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*NOTE: this story, re-titled The Clients of Caralios, has now been extensively re-written and
re-arranged with the help of Matthew Hughes, and is currently up on Infinity
Plus magazine. Please see Links.
Storm in a Follicle
Mankind's golden
age has turned to dotage. It is many millennia past the commencement of his galaxy-wide
diffusion, many centuries after his last inter-galactic travel attempt, many
decades beyond his most recent interstellar communication. No longer does he
desire the purest logics, lust for Ultimate Knowledges, concern himself with
the friendship and respect of the wisest of other beings of acumen. He has
achieved much, but he no longer recalls his achievements. Across the entire
galaxy rot the miraculous creations of his youth and middle age, now untended
and forgotten in his senility.
The
terre-verte and tiny planet Vance, situated towards the tip of Arm One of the
galaxy (a galaxy presumptuously titled Prime in the heady centuries when man
believed himself on the verge of gaining neighbouring star-sprawls), was an
obvious representative of this senility.
Vance
ellipsed, without irregularity, the cinder-hued hulk of an un-named and
decrepit red giant. It was not borne of the ancient star, it was a forced
adoptee — once, two thousand years ago, it had orbited a younger,
yellower sun three thousand light years distant. This sun, its binary sister,
and the cold void between them, had then been the field over which the final
battle of a war —awesome in magnitude, length, and destructive
power— was fought. A chance surge of ungovernable energies released
during the battle created a wild galactic warp, a spatial twist, down which
Vance was sucked, and out of which it was spat
— in to
the gravitational fields of the red giant.
Before
its dislocation, Vance was used as an autonomous factory planet, constructing
various intelligences, matter/energy transformers, void renders, and other
devices. After, the factories, severed from the battle they were meant to
supply, slept, awaiting rediscovery and further employment.
Neither
occurred for centuries due to mankind's rapid stagnation after the war. Slowly,
inhibitive circuits decayed (though yet preventing full awareness), allowing
factory and product alike to create fantastic, reasonless follies and perform
other mad actions in their dreamy slumber.
It
was during this time that an ancient, loyal, but disorientated and dying
generation starship, intercepted Vance's distress signals, homed in on the
planet, and with its last gasps of life adjusted the globe's atmosphere and
orbit to fit the requirements of its charges; who were then gratefully
liberated there.
Vance's
new populace prospered: generation after generation living out relatively
luxurious lives amongst the progressively more restless machines; even,
occasionally, interacting with them...
Excerpt from the
High Barber of Vance Amleck Throdogin's Trichology at the Master's Level
(Chapter Fourteen, "Lessons Worth Learning").
The affairs you
are about to read of, student, occurred a fair number of decades ago when I was
a journeyman employed by the good Master Barber Arxilly —long dead now,
alas— in the town Polt on the east side of Iron Valley. Though they are
highly singular events of some interest, I hope you will not read of them as a
momentary diversion from your studies — nothing incorporated in this work
is so intended. Rather consider them a caution to the prideful barber (indeed,
come to think of it, to the prideful generally).
So,
then:
I
was woken, just before dawn as usual, by the eerie ululation of distant Bowl
Tower as it worked up to sunrise (distant only then, for now, resident in the
Master's Academy as I of course am, I live within sight of its verdant curve
and sleep with bunged ears). For a while I listened to the Tower's rising howl,
wondering, as I often have, if it had a purpose, if it were not purely another
result of our planet's artificial residents' unconscious. When it reached a
recognized note I rose from my mattress and began to dress, shivering and
gazing through my window as I did so.
Being
one of my master's more accomplished barbers, I was housed in a private cell on
the penultimate floor of his salon —then a five-floored, three-faced
pyramid, now, I am reliably informed, an uninhabitable quarter-mile high fluted
cylinder— on the Iron Valley's lip, and so usually enjoyed excellent
views of its farther wall.
Most
of the mounds, cuboids, fans, jetties, spires, arches, pipes, discs, and the
myriad other unclassifiable formations of the valley, were as they had been for
months before, but not all (these details I recall as even the most trivial
matters become memorable when they directly proceed extraordinary events). A
huge rust-pitted globe that had been pulsing dim saffron and revolving high
atop its wand-thin pedestal for three months, now gushed thick black fog into the
valley's unseen depths. An eye of glowing crimson winked at me as it wept
swarms of silver mites that darted purposelessly in all directions
("mites" that, without the effects of perspective, would doubtless have been
near fifteen feet across). Swelling out from the side of a large cube-like
structure was a copper blister that continually dimpled and sagged as if sucked
from within. A slender column of indigo, arisen from the valley floor, swayed
beneath a bubbling warp, and, as I watched, swiftly telescoped upward,
momentarily blazed sapphire, retracted, and resumed its oscillation. Skewered
at its tip was a soft thing which resembled nothing so much as a greatly
oversized and mottled human tongue. Gradually, the kebabed entity slipped down
the vibrating shaft out of sight.
