Spring, 189*

So what is this anyway?

This is going to be my personal record of my travels, my thoughts, feelings and outlooks on the strange and wonderful things that I encounter.  This is simply for my own recollection and personal history, as I have not the coin to take into my employ a professional scribe, or even a cabin boy (oh, wouldn't the hoity-toitys in their stiff collars and outlandish hats be in such an uproar if I had).  So, if this volume should ever find its way into the hands of a good reader someday, let me just say that everything written here are all lies.  Figments of my imagination, and nothing more.  And if you're willing to indulge the ravings of a woman that is quite probably mad, such as myself, then you might just be willing to accept that only the sentences that start with 'F' or 'S' are  falsehood, and the rest was quite genuine... or perhaps it was 'A's, I forget.

Spring, 189*((letters smudged with either tears or Guinness))*y my reckoning

     My story opens a few days previous to the writing of this, a most horrible event, a storm like none other that I have ever personally seen, whipped up the skies far above a peaceful fishing village along a route I sometimes use when hopping from one content of this world to another.  It was likely the heaviest winds I had ever personally seen and I fear my poor airship, The Brubu's Servant, did not fare as well above Sailor's Cove as it has in the namesake winds off India.  We did put up quite a fight, with the basket swinging wildly from side to side, first this way then that, from the early evening through until well past dusk.  The balloon rigging creaked and moaned under the heavy loads of the envelope being dragged like a mouse in a cat's paw, and a few of the cannon balls slipped their mountings and gave the wooden planks a great beating.

     In the midst of the howling winds, the thundering cracks of the shot rolling about could scarce be heard, let alone the snap of a line or the pop of a boilerplate bolt from the extreme pressure I was forced to risk.  Whatever the object was, it surely did the most expeditious route directly to the back of my head, for I did not hear the report, nor see the offending item or even feel the sharp pang of impact, I was simply subdued, unable to even mark the minutes after I was unceremoniously acquainted with the deck.  The pain of waking, I can assure you, I was fully cognizant of when warm tropical waves lapped up the beach and caressed my shamefully bare body.

     I must confess that it was a pleasurable enough sensation after such a violent evening, had it not been for one small detail: the warm salty brine found its way up to my still wounded head.  I'm told sea-bound sailors get very used to the sensation with the grueling work and the bo's'n's cat always hovering just downwind of the bow-spray, but for us sky sailors, the experience was a most dreadfully unwelcome one.  Temporary pain aside, it was only then that I realized the ground was swaying beneath my still prone body. 

      Three exquisitely horrible epiphanies struck me with a velocity like the unseen object the night before. 1) I was still alive on the ground, surrounded by the wreckage of my poor beloved airship and the remnants of my personal effects. 2) I was only adorned in the Roman-style toga that was the height of fashion at my previous port. 3) Tide was coming in.


     So began my first day, a frantic race against time to recover as much from the wreckage as possible, and a good bit of speculation on which of my items were drifting out to sea.  By noon or so I had managed to collect a good cache of splintered wood, disarrayed machine parts, sundry tools and supplies, and a few sopping wet trunks of my most precious personal effects - most importantly, I was able to recover my wardrobe.


    In the late evening as I was rigging the remnants of the balloon's casing into my new temporary "estate",  I caught the first hint of a cooking fire, heavily laden with the sweet smells of roasting meat and exotic tubers, fruits and nuts, on the breeze descending from the heights of the rather mountainous isle.  Just before the  setting sun cast its final golden rays upon my overly modest accommodations, I caught sight of what seemed to be a stone path lined by dimly glowing torches, although I still think it odd that I failed to see the bearer placing those obvious signs of habitation.  


     I was overcome with excitement that I may not be alone, and quickly ran down the path in search of the source of those beacons of hope.  Elated to find evidence of some level of stratified intelligent life, I indulged in speculation: perhaps, I thought, I would find the crew of a Dutch trading vessel likewise marooned here, or perhaps, I mused, it would be some religious separatists that had sought their own freedoms, or maybe an advanced tribe on the cusp of leaving their savage ways in the natural progression through barbarism to civility.


     My hopes were both realized and cast off as I rounded a bend in the path and discovered a cave entrance, a slowly eroding dock bleached with years of exposure to the sun and caked thick with brine and barnacles, and the most particular of items; a rusty contraption that in all appearances seems to be not too dissimilar in design as the "heavier-than-air" flying contraptions.  It was in much the same condition as the one crimson flyer that I had operated out of Iron Cloud, but much advanced in years of decay, made possible only by its impossibly heavy metal construction.  


