Konsk: The Great Takeover of the Place
13 Guest of the First Of Many Cantref
'I took a 42 plant salad to the Bakers Brain festival and as people sat down to eat I asked them to stop a minute, saying, "there is something that goes along with this salad; push the top of the head towards the sky, drop the hip down towards the earth, lower the chin and roll the coccyx under, please, then this meta-organic salad, which I designed to be generally spring cleansing, heating and stimulating will be able to do its work effectively". Ha ha! You should have seen their faces! "What", they cried, "is meta-organic". Its what comes after