I
donned my leather slippers and threw my apron over my shoulder (it being one of
Master Arxilly's many idiosyncrasies that we never wore them at meals:
"Your pinafore is two things, and two things only. It is a protective
garment that enables your client's trichomic contaminators —the greasy
cuttings, the various lices and fluffs— to fall and be swept briskly
away, rather than allowing them to cling in simian parody to your jerkins; and
it is a uniform by which our trade is recognized. It is not a bib
on which to spill salted
porridge."). As I did so,
I
left for the kitchens.
Now it is time,
student, to enlighten you concerning a certain incident relevant to, but
preceding this tale.
Two
and a half years earlier, Master Arxilly employed an apprentice by the name
Caralios Maraloxodin. To say Caralios had originality would be understating
fact, but it was uncontrolled and talentless. His creations on the practice
crowns exhibited —simultaneously— a dozen hues and styles. As an
example, he often combined dreadlocks, crimps, frizettes, with amaranths,
ultramarines, and celadons
—
achieving designs of astonishing flagrancy. "Must you be constantly
reminded, boy?" Master Arxilly once asked him, "This is a barber's,
not a coiffeur's. Here we cut, to request, the hair of men. Men whose credibility would be, shall we say, undermined if they
sported a flamboyance of yours. Do not think me ultraconservative, boy, I am
conscious of modes, and know fashion's feet to be shod in
But
Caralios did not listen. His hair-styles became ever more bizarre. Then, one morning
before the first client's arrival, my master, voice suitably formal, said,
"Caralios Maraloxodin, I release you from your apprenticeship."
Maraloxodin
was incredulous. "Release me? But you canno... Why?"
"You
will not be taught, boy, and I can offer nothing to those refusing to listen.
Our acquaintanceship serves no purpose, therefore you are released. Clear your
bunk and be gone within the hour. I have another waiting to take your
place."
Caralios's
manner became urgent. "But no-one else will employ me! I am sixteen
— beyond the age of acceptance! Yours is the foremost Barber's on the
"What
you say is true. I thank you for your commendations, I like to think the same.
You never had talent, boy — only excess. Where you live is not my
concern; I run a business, I must be brutal. Now go."
The
sudden twist in Caralios's features, the glint of hate and pride commingled in
his eyes, is yet lucid in my memory. Voice almost at a whisper, he said,
"I will go, Master Arxilly, but you will see more of me. Free of your
smothering criteria my brilliance will attain lofty heights, and soon Polt,
nay, Vance, will know my name, wear
my creations upon its heads. And you — you will become nothing trying to
compete!"
With
that he spat, and strode from the Pyramid.
To
my admiration, Master Arxilly batted not an eyelid at Caralios's words or
actions. He simply turned to me to say, "Show the new boy to his quarters,
Throdogin. And have his name written over that of Maraloxodin's in the
registers."
Nothing more was
heard of the vain and foolish Caralios until the day commencing this
recounting.
A
day that began almost as any other I spent in Master Arxilly's employ —
the regular clients, the irregular, the new; the whisper-snip of shears, the
squeak of chairs revolved; the aroma of lathers, gels; the polite enquiry as to
a client's friends or relations, the polite laugh at his humorous tale, the
polite stating of a completed cut's cost.
But
something was not quite correct. An obscure regularity was missing, and it was
not until afternoon, as I awaited my next customer and idly watched a novice of
about seven years sweep cuttings, that I realised what the lack was.
"Boy,"
I said to the sweeper (being, as I have said, one of my master's more favoured,
I often
—foolishly,
I suppose— aped him), "Why have I not heard the incinerator
today?"
The
sweeper —whose name, I embarrassedly admit, I forget— became
sheepish. "I have not been burning the hair, Journeyman Throdogin. I have
not burned it for three months."
This
was probably true (later events proved it so), although I only noticed the
deficiency that day I could not preclude its earlier existence.
"Indeed?"
I raised an eyebrow in classic quizzicality, "You intrigue. What, then,
have you been doing with it?"
He
looked at his feet, the nervous toes of which constantly raised and lowered
within their slippers. He did not reply.
"Come,
boy. What have you been doing with the cuttings? And when you answer, remember
you address me and not the floor."
He
raised his head, but still did not look me in the eye. Very quietly, he said,
"I have been selling them, Journeyman Throdogin."
I
laughed. "Selling? But who would want to buy them? Does your buyer
manufacture wigs? If so he will find little custom on Vance — transplants
and hair-growth pastes long ago abolished the need for the toupee, the peruke,
even the merkin and postiche. So tell me the truth, boy. Less of these
fancies."
"I
do tell the truth, Journeyman Throdogin. I do not know why the hair is
required, but I am paid well for it."
I
asked the price. It was high considering the goods in question.
"You
will cease this business immediately, boy. Why you even began it I do not
understand
— does not
our master provide for all your needs? He gives you a chance to learn a
respected trade, feeds you, gives you a roof above your head. You should want
for nothing."
