. "Courtship Chamber?" shouted Nancy. "Just what's that supposed to mean?" "You will find out without too much delay," answered the space monster. He turned a corner in the tight corridor and beckoned the abducted, transformed researchers to follow with a simple hook of his index finger. "This, my prizes, is the Courtship Chamber." Excepting a wide window peering out into the atmosphere, the room was a nearly perfect replica of the back of a 'boogie van'. Velvet cushions sprawled over plain mattresses; embossed leather padded the walls; tiny coloured lights sparkled in time to the music, which had grown audibly; the faint smell of liquor permeated the air. "Would each of you care for a drink?" offered the alien. "I'm sure it would... relax you." "Space whiskey? Astro-gin? The rum of Alpha Centauri?" Nancy giggled. "Sure. Why not?" The space traveller offered her a bottle with a twist-off cap. "It's Mujumba Spritzer. One for you too, dear?" Kathy was listening to the music. "I'm an alien fly, and I don't know why I go 'buzz-buzz-buzz', and it's just because..." "If you concentrate on that hard enough, Kathy, you'll make my head explode," grinned Lux, offering her a similar bottle of spritzer. The busty blonde she-male glared at him, eyes wide in comprehension. "'Scanners'. You know David Cronenberg?" "Know him? I've played him many times. Say, if you like Cronenberg, I'll ask my navigator to do him for the rest of the trip." "This spritzer is pretty good," offered Nancy. "What's in it?" "You don't want to know," said Lux. "Oh look, here's Mr. Cronenberg now. Do you have the ship on auto-pilot yet?" A plain-looking man, in comfortable trousers and a buttoned shirt, and wearing the trademark glasses of the famous director, appeared at the doorway. "Yes, um, Lux. The ship's going to do the slow cruise and then we'll do an escape orbit." "Listen, guys, this is great and everything," Nancy cooed, "but we aren't women, you know. I mean, there's plenty of women on earth to choose from and I'm sure many of them would gladly go with you to another planet. But we're really researchers at an..." "The MRPI," Lux interrupted. "We know all about that." "You do?" Nancy shifted on the mattress as Lux snaked his arm around her neck to play with one of her breasts. "Yes. We also had to discredit crypto-ethnology, because there was no way we could ever convince anyone, otherwise, to try on these dresses." "These are your dresses?" Kathy cried. She became aware that the Cronenberg doppelganger knelt behind her, undoing the invisible zipper of her gown. "What's the freaking connection? Crypto-ethnology and clothes that change you into some kind of hermaphrodite?" "Funny you oughtta mention that," Lux said. He lifted the hem of Nancy's dress so that it stretched over her waist. "Our world is not just a technologically superior one to yours. It's also gotten to the point where the female of the species may auto-reproduce. No need for us guys." He flicked one hand to indicate Cronenberg and himself. "We are prohibited from bringing women back from other planets, of course." The Cronenberg alien continued to undress Kathy. He kept his glasses on, while alternately nibbling on her large breasts and plunging his face fully between them. "Geez, this guy's really horny," Kathy grimaced, feeling his hands roving her body, and staring out the window in stunned amazement. "I hope he doesn't plan to go too far. I mean, I have a dick, you know." Lux had wrestled out of his low-cut pants. "It's prehensile. It can do a lot of things. See?" Nancy stared, shocked, at the snake-like genitals. Even as he spoke, it became slick, then dry, curved, then straight, thick, then slender. She looked, then, at her own cock, hanging limply between her legs. "You don't have to be shy, Nancy. Even though it can bite, it won't. Go ahead. Give it a good feel." Nancy shrugged and moved her hand, now delicate and smooth since the transformation, over the strange alien cock. As Lux smiled in approval, she leaned forward and let him fill her mouth with its versatility. "This will be a most enjoyable and successful voyage," he winked at Cronenberg. His navigator had Kathy naked, on her elbows and knees on the mattress, and mounted her from behind. "Lots more fun than our intervention in the American Civil War, Python," grunted the co-pilot, speaking for the first time. "Agreed, Typhon, agreed." Lux massaged Nancy's breasts while her mouth ran smoothly over his cock. Outside the window, clouds rushed past. As the two compliant researchers satisfied the sexual urges of the aliens, the occupants of the accelerating spacecraft scarcely felt a little bump. The sharp leading edge of the saucer sliced through the strings of a high-altitude balloon, sending its terrified occupant on an eight- kilometre plunge into the Atlantic Ocean. THE END