parent nodes: HarmlessFreeRadicals
The Fen Report Entry
This is part of HarmlessFreeRadicals, but I'm not sure how much of it is cannon. I suspect most of it is, and you can treat as such if you like.
2003.05.02
I've decided it's time to expand the project.
I was wondering how long it would take for the others to take note of what I've been doing. My comic is so haphazzard and slapdash that it's effects have been very subtle. Still, if you type my name into any search engine, you'll find me in rather short order. My brother, BoneJackdaw, loathes writing, but he has no shame either. It seems he will use what he must to acheive his goals, regardless of his own morals. He probably found me by using a library computer. My spies have spotted him in Poe's Point park. He's finally moving in to meddle in my affairs.
And so, I'm going to raise the stakes and start this journal. And in so doing impart a little more knowledge upon the world of our affairs. Harmless Free Radicals should remain what it is. It is on schedule and should still prove handy in its current form. I give it about a year and a half, then I will make it something new.
Well then, my dear readers, let me introduce you to who I am and what I'm really doing! I'm not really comfortable releasing so much information. I've hidden things for so long, simply to protect myself from the magic of the ChildrenOfAkailea, that old habits die hard. And I am still fearful of that great danger. The Children of Akailea are stronger than ever before! But changes are coming upon our world, and now you must know... something.
I call myself FenmereTheWorm. In reality, my true name translates roughly to "The Poet." I am a child of the GreatOne, and though I draw myself as a dragon in my comic, I can take any form I deem necissary or comfortable.
There still is so much I'm not going to explain, because it is important to the magics that I'm currently weaving. It would be like a stage magician telling you how one of his tricks works while he's performing it. I am not The Magician, and so I can't get away with doing that.
But what I can tell you is that there is a great war that has been brewing since nearly the beginning of time, and I have placed myself in the middle of it. Bone Jackdaw, who is The Story Teller, thinks he knows what I am doing. He is the trickiest of us all. I must be trickier.
Fortunately, his foe, JadeCrow, has not yet shown her face. She is too distracted, perhaps, by other things. She is The Leader. It would not do to have both The Leader and The Story Teller in Fairport. My carefully constructed bubble would crumble.
I'm so sorry, I'm being extremely hedgy here. It's hard to decide what to write. I think what I shall do is tell you what I learn from my spies. I'll put it down here for all the world to read. Obfuscation is the tool of my "foes" (I so hate to call my brothers and sisters "foes"), and so I fight it by revealing their actions to all, demon and sybling alike. I'll give you background knowledge as I go. I'm afraid, however, that I can't tell you what I'm doing. For that, you must continue to follow Harmless Free Radicals, the comic.
To conclude, currently Bone Jackdaw is some ways down the railroad tracks from the entrance to the park. He's sitting near a fire in a drum. He's talking to someone the seagulls call Mr. Bags. He's telling Mr. Bags about the exploits of my friends in Fairport. I think, just to give him a scare, I'll include this little bit in the comic. Now, I have not heard much more than that from my agents. When I do, I will let you know precisely what my most beloved brother is up to.
Until then, hold tight, drink your coffee, and read some poetry. I suggest Pablo Neruda. He was one of the best, and the world is sorely in need of him now.
Sincerely,
Fenmere, the Worm
2003.05.??
Dear friends,
I probably shouldn't start every entry with "dear friends" but since I'm writing this to my actual friends, I need to get it out at least once. Future entries will probably be more spare. More focused on getting down to the story unfolding around me.
I have news.
After some time (and time does fly funny here in Fairport) I have personally observed and collected information about Bone Jackdaw's whereabouts. And so, without further adieu, here begins the story of my brother's attempts to thwart my plans.
When we last left him, Jackdaw was sitting across a drum fire from one Mr. Bags, slyly revealing to Mr. Bags the story I'm telling in my comic. Jackdaw had a very clear purpose in doing this. He was revealing to Mr. Bags just how in the know, how powerful he truly is. He was trying to win Mr. Bags over. The interesting thing about this is that Mr. Bags only ever wants one thing. Hospitality.
Mr. Bags will give you anything for hospitality. Something to eat, something to drink, a warm place to sleep, that's all he really wants. He doesn't talk, he doesn't ask for anything. But if you give freely, he will do so in return. His bags are full of a great many things. In other countries some have called him Neville, the Grabbagger. But he is not a Child of the Great One. Nor is he an Outsider. I'm not even sure of his gender, to be truthful. He is so covered in bags, no one has ever seen even a patch of skin of him.
Jackdaw was just starting the story when Lloyd, my lead seagull, happened upon them.
"They have beats. They have up beats and down beats, an' it doesn't always matter what page yer on, if you know what I mean. Though sometimes it does. Which is why I never write any of my stories down. No pages." As he was saying this, Jackdaw was wearing this awful fur lined pink coat that was two sizes too small. I tell this only to make you laugh at him. But the sight did make his next few words seem heavier by contrast. He said, "An' the fun thing is that you can tell if you're an important character by what kind of beat you die on."