Of
course, I knew the boy wanted — a novice's life is admittedly frugal.
With the money he would purchase sweet things to secretly supplement the
kitchen's rather basic menu, or toys and other pastimes to delight him in the
periods between lessons spent by the more conscientious in reading trichomic
literature; but I could hardly say this, albeit I once felt similar cravings
(note, student, that though your High Barber was possessed of these yearnings,
he never submitted to them).
But
who would want to buy cut hair?
The
boy did not know the purchaser's name, but the description was vaguely
familiar.
"Where
and when is the next transaction to take place?" I asked.
"This
afternoon at the usual location — his home, out beyond Ambiguity
Close."
"I
will accompany you when you inform him of the stoppage."
The
apprentice seemed confused, and then a little put out. "I assure you,
Journeyman Throdogin, I will do as you have told me."
"And
I assure you, boy, that I do not doubt you. Still, we will go together. Now
re-light the incinerator and continue your work. And work well, boy, lest
Master Arxilly learn of your misdemeanour."
As the deep red
light of afternoon purpled towards evening, I and the apprentice approached the
buyer's home.
The
building was hardly one of the valley's handsomer constructions: a cuboid
amalgamation of verdigris-green bronze, oxidised iron, and cracked crystal. It
sat on the very edge of Polt, beyond was nothing but orchards and vegetable
fields until, just before the horizon, more of Vance's complex metal overcoat
reared skyward. Only the shameless and penniless would choose this as their
demesne.
When
we reached the foil drape hung across the building's only entrance, it was
snatched aside.
There
stood Caralios Maraloxodin, much altered from my last sight of him. His skin
was no longer the white of a cloistered barber, but the tan of a field worker,
and his head had been completely depilated (then a fashion only journeymen and
masters exhibited to mark their attainment). His eyes, still possessing their
mixed hauteur and detestation, were now complicated even further by an aspect
of feverish glee.
"You
are late, ———," he said, "Where is my hair, and who
is this?"
"You
do not recognize me then, Caralios Maraloxodin," I asked before the tyro
could answer.
Caralios
took a step towards me, and, as he realized my identity, I witnessed the
emotions in his eyes intensify.
"Ah.
Journeyman Amleck Throdogin, Master Arxilly's foremost employee. Possessed of a
certain talent in the conformities, but no artistry whatsoever. Still,
orthodoxy Master Arxilly prizes above all else. I assume you have come inform
me that my hairy harvest has been cut off? And you wish, I suppose, to know my
reason for beginning it?"
"To
the first, yes," I replied, "You will no longer receive cuttings from
the Pyramid. As to the second: your tastes and temperament have always been
beyond all. I can only guess that you intend to utilise the hair for some
strange, possibly sexual, perversion."
I
was being rather rude, but then, so was he — and he began the trend.
Caralios's vanity was unbelievable. Could you, student, be civil to one so
egotistical?
Anger
flushed his face red. "I will remember your words, Throdogin, when you are
begging me for employment after the closure of Arxilly's salon. And do not
think your embargo affects me — this was the very day I planned to cease
the trade myself, having all the locks I need from the Pyramid. Now go, I have
much work to do."
"Before
I leave you to your kinks, Caralios, I must congratulate you on becoming
Journeyman, perhaps even Master, if this is to be your salon. Under whose
tutelage did you qualify?"
His
tone was as ice. "None would accept me. Those proles would not recognize
brilliance if it poked them nasally! But I know my ability, my talent! I am
more than worthy of the bald pate!" His voice rose, quite startling the
wide-eyed boy at my side. "You will see, Throdogin! People will flock here
in droves for the bestowal of my creations on their abject skulls!
Droves!"
With
that he swung about, entered the cuboid, and slid the foil back into place with
a furious tug.
I,
and the apprentice, returned to the Pyramid.
That night,
after supper, I went to Master
Arxilly's study to inform him of the day's events.
"Do
you think ———'s deeds warrant a word from me?" he asked.
"No,
he is properly sorry for what he has done, and has, I think, learned a lesson.
But what of Caralios? Surely his actions are strange?"
"They
are strange indeed, Throdogin. But then, so is their actor. Our Caralios seems
to me to be modelling himself upon Galaxy Prime's ancient artists — the
poets and musicians, painters and sculptors. A common trait among the best of
whom —the geniuses— was the impression that they alone were party
to certain grand truths no other could comprehend. A mental singularity often
resulting in insanity, or at least regarded as such. Caralios, knowing this,
and thinking himself a barber of genius, therefore affects madness to emphasize
and fortify the notion."
I
thought for a minute. "So this obsession with cuttings is but a facet of
his feigned aberration? A part of his need to show his flair by plagiarising
true adepts' temperaments?"
"Just
so. And there is another thing: the 'need' is subconscious — he honestly
and truly believes himself a genius. When his predictions do not become events,
he will simply consider his targets to be ignoramuses, undeserving of his
intellect, and go elsewhere. Gaining the same response at every stop, he will
doubtless conclude that he is ahead of his time, and live out the rest of his
life steeped in bitterness and contempt for his fellow Vancians. It is sad, I
suppose."
