Reality Fix: Lucifer's Crown
By tantan
Copyright 2012 tantan
A Lovelorn Shepherd
On a fine April evening, a few centuries in the past of another reality very similar to ours, Mary was nursing her little lamb, gazing at the sky and thinking of the dull monotony of her life. Everyday it was the same old thing, go to school, go back home. The only good parts of it were when she sat on the rocks all by herself, watching the sunset and thinking of whatever took her fancy. She thought about all kinds of things, but mostly about philosophy. Her school teacher hadn’t even heard about Nietzsche. She thirsted for conversation with someone who shared her tastes. She longed to run away and go to France, and meet some existentialists. Mary sighed. She knew that she couldn’t just leave her family like that. Oh, she thought forlornly, I wish there was some way I could get away from all this... And then she disappeared.
Peter, a shepherd boy, the offspring of at least five continuous generations of Peters, had just celebrated his 14th birthday with Sheepy1, Sheepy 2 and Ypeehs (an attempt at creativity on Peter’s part). Peter was a nondescript looking boy with brown hair and an acne ridden face. Like all other boys, he revelled in gore and destruction. Until now that is... Peter had just had grand revelation, and was now immersed in this new reality this epiphany had granted him.
[Note: 'The Complete Idiot's Guide to Naming your Son' says that 'If he's going to herd her, breed her, fleece her and eat her then call him Peter. If aforementioned 'her' does not relate to sheep(or other livestock) in any way then don't call him anything, because he's probably going to be given numbers for a name soon enough.]
Peter had just realised (conforming to the grand tradition of broken voiced adolescents all around the world) that females were not actually plague carrying abominations of Beelzebub, but actually rather attractive creatures. He was anxious to make the acquaintance of some beautiful dark eyed damsel. It was a fine spring morning and everything around Peter was setting the mood for a romantic tryst. The smells of the open glen, the chirping of the birds, the colours of the flowers, the fine spring breeze, and the dewy green grass, all encouraged Peter to set off in search of a female, preferably someone near his own age, to charm the socks off of her.
Peter, who had been oblivious to the female race for the last three or four years, thought fondly back of the times he used to play hopscotch and follow the leader with Farmer Philip’s daughters- Mary and Elizabeth. Mary, he thought. That’s the girl for me. Mary had been the least infuriating girl he had ever met. There had been instant camaraderie between the two when they were younger. She had hardly ever cried, and disliked playing with dolls just as much as Peter did, during those formative years. However, as they aged, their friendship had fallen apart. Peter, typical of any boy, distanced himself from any of the girls he had previously known, paying only slightly more attention to his mother than he did to any other female. This had all changed a minute ago.
As evening winked out, Peter saw Mary with a lamb whose fleece was as white as snow. She was sitting high up on a boulder, surrounded by the dark night time shades of the green countryside with the lamb on her lap. The aromatic smell of the countryside, coupled with Peter’s newfound vision of the female sex, made him lose his head. After blinking to make sure she was real, he climbed the rocks to get a better view. He could not let a vision of such loveliness escape him, but how? Perhaps talking might help. The local priest had taught Peter and a few other shepherd boys, English literature, some basic science and other useless bits of knowledge that would never make a bit of difference to their lives. The priest seemed to think that sheep herding was a noble and holy profession, needing every bit of knowledge available to be carried out properly. Peter had been one of the best students the priest had ever had. He had even continued herding sheep after receiving his quite thorough education in the arts and sciences. Peter had no ambition. He was perfectly content herding sheep for the rest of his life. A life of simple pleasures was all he had ever known and cared for. The pleasures of regular meals, a place to lay his head during the night and simple work that didn’t require too much mental labour.
Peter looked at Mary and prayed to the great Bard’s soul for assistance with what was now the love of his life. He suddenly felt different. The grass looked greener. The name ‘Billy’ now fit him much better than ‘Peter’ ever could have. He practiced a few lines.
