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Authors: William Meikle
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falls. There is a spot in the South Seas where a dead god lies dreaming.
We will find him, and join him there.
From the journal of Father Fernando. 25th August 1535
I wish now that I had read Santoro’s journal a mere hour sooner, for them I might have been able to prevent the Santa Angelo slipping out of port under cover of night, and I might have been able to question the crew as to the nature of the malady that so sore afflicted them.
For I too have been dreaming.
I am not alone. We float, mere shadows, scores... nay, tens of scores of us, in a cold silent sea. I am aware that others are near to me, but I have no thought for aught but the rhythm, the dance. Far below me, cyclopean ruins shine dimly in a luminescent haze. Columns and rock faces tumble in a non-Euclidean geometry that confuses the eye and brooks no close inspection.
And something deep in those ruins knows I am there.
But it is of no matter. The beast is now in my thrall, and its secrets shall be mine before the day is out. They will have to be, for I fear I have been lax in my inquisitions. Even as I have been burning my will into the beast’s flesh, so it has been leaving its mark on me. This morning at my ablutions I discovered a fleck of blackness betwixt thumb and finger that no amount of scraping will shift. It has now covered most of my left hand, forcing me to wear a glove lest it is discovered. For if the Inquisitor General were to find out I am tainted , my questioning would be brought to an abrupt end, and that I cannot allow.
The beast will reveal its secrets.
I will begin again as soon as the irons are hot.
By order of the Inquisitor General, 28th August 1535
It is our command that on this day of our Lord the twenty and eighth of August that such parts of Father Juan Fernando that can be safely transported shall be taken to the place of the a uto-de-fe and burned at the stake alongside the blasphemy which has afflicted him with its heresy.
It is further commanded that if the Santa Angelo is found in Spanish waters it should be set aflame and sunk with all hands and that no man is to touch any part of it under pain of himself being subjected to ordeal by fire.
Any persons found spreading the sedition of the Dreaming God shall be subjected to the full force of the Inquisition .
Let this be the end of the matter.
The Lord wills it.
THE SCOTSMAN’S FIDDLE
The Scotsman came over the pass in the Spring of ‘89, our first visitor after the hardest winter on record. Tommy Jeffries saw him first, when he had just crossed the Eastbrig over the Powell. By the time the wagon started on the last slope up to the eastern reaches I, along with most of the town, had come out to watch his progress up the valley, wondering about the occupants. Talk ranged from a new family out of Boston, to dynamite for the new mine-workings, to the Haberdasher that many of the women of town had long looked for.
When he pulled into what passed for our main street, he proved to be both more, and less than had been hoped for. A tall stocky man with a full black beard and hair flowing in a swathe over his shoulders stood up at the reins. He started his spiel as soon as he brought his wagon to a halt, his thick accent immediately apparent.
“Duncan Campbell is my name,” he said. “And I am here to fix what ails you.”
By now almost everyone from the town who wasn’t down the mine had gathered to hear him. The scenes painted on his wagon told us more—the town had its first ever Travelling Show, all the way from Scotland. There were pictures of rivers and valleys; painted warriors running through heather and tall stone castles on rocky shores. He saw us looking.
“Behold,” he said, his voice booming. “The same rocks you have here underfoot have travelled through the very earth all the way from the homeland. In aeons past we all came from the same place. Indeed, many of you here have even more recent
We will find him, and join him there.
From the journal of Father Fernando. 25th August 1535
I wish now that I had read Santoro’s journal a mere hour sooner, for them I might have been able to prevent the Santa Angelo slipping out of port under cover of night, and I might have been able to question the crew as to the nature of the malady that so sore afflicted them.
For I too have been dreaming.
I am not alone. We float, mere shadows, scores... nay, tens of scores of us, in a cold silent sea. I am aware that others are near to me, but I have no thought for aught but the rhythm, the dance. Far below me, cyclopean ruins shine dimly in a luminescent haze. Columns and rock faces tumble in a non-Euclidean geometry that confuses the eye and brooks no close inspection.
And something deep in those ruins knows I am there.
But it is of no matter. The beast is now in my thrall, and its secrets shall be mine before the day is out. They will have to be, for I fear I have been lax in my inquisitions. Even as I have been burning my will into the beast’s flesh, so it has been leaving its mark on me. This morning at my ablutions I discovered a fleck of blackness betwixt thumb and finger that no amount of scraping will shift. It has now covered most of my left hand, forcing me to wear a glove lest it is discovered. For if the Inquisitor General were to find out I am tainted , my questioning would be brought to an abrupt end, and that I cannot allow.
The beast will reveal its secrets.
I will begin again as soon as the irons are hot.
By order of the Inquisitor General, 28th August 1535
It is our command that on this day of our Lord the twenty and eighth of August that such parts of Father Juan Fernando that can be safely transported shall be taken to the place of the a uto-de-fe and burned at the stake alongside the blasphemy which has afflicted him with its heresy.
It is further commanded that if the Santa Angelo is found in Spanish waters it should be set aflame and sunk with all hands and that no man is to touch any part of it under pain of himself being subjected to ordeal by fire.
Any persons found spreading the sedition of the Dreaming God shall be subjected to the full force of the Inquisition .
Let this be the end of the matter.
The Lord wills it.
THE SCOTSMAN’S FIDDLE
The Scotsman came over the pass in the Spring of ‘89, our first visitor after the hardest winter on record. Tommy Jeffries saw him first, when he had just crossed the Eastbrig over the Powell. By the time the wagon started on the last slope up to the eastern reaches I, along with most of the town, had come out to watch his progress up the valley, wondering about the occupants. Talk ranged from a new family out of Boston, to dynamite for the new mine-workings, to the Haberdasher that many of the women of town had long looked for.
When he pulled into what passed for our main street, he proved to be both more, and less than had been hoped for. A tall stocky man with a full black beard and hair flowing in a swathe over his shoulders stood up at the reins. He started his spiel as soon as he brought his wagon to a halt, his thick accent immediately apparent.
“Duncan Campbell is my name,” he said. “And I am here to fix what ails you.”
By now almost everyone from the town who wasn’t down the mine had gathered to hear him. The scenes painted on his wagon told us more—the town had its first ever Travelling Show, all the way from Scotland. There were pictures of rivers and valleys; painted warriors running through heather and tall stone castles on rocky shores. He saw us looking.
“Behold,” he said, his voice booming. “The same rocks you have here underfoot have travelled through the very earth all the way from the homeland. In aeons past we all came from the same place. Indeed, many of you here have even more recent
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