We
both sat silently for a while, listening to an inconstant grinding from
somewhere deep in
An
idea struck me. "Another consideration, Master: did not the true
virtuoso's insanity often lead to suicide?"
He
smiled slightly. "Yes, often. But do not for one moment believe Caralios's
affectations would ever reach that depth. You forget that the driving force
behind all his posturing is narcissism — he could never deliberately end
the life of one so great."
The
grinding increased slightly in regularity and volume, and, past the study's
veranda (which covered the same panorama as my cell's window, though from a
higher vantage), I saw a golden haze undulating above the valley — the
glow of some unseen blaze below.
"Of
course," concluded Master Arxilly, "There is always the possibility
that Caralios Maraloxodin is, in fact, a genius, and us the inepts he
believes."
We
laughed.
Master Arxilly's
theory did touch on certain truths, but it was by no means the complete fact of
the matter. However, I did not discover this until much later. At the time I
agreed with him entirely.
The rest of that
week proceeded typically, and I all but forgot Caralios's peculiarities. The
next was the same, though perhaps a little quieter than usual —
appointments were missed without apology or excuse from the appointee. During
the third and fourth weeks the absenteeism was more marked. Barbers went
unoccupied for considerable stretches of time. The third day of the fifth week
saw no customers at all, a situation previously unheard of.
"If
this continues," Master Arxilly said to me, "I will be forced to
eject apprentices. I cannot feed them without income."
It
was in the sixth week, as I and another journeyman gazed clientless across the
salon's platinum patio, that I had my first inkling as to the instigator of
Arxilly's problems.
A
man was strolling past with the most exorbitant hair arrangement I had ever
seen on a living being: scalp crimped to ulotrichousness; sides multi-hued
ringlets; back and front pea-green quiffs of epic proportion. The style
—or lack of it— was unquestionable.
"I
cannot believe it," said I, "Caralios has found a customer."
And
then he found another. And another...
Over
the next two months an unprecedented vogue for preposterous hairstyles rapidly
spread. Desperately, Master Arxilly had us place advertisements in Polt's
various periodicals, paste them on its walls, proclaiming huge price reductions
and multitudes of free gifts for "the Distinguished and Astute Gentleman
at Arxilly's Salon." Similar impetuous tactics were being employed by
salons throughout Polt, including coiffeurs (Caralios's establishment was evidently
unisex).
Polt's
avenues metamorphosed into rivers of clashing colours and senseless shapes.
Blatant plethora was the custom. Discrimination had ceased existence.
The
commercials a failure, the last of the neophytes dismissed, Master Arxilly
finally acknowledged Caralios's trichomic monopoly and called us all
—"us all" being the five remaining journeymen— into his
study to announce the Pyramid's closure.
"The
impossible has happened," he said, "Polt has gone mad. I cannot
understand its swift decline into tastelessness."
He
sighed and looked about the room as if for the last time.
"But
facts, however abnormal, remain facts — rueful retrospection serves no
purpose. Caralios has successfully executed his unlikely threat of three years
gone. Nevertheless his victory will be imperfect: I will not even attempt
emulation, for it would be demeaning to myself and to you. What Caralios does
is not barbering —no matter Polt's opinions— but trash. And I will
not produce such a commodity. In one week the Pyramid closes its doors.
Queries? Statements? Opinions?"
The
other journeymen were appropriately and genuinely elegiac in their words. When
they had finished, Master Arxilly turned to me.
"You
have been quiet, Throdogin, but I see you have something to divulge. Out with
it."
"You
speak of incomprehension and inconceivability," said I, "Forgive my
candour, Master, but I feel you did not give these things their needed
emphasis. Surely it is behind them, at the crux of our problems, that the happy
Caralios sits."
"Your
point, Throdogin, your point. I am in no mood for metaphor."
"It
is simply this: Caralios's fashion is unique, not in style, but sheer
completeness. All ages subscribe to it. I have seen womb-fresh children
sporting transplanted ear-to-ear mohicans, and, at the opposite pole, venerable
dodderers in scarlet pouffes. Backgrounds also, have not barred the mode's
proliferation — the field worker can be seen in corn rows hung with tiny
bells, the judge in a pied beehive. This is more than odd, it is, as you said,
impossible. It could not have happened within the normal
maxims of a
fashion's growth. I am certain Caralios has achieved his trade dominance
unethically, even illegally."
Master
Arxilly pondered my words for a moment. "Hm. I cannot fault your
observations. But what do you suggest? We can hardly present our case to the
local constabulary — their helms go unworn lest they crush delicate
styling. And the police of other towns would never concern themselves with
this. So, what do you suggest, Throdogin?"
"It
is obvious we must fight the battle ourselves, Master. And a preliminary to any
conflict is scouting. Someone must go to Caralios's salon as a patron to
acquire information — discover the incredible attraction of his styles. It
being my idea, I of course volunteer."