     After some time measuring this beast with the only tools I had, my stride, forearm and mind, I turned my attention to the cave.  The formation seemed to be of natural stone in an impressive size, nearly 9 or 10 metres in breadth, and it smelled of must and damp.  A slight breeze issued forth cooling my skin thoroughly, but carried with it the unmistakable scent of the consumption of some manor of fuel oil, a type which I am still unsure, perhaps a blend of kerosene and bunker fuel.  


     The type of fuel consumed was of no immediate importance to me, for I believed that I had found the holdout of the unfortunate crew of the metal contraption, and I had learned well from my professors that fire, when tamed, is the surest sign of intelligent life.  And so I left the beach and with caution, entered the cold depths, shivering from my state of dress.


     What I found inside was simply astounding.  While the entrance was naturalistic, the interior was clearly the work of some cleaver architect that somehow produced a fine quality concrete in these primitive conditions. Spartan in decoration, the cave was indeed some kind of stockpile of goods, no doubt salvaged from the wreckage of merchant ships, house inside a cavernous expanse of a network of tunnels.  Dimly lighted by small, steady lamp flames atop poles carefully distributed, I made my way through the dark, pondering the collection of merchandise carefully stacked and left behind.


     When I finally emerged from the far side of the tunnels, it became apparent that I had completely crossed under some watery passage and was standing on a second island.  Amazed by this, I stepped out into the moonlight to explore my new surroundings a little more thoroughly before I planned on returning to my own "accommodation".  


     To my surprise, I found the exit to be enclosed in a type of fencing made of wooden posts and twisted lengths of metal rods.  A masterfully crafted banner wafted in the light breeze and I could barely make out through a slightly open door a light from inside a building constructed out of a similar concrete as the tunnels.  With a, "hello to camp" I gradually approached the door and pressed through to find an otherwise empty room.


     A divider of wood and glass separated the building into two parts: one with two doors, the one I had passed through and another leading beyond the fencing; and the second side of the room filled with a desk, several chairs, and a closed door into some space that I could only speculate.  The glass of the divider terminated above a long counter, leaving a slit in the wall, not unlike the counters in banks and some government offices, although I had previously never seen glass used in the place of heavy iron bars.  


     Atop the counter sat a small sign set next to a box of unknown material.  The sign simply directed me to place my thumb on the ... I think the word used was 'scanner'.  Thinking that it was some kind of call box or electric door chime, I firmly pressed down on the glass-like top.  With an almost inaudible whir, the most horrifically demonic red light emanated from the top of the box briefly bathing me in it's foal glow.  I withdrew across with no hesitation.


     A small card mechanically slid out from a concealed slot.  I warily took the card between two fingers and examined it carefully.  It seems that I had wandered into a customs office and the card contained instructions including verification of passports and application for a visa.  Surely I have stumbled into some form of highly advanced society if they reached the level of automated bureaucracy!  


     How much time they must have for the pursuit of science, art and leisure if they have managed to replace the tedium of even the customs officer?  I will have to fully explore and document their social advances in order to bring back the best to my homelands.  It would be nice to arrive to all foreign locales and be greeted by such devices instead of the usual endless brow-furrowing, throat-clearing and rubber-stamping. Something must be done about the hue of light the devices cast off if these are to ever be accepted, maybe a nice shade of lavender...


     After carefully following the instructions, having fully completed the requisite steps to enter the sovereign soil of the state calling itself the People's Republic of Glint, I set out to observe this advanced culture.  While I have no great love of or general use for republics, I must admire the sense of individualism tempered by community they represent.  I will endeavor to keep an open mind while observing their governance in order to form an objective opinion, which will be difficult, seeing the utility of monarchs still reigns supreme.


     After exiting the customs office, I proceeded into the town.  I found it to be not unlike many colonies I have visited; wide public square flanked by private establishments, officers of the peace and the like.  While standing near the central hitching posts, I made out the sounds of revelry from the local swallying house.  I will spare myself the effort of transcribing the full events of that night, for the local periodical did such a fine job recording it, that their article far exceeded my own remembrance.


     I can only add that it was the most engaging welcoming ceremony that I have ever had the pleasure to partake in, and I do look forward to future cultural exchanges.


((Tucked into a neat fold of the following page is a newspaper clipping from the PRG Inquirer: here))