Mr. Bags simply said, "Mmmm.." which is all that you will ever hear from Mr. Bags.
"If you die on an up beat," continued The Storyteller, "then you're somebody important. An' if you die on a down beat, then you ain't nothin. But sometimes a storyteller will kill ya on a down beat, even if you're the main character! Then you know either the storyteller don't know what he's doing... Or the storyteller knows something you don't, and that's when you gotta listen hard!"
Mr. Bags did not say "Mmmm.." to that.
This did not throw Jackdaw off his stride, however, "Now, the story I'm going to tell you is one that's happening right now. And it's a story my brother, The Worm, is choosin' to write down..."
Just gives you the chills, doesn't it? It was this turn of phrase that made me decide to work him into my comic. He even gave me something I could use as a nice bit of foreshadowing. I love that. Anyway...
He proceeded to tell Mr. Bags everything I intended to write for "Burn! Burn! Retribution!" Right down to the smallest punch line. I'm not including all that here because I'm not done writing it. I haven't even worked out some of the jokes yet. In any case, it was very hard to tell if Mr. Bags was impressed. My guess is most likely not. If it's not food, drink, or comfort, it's not important to Mr. Bags. For the sake of the fire, Mr. Bags was giving Jackdaw his ear. When The Storyteller was done with it, Mr. Bags got up and moved on. That's right, he up and left.
My brother is usually a very shrewd fellow. When he perceives that he will not get an immediate answer to his proddings, he will usually sit back and work on something else while he waits for results. He has lived a long time, and his patience is legendary. But apparently Mr. Bags' lack of vocality really pissed him off. And just like Norton Jack, the puppy dog man, did with Ian Robertson, Jackdaw got up and followed Mr. Bags out of the park, hounding him the entire way.
"What you've got to understand," said Jackdaw, "is that these things haven't even happened yet, but they will! I know! I'm The Storyteller. It's my curse to know these things. And my brother, The Poet, is trying to take my job away from me! He's so stupid, he doesn't know what he's doing..."
And he went on and on like that as Lloyd followed them up through Southport, through Fairport Community College on northward to Wallace Park. It was a long trek pretty much across town, in the middle of the night, but there were people about. There's always some jogger, some college students walking home, or some poet or something walking around Fairport in the middle of the night. Fairportians seem to prefer bicycling at night, even, without lights! The people they encountered crossed to the other side of the street, or took a different route home, while looking over their shoulders at them with confusion, pity, and fear. Someone blamed Ronald Reagan, I know they did.
In any case, it is what happened in Wallace Park that is of note. But I'm going to save that for next entry, because I've got work to do. I hope this project is giving Jackdaw the chills as I write it, simply out of old fashioned sibling rivalry, but probably not. He's probably predicted it.
Until next issue, keep warm, drink your coffee, and try some Bukowski. He'll put you in the mood.
Sincerely,
Fenmere, the Worm
Poet of the Dragon People
2003.05.??
I really must apologize. As with my comic, it must seem to the rest of the world as if these FenReports are coming out at a snail's pace. You would probably find it difficult to believe that I am actually finishing and sending a number of them out in one night. Keep in mind a couple things. Firstly, in Fairport, often by the time a full hour passes by, it has been a month or more for the rest of the world. You'll just have to have faith that this is terribly true, and that it actually serves my purposes nicely. Also, I do have to proceed with some care, as I explained earlier, to make sure I do not undo what I have so carefully done. The forces that I am meddling with here are fickle at best, and usually so ephemeral as to rival the delicacy of orbital physics.
Man, I love analogies like that. I'll come back to orbital physics someday, and you'll think of that paragraph and go, "man! Fenmere is the Man!" But I'm not, I'm The Poet.
Okay... Look back at the last entry for a minute. Now.
When I said that it was what happened in Wallace Park that was of note, it was because Wallace Park is one of those Special Places. A Magic Place, as my friend Jenifer calls them. Fairport is riddled with Magic Places. And as Mr. Bags was leading Bone Jackdaw accross Fairport, he somehow instinctively avoided all the Magic Places between Poe's Point and Wallace Park.
This is not an easy task, by the way. Magic Places attract people. When someone is walking from point A to point B, if there is a Magic Place in between, chances are that they will pass through it. People like Magic Places. For some reason or other, people do not usually like to stay in Magic Places for very long. If they hang about, it is usually for just long enough to enjoy the beauty, the spookiness, and to soak up their fill of magic (although they do not know this is exactly what they are doing). So, if you find a Magic Place, and there are people there, if you hang out just a little longer, they will usually go away. And then you can do things.