Again
my master thought. "I detest secretiveness, but your notion is sound.
Indeed, it is our only option apart from closure. I accept both your plan and
self-nomination. I assume you mean to go in disguise? Then you will be
furnished with a hair and beard transplant of such quality not even I will be
able to distinguish it from natural. Conduct yourself as a traveller from
across the
Via the ancient
phone service (Polt is one of Vance's few remaining towns retaining a
serviceable telecommunications system), I made an appointment at Caralios's
salon in the name of Landroff Pentil. Three days later, I was again approaching
the cuboid.
It
had been considerably renovated since my last viewing. Sheets of translucent
silica replaced the cracked crystal, the bronze segments had been cleaned and
buffed to brightness, the iron daubed in pastel shades. A tall, wrist-thick
spire, topped with a peculiar arrangement of rods and metallic webbing, now
rose twenty feet from the building's roof, swaying slightly in the cool morning
breeze.
The
entrance had been widened and bordered in pink silk, and given a solid door. I
stepped inside.
The
blaze of colour that met my eyes was almost nauseating — amaranth
porcelain, gentian plumbing, heliotrope chairs, nutria and celadon parquet,
rubious walls, luteous-tinted mirrors, ecru-shaded lamps. At the room's rear
was a closed ebony door.
It
seemed I was Caralios's first client of the day — the room was otherwise
empty of people. On a jonquil counter rested a brass bell. I rang it.
The
ebony door opened, Caralios appeared and approached.
"Ah,"
he said, smiling, "A good morning to you, sir. Do I address Landroff
Pentil?"
"You
do," I replied, affecting a slightly rasping tone. Ensuring he disclosed
no signs of recognition, I noted the diminishment of hubris and abhorrence in
Caralios's expressive eyes. Triumph now ruled (understandably, considering his
achievements). "I would prefer it, however, if you were less intimate: Mr Pentil, if you please."
Caralios,
showing that he at least fathomed barbering's foremost rule, bowed his head
slightly in acquiescence. "As you wish, good sir. Now may I take your
over-garment? Thankyou."
Hanging
my cloak upon a lime-green hook, he indicated a chair before a mirror. I sat.
"Now,
Mr. Pentil, how do you wish...?" He lifted strands of my long,
transplanted black hair, and looked at my reflection enquiringly.
"A
simple trim, if you please, good barber, and a slight thinning-out at the
scalp."
I
expected displays of disappointment at my request, suggestions of outrageous
alternatives, but, smiling slightly, Caralios simply inquired:-
"And
the beard...?"
"You
may leave as is."
He
bowed once more and commenced cutting.
As
the scissors whispered and snapped, I asked, "Would you be so kind, good
barber, to explain the kaleidoscopic styles worn on the heads of Polt? Having
travelled from Raxill, where hair is cut less extravagantly, I find it a most
unusual phenomenon."
"I
would be happy to explain. What you see in Polt, Mr. Pentil, is the glorious
nativity of a trichomic transition that will sweep the face of Vance. A
transition conceived by myself. Since my first introduction to barbering I have
believed that Polt needed injections of freshness, originality, even
—if I may
make so bold— brilliance, into its collective hair. Seeking to provide
this infusion I introduced the trend you refer to — to immediate public
acclaim. Now the streets of Polt swim with the gorgeous colours of my
creations!"
"I
admire your pride and vision," I said, thinking the direct opposite,
"But what of the competition?"
"There
is none. I am now the sole practising 'dresser in Polt. Its people appreciate
that only I am qualified to form their hair in the manner they now necessitate.
All you see on the thoroughfare has passed through my hands."
"Congratulations
— a singular achievement. But it must be very tiring providing for the
needs of so many."
"It
is, and were it not for the strict rotational schedule I have set up amongst my
regular clients, my practice would doubtless be impossible to operate. The fact
that most of my creations are necessarily transplants and so do not grow also
aids me. As does the liberal application of growth-restrictors when I style
natural hair."
"The
people of Polt are a very loyal and understanding patronage, then?"
"None
more so. They recognize my ability. They would never take their custom
elsewhere, no matter how long the wait for my attentions."
"But
what of a once-only consumer like me? You managed to fit me into your cramped
roster very quickly."
Caralios
smiled broadly, the glint in his eyes brightening. "At Maraloxodin's Salon
there is no such thing as a 'once-only', Mr. Pentil! A client on his initial
call here is given priority above all others, as an inducement to become a
regular."
"I
fear you carry your advertising pitch too far, good barber," I said with a
slight laugh, "In my case it would surely be impractical to habitually
attend this salon, no matter its quality. Don't you know Raxill's
distance?"
His
smile returned to the mere lip-twitch it was before. "As you say, sir, of
course." He changed the subject, "You have travelled from Raxill, Mr.