“Oh Beautiful Creature
Goddess of all that I see
This offering of mine- a pitcher,
Can never be worthy of Thee"
He approached her, his palms sweating, with a glass of water. “O Bootifull Keecha” he croaked. His eyes closed of their own accord in sheer embarrassment. His legs melted, his brain stopped working and his heart felt like it would burst from exhaustion. He opened one eye and then the other to find some means of escape. All he found was a very disgruntled lamb.
“I wasn’t as bad as that, was I?” he asked the lamb, and then looked all around for Mary. It was no use. She had disappeared to God knows where. The lamb maa’d at him in disdain and fell asleep.
Peter looked everywhere he could for Mary. He searched and searched till there wasn’t any light left. No luck, he thought. She couldn't have just disappeared like that…unless…Witches!!!! He scanned the skies worriedly, looking for any signs of flying broomsticks. He quickly scooped up Mary’s little lamb and ran into the village, his sheep following him. He ran into the tavern looking for help.
“Witches,” he cried. Mary...gone...lamb...witches…Crivens!”
“Ho lad! Calm yae down” cried a big hefty middle aged man whose beard became a thing of fascination to the snowy white lamb.
“Have a bit of God’s own nectar, lad” cried another red faced man, “and then tell us yer tale.”
“All right,” said Peter, and downed a tankard of ale in a single gulp. Peter finished tankard after tankard of ale as the rest watched in awed fascination, one not being enough to still the boy's nerves. Besides, he kind of liked it. Peter swayed a little, and clumsily climbed onto a table.
“So here’s me tale,” he said, smiling happily at the rest of the tavern’s patrons, and passed out, falling off the table.
The Psychic
In another country not so far away and not too soon afterwards, Madame Bovine was preparing for her séance party. Her massive form was bedecked in amulets, talismans and bracelets. A little blonde girl in a purple shawl who must have been around twenty entered the room in a rush.
“Ma, I’ve got the candles. Those scented ones you like so much” she said.
“And the food?” asked Mme. Bovine.
“Some sandwiches and pastries from that bakery down the street.
“Good. Oh! There goes the bell. That must be Mrs. Appleseed, Lady Saint Lanternberger, and the rest of them. Be a dear and prepare the séance room, Anne.”
Mme. Bovine’s massive form exited the room at a pace that still astounded the floorboards even though they should have been used to it by now. They even forgot to creak and groan in their surprise.
Anne placed some lit candles around a chalk-drawn pentacle on the table and closed all the windows. Anne’s thoughts revolved around the gullibility of people, as they usually did before a big séance party. Anne could actually channel ghosts, real ghosts. But she couldn't channel their voices along with them. A full audio-visual experience was necessary for Mme. Bovine’s séances. The audio problem was solved through Mme. Bovine’s amazing use of ventriloquism, a talent she developed when she was six years old, when playing pranks on the nuns in her school was her highest form of pleasure.
A person believes whatever she wants to, Anne reflected. I m
ay be an authentic medium, but it’s my ordinary mother who sells it. She gives the mute spirits their voices and thus, meaning as well. It’s because of her that people leave satisfied and come back for more. Satisfied with lies! Satisfied with this pseudo forgiveness from their dead loved ones, Anne sighed as she placed the food on the dining table. People were too easily contented with lies.
Today’s séance however, would have no need for Mme. Bovine’s ability of throwing voices. Instead, it would leave her speechless for a week. A little ethereal girl called Mary would soon appear before them, and she would have a voice!
-----
“Great aunt Doris, is that you?” asked one of the middle aged women squinting her eyes at the channelled spirit. “She always used to mumble. Could never understand a word she said. It’s a pity. She died trying to tell us her heart was burning, but we thought she was saying that Bart was charming.”
“Bartholomew Fanshawe?” asked one of the other ladies. “Oh, but he’s a veritable rogue, graced with the looks of Adonis”
“Great aunt? How old do I look to you?” asked Mary in a loud ethereal voice, the ozone that surrounded her ghostly form breaking down into oxygen as her frustration grew. “My name is Mary. Who is Lady Saint Lanternberger?”
“I am” said another middle