Wallace Park is a Magic Place with Magic Places in it. The only park in town to rival it is Waterfall Park, which is just huge and on the edge of town in the East hills.
For some reason only descernable to himself, Mr. Bags made a crazy dancing bee line for Wallace Park. And there he stayed, wondering about, perpetually walking away from Bone Jackdaw. All the while, Bone Jackdaw was yabbering at him about me and my new comic and how the world is going to come to an end. I hate people who talk about the end of the world. Like it's a salvation, or something. People who do so are usually too preoccupied with their own troubles to enjoy the wind and the rain. And from what my spy, Lloyd, told me, Jackdaw was getting on Mr. Bags' nerves, too. But I cannot emphasize more that the motives of Mr. Bags are mere speculation, more hidden than quantum physics.
See? Another cool and not totally meaningless analogy! OK, I'll stop with these for the minute. You've been bombarded by annoying technical details and tantelizing tidbits and excruciating extemporating, and I'm sure you want to know just what happened.
When they reached Wallace Park and began to wander about within it's boarders, never leaving, Lloyd left them there, his seagull ears ringing with Jackdaw's perpetual ranting. He took The Shortcut to appear in my woods in a matter of seconds. I was busy scanning the panels for May's comics into my computer when a cacophony of seagull talk washed over me, bathing me in a high pitched nasel rendition of my brother's transgressions. Soothing poor Lloyd with a gruff bark, I started the tape recorder and told him to give his report. I'd pick up personally where he'd left off. Lloyd gave me an irritated look. A put-upon seagull is a pathetic thing. I tend to ignore them on principal. He gets his bagels.
I left Lloyd in my studio to struggle with the stop button, and took The Shortcut back to Wallace Park. The Shortcut is another term that my friend Jenifer made up. It means the method by which one goes from one Magic Place to another without passing through the space in between. I can't really explain it better than that.
I knew I was taking a big risk coming so close to my brother, but he was in my territory now, and he begged my attention. So, when I arrived at Wallace Park, I did so in the form of something he'd never expect of me. I became a person. I hate being a person. Humanity is the ugliest, most obnoxious form on the planet. I don't know how you people can stand it. But each to his own. If it weren't for you, there'd be no one to truly appreciate my foul attempts at poetry.
I instantly regretted my choice, however. For despite the ingenious quality of my disguise, Jackdaw would never guess it was me, there were serious drawbacks. A person is a conspicuous thing. When you see a person walking along, you invarioubly think to yourself, "I'm going to have to decide whether or not to interact with this." People are also big, and difficult to hide, and thus easy to spot when they are following you. Hanging around Jackdaw to overhear what he had to say wasn't going to be easy. But this is all about the regrets. The "instantly" part comes in when I walked around from behind a tree and right into the path of a hurried and harried Mr. Bags. Mr. Bags has terrible eyesight. His paripheral vision is nonexistant. We went down.
"Fenmere," said Jackdaw, "What took you so long?"
You didn't actually think my hastily constructed plan to spy on my brother was really going to work, did you? I sure didn't.
As Mr. Bags stood up and gave Jackdaw a baleful turn of his hooded head, I propped myself up on my elbows and said, "how did you know it was me?"
"Do not be silly," admonished The Storyteller, dismissing Mr. Bags who waved, picked up his bags and walked off.
"OK," I said, taking Jackdaw's outstreched hand to stand up.
"Good," he said, "then I can expect you to stop producing that damned thing you call a comic, too. It is a blight on my Art."
"I'm afraid not," I figured being more vocal than that would only give him satisfaction, and something to work with.
"Well, it's not in my power to force you to stop. And I have no idea what you intend to accomplish with it, or even by hiding yourself away in this... this... fantastical yuppy haven!" He gestured at the city beyond the trees of the park, "but do you realize the damage you are doing by exposing us to the Children of Akailea, as you are?!"
"Jackdaw," I said, "I'm not going to argue with you."
"Fine!" he said, "Fine!"
"Instead, I am going to go back to my studio, to enter which you are not welcome, and I am going to continue to spy on you. You may know everything that has ever happened, but while you are in Fairport you are mine. I will know everything that you do."
"I know" he said.
"Good," I said, then turned and walked around the tree, leaving him there to fume. When I sat back down in my chair, I was too shaken to care that Lloyd had left the tape recorder on, tape flapping against the recording box. I felt really bad. I still do. Nearly everything had fallen appart in that one encounter, and I can't even tell you precisely what I'd almost lost! Sometimes magic is a frustrating thing.
But now you know a little bit more about Bone Jackdaw, and a little bit more about the world I live in and work with, and maybe, just maybe you are starting to believe... in something. And that is all that I need for now.
So, until next entry, have something, anything hot to drink. And go check out Poetry Night at Hugh's Underground. The kids there are really good.
Sincerely,
Fenmere, the Worm
Poet of the Dragon People
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