Pentil? Then you came through the
"Not
through, over. Who would wish to travel through
it? Ten miles south from here the valley has constructed a self-spanning
bridge, and I, in mere caprice, decided to employ it in visiting a cousin in
Laront. I stopped off here for a few days rest and this crop. But am I correct
in inferring that you yourself have been into the rift? If this is so, you are
something of a social sport."
Caralios's
mouth fell into dreamy slackness. His voice became low, respectful (the first
outwardly-directed admiration I had ever observed in him). "You are
correct, Mr. Pentil. It is eldritch. I recently expended five months journeying
its brass corridors, crystal rooms, aluminium amphitheatres. Things live there,
and do not move; move, but do not live. Some sections of it are conscious, some
sleep, others have died. Parts are mad, malignant, or benign. Innocent, or
infinitely wise. There is much for the faculties to endure, little for them to
comprehend. There is a taste of planets there, a scent of stars..."
He
suddenly seemed to recollect he had company. "But I ramble, and I have
completed your cut. It is to your satisfaction? Excellent. The fee is
——."
I
paid.
"I
will see you again, Mr. Pentil. Goodbye."
He
retired behind the ebony door.
I
left his salon to return to my master's.
At the Pyramid's
pinnacle, I once again sat in Master Arxilly's presence to recount the
morning's events. I concluded, "So you see, Master, I cannot supply
answers, only additional uncertainties."
"Hm.
Perhaps he holds an extortion over the public?" he suggested,
"Blackmails them in some heinous manner? How else can their devotion to
him be explained? They act as if conditioned to his will..."
"What
of his trip into
"Yes.
Well. Your former is simply another challenge heaped upon a plate already
over-stacked; and I suspect we will be unable to make much of it without direct
conversation with Caralios himself. However, I believe his excursion to be
highly relevant to our situation. Were I not seeing in the light of past events
I would say that the answer to your latter question is simple bravado; but I
think our friend is unfeignedly convinced of Landroff Pentil's return, and what
that portends I do not know."
"Perhaps
it would be fruitful to covertly visit Maraloxodin's salon in pursuit of
suggestive, informative, possibly damning, documents and ledgers?"
"That
is not an option! I will not have employees of mine scuttling about like
thieves! Your past camouflage already heavily insults the honour of this
establishment!"
I
quickly apologised (note, student, that even I, High Barber of Vance, made
foolish suggestions. Solely in my youth, of course).
"Accepted.
Now leave me, Throdogin. We will speak at breakfast — I may then have
some conclusions."
I did not see my
master at his specified time for I was woken in the dark hours of early morning
—
In
gown and slippers I took the steps two at a time. Joined during my descent by
three other journeymen, we all entered the cutting room to be confronted by a
scene the fully awake would doubtless find immediately comprehendible. However,
this was by no means our state — sleep still tugged at our brains and we consequently
saw other than reality.
My
personal vision —similar, I think, to those of my peers— was this:
Master Arxilly and the remaining journeyman were at the salon's doors
attempting to stay the progress of a fantastical beast with a psychedelic hide
of quivering spikes, fans, curls, puffs, and a complex cacophonous voice of
screams and moans.
Indeed,
were it not for the words, "Please! Please, good sirs! A queue! Form an
orderly queue! You will all be dealt with much quicker if you sequence yourselves
systematically!" from Master Arxilly I would have been inclined to bellow,
"A portal has opened on the patio! A portal has opened on the patio!"
grab a sweeping brush —as two of my fellows had already— and rush
to my master's aid.
My
mind cleared. The monster's shambling mass became the dazzling heads of a crowd
of Polt's menfolk, and its sounding clarified into raised human voices
screaming and pleading for instantaneous shavings and reinstatements of
traditional hairstyles.
Contemporaneously,
they had realised the insanities rooted in their craniums.
Of
the next half dozen or so hours I now recall nothing but the glint of shears
and the amazed wonderings of clients: "It seemed such a splendid notion at
the time. I think," "A mohican? I? Surely I was inebriate? I do not
even remember where I had the abomination styled," "How, man?! How?!"
When
the multitude thronging the porch had shrank to a mere group, Master Arxilly
turned to me, his feet invisible beneath scintillating locks, his face red, his
lips upturned in a blissful grin, and said, "Go, Throdogin, to Caralios'
salon. We can finish here. Answers are required, and if the morning's events do
not forecast their ready divulgence then my supper will consist of gel and shaving
foam! Go."
Once out on the
street, blinking in the daylight, I swiftly made my way to Ambiguity Close. The
journey was not without spectacle: a woman, unable to wait for professional
help, sat at the roadside roughly sawing at her bright hair with a kitchen
utensil; an old man ambled along the road staring fixedly at his startling
reflection in a hand-held mirror, muttering bemusedly to himself; three
children fortunate to have received their transplants teased another still
sporting her multi-chignons and vertical dreadlocks.
Caralios'
place looked much as it had on my last visit, save that the singular spire that
previously rose above it now tilted alarmingly, its webbing torn and strewn
around, and the border of silk about the building's entrance was fouled with
gobs of clay and flakes of some unsavoury grey substance.
The
door was ajar. I entered, opened my mouth to call Caralios' name — and
almost swooned. The salon possessed the reek of an abattoir years uncleaned,
and, though I resisted fainting, the stink was such that I could not prevent
the violent contractions of my stomach. Bile splattered on parquet.
"Don't
bother to clean that up, Amleck — it complements the rest of my salon's
recent decor rather well."
Caralios.
He was slouched against the ebony door's frame and staring at his right hand as
it listlessly operated a pair of ornate silver scissors. Wiping my mouth and
then pinching my nostrils closed I approached him, looking with horrified
wonder on the lumps of grey matter and streaks of brown filth dotted about.
Surely that shrivelled thing on the counter was an ear? That bloated object on
the floor a thumb? Those clumps of matted filament hair? That limp sausage-like
affair on the chair a — no! It couldn't be!
"Caralios,"
I said, "What...?"
He
looked up at me. Oh, the change in that face! Skin drained of colour, jaw
loose, lips moist from the nervous administrations of his tongue. Gone was the
triumph and self-love previously so clear in his eyes, replaced now by shock's
obfuscate glazing.
"I
never would have guessed it so mighty, Amleck," he said, voice quiet and
full of horrified awe (you will remember my mild surprise at seeing him
respectful the foregoing day, magnify that wonder tenfold and you will approach
the feelings his abject veneration stirred in me now), "To animate them
so..."
"Guessed
what so mighty? Animate whom?"
A
half smile appeared on his lips, before his tongue darted out and erased it.
"But of course. You do not know. Only I know. Well," he paused,
"A lesson was learned last night, Amleck Throdogin, and I was the pupil.
So. I have a confession. Will you hear it?"
Without
waiting for my reply, he continued (and note, student, that I have omitted
those parts of Maraloxodin's tale already known to you through my earlier
conversation with him, when he, of course, believed himself addressing Landroff
Pentil):-
"Ah,
the irony of this situation does not escape me — that it is you,
Arxilly's best, who will discover my felony. Doubtless many would view it
fitting. I begin: you recall my expulsion from the Pyramid? Oh the
self-righteous wrath I experienced on that day! It was a red heat on my brain,
an uncontrollable shake in my limbs. Who was Arxilly to treat me so? I wanted
revenge so much it became a pain in my gut, a cloud on my mind. I needed to see
him humiliated, forced to acknowledge my superiority. I spent two years
attempting to popularize my fashions and gain the public's love and adoration,
but without success — my work was ridiculed, or worse still, ignored; and
so I concluded that none save myself were endowed with the insight needed to
appreciate my efforts, none had an inkling of my great artistic capability. I
roamed Polt's streets, feeling nothing but self-pity, viewing myself as an
island in a mindless, artless, vulgar sea. I came to believe the populous as
undeserving of even my contempt, let alone my genius, and resolved to leave
them rotting in their blindness. And there was
His
voice dropped. "I was drawn to it, compelled (for who would willingly
enter the metallic rift? I admit, however, that if any mentioned the valley I
was quick to reveal my tarry there — bragging about it as if it were some
graduated endurance trial. Oh my vanity!). I was not aware of either my
summoner's nature or purpose, but once among the silicon walls, beneath the
ceramic towers, once I felt the pulses, experienced the fields and energies, I
did not care. The power, Amleck! The
sheer power! My identity was lost there, but I gained others, exchanged them
and regained my own sampled by another. I conversed with beings of ether, dined
on colour, supped on silence. All this provided by a mainly somnambulating
thing... What wonders would it exhibit fully awake, Amleck? What marvels? And
then, five months later, I was again on Polt's outskirts, memory blanked to my
getting there, to the materialization of a fair amount of capital in my
pockets, and to all detail of that recently experienced. More, for some
unfathomable reason (if for reason at all), something had enlarged my feelings
towards Arxilly, and supplied means of vengance. 'Your eyes are too small to
see the light,' I said to the town as I looked upon it then, 'Therefore they
must be widened for you.' And so, using some of my mysteriously received
monies, I took residence here."
He
sucked a slow breath.
"The
'means' I was given came in the mentally imprinted design of a machine, which I
quickly built, and the remains of which can be seen in here."
He
indicated the darkened chamber beyond the door. There, rearing from a faintly
glowing puddle of liquid, were cracked globes of silver honeycomb, dented
cubes, shattered flasks of finely wrought wire, and other intricate,
unguessable, constructs.
"Its
condition will become clear presently, but permit me to keep my confession
chronological. The machine was analyst, telemetric matcher, and remote
hypnotist in one. Simply by assaying a few strands of hair, or any biological
material (though I almost exclusively used hair, it being readily available
and, of course, appropriate), it could, via a transmitter erected on the roof,
pin-point the donator and mould his will into coming here and submitting to my
ministrations. I now realise a town-full of brainwashed slaves could have been
mine. Lucky for Polt, eh, that the thought of such a perfect kingdom never
entered my mind whilst the instrument was whole. Perhaps the lack was another
of my patron's whims, for I confess the notion has appeal."
Did
he jest? I do not know.
"And
thus my harvest began. I solicited the aid of Polt's trichomic apprentices and
quickly acquired the locks needed —in spite of your galling
interruption— to commence my revenge. Oh, its perfection, Throdogin!
Dragged by their unquestionable unconscious, people flocked here, bringing with
them cuttings from families and friends, acquaintanceships and lovers. Mothers
fetched offspring barely two months free of their umbilici for implants,
nephews yielded ancient aunts to my en brosses. Within months I had the whole
of Polt under my heel, and a bulging bank account. My glee was of course
further enhanced observing the futile efforts of my 'peers' in regaining
customers lost to me. 'Stew in your ineptitude a while, unappreciatives,' I
thought, 'Know your blinkered non-capabilities for what they are compared to my
clearsighted skills. And then become my most devout followers —
broadcasting my fashions until all Vance is blinded by my brilliance. Vance?
Ha! Is Galaxy Prime so huge?'"
"You
see the visions I had, Amleck. Ah, but where they mine? Do not rack your brains
over that, for, no matter their origin, they were not, of course, to be
realised. Listen, then, for now we come to my confession's crux..."
"Last
night I gave my machine its first cuttings in weeks — the hair of a
traveller from Raxill. I was quite proud; he was my first customer outside of
Polt. Putting a lock into the receptacle, I noticed the apparatus, as it
evaluated, resonated louder and longer than was conventional, and saw
tell-tales whose purpose I was innocent of —though I built the engine, I
did not know all its intricacies— smoulder for the first time. I was not
concerned, attributing these inconstants to the mechanism, having grown
accustomed to Polt's population, needing to employ new sets of gears,
subprograms, or whatever, to compensate for the foreigner. I went to
bed..."
"...And
was woken three hours later by voices calling my name — two distinctly
different voices yet sharing an ability to set teeth on edge and cause
horripilation. One was thick and wet, as if fighting through strings of phlegm,
the other as dry and rasping as copulating beetles. They emanated from my
cutting room. Breath a-shake, heart a-pound, I thumbed the luminares and
entered. The room was filled with corpses. Ten grave-fresh cadavers. One stood
by the counter repeatedly holing its palm with the bell's plunger in an attempt
to ring it; another dragged —via fingers hooked into vacant
eyesockets— a precariously connected hemi-un-dead whose arms, flaying
against the floor, scattered digits and flesh everywhere, and whose trailing
spine wagged canine-like. Others were slumped in chairs, propped against walls.
Some yet sported sagging flesh and jellied guts, most were shrink-wrapped in
flaking leather. A few were clothed in funeral garments, while others were
obscenely —in the strongest possible way— nude. They creaked and
sloshed. And you know their reek (you vomited at the stink of their residue,
think of sampling the source! But I did not puke — my throat was too much
fear-tightened). A younger zombie to the fore, still possessed of a corrugated
eyeball, on sight of me aqueously moaned, 'Huuurchghkut... Huuurchghkut', and
sloppily punched its older, adjacent partner who then hissed, 'Herhhcuhss,
Herhhcuhss' and slapped loosely at its head. These were my summoners. They had
risen from their coffins, called by my machine, to have their hair done. I was
unsteady on my feet, my vision drew in and out of focus. I should have fainted.
I wanted to. This was impossible! Horrible! But can the living deny the dead
when they rise to demand? Tongue hermetically sealed to my fraenum, teeth
chattering, I dazedly attended to my customers. After six hours of lank matted
hair, piercing pussy tissue with transplant needles, grave-dirt, glueing, the
corpses finally stumbled or dragged themselves back to their respective
necropoli. My salon was free of their abominable presence. Then I did
swoon."
"When
I recovered, the
Back at the
Pyramid, Master Arxilly's reaction to all of this was momentary thoughtfulness
quickly superseded by almost wild mirth:-
"Ho,
Throdogin! Ha, my good journeyman! His machine developed no fault! No indeed!
The hair used to crown your costume was necessarily human to bluff Caralios,
and necessarily old to achieve the required style," (it had been many
decades, even then, when long hair had last been fashionable amongst Polt's
males), "Most contributers to that aggregation will have perished, and,
unluckily for our would-be ruler, the strands he employed to hypnotize Landroff
Pentil surely belonged to such unfortunates! Ha!" (My master was not
completely accurate in stating the machine faultless — he forgot it
gathered the corpses almost immediately and nocturnally, while all
Maraloxodin's other clients arrived according to his roster. An overload of
some sort? Or unfathomable design...?).
Caralios
Maraloxodin is no more a denizen of Vance. For his crimes he was consigned to a
warp that had appeared, conveniently enough, on
So.
The end of my tale. Now, student, back to your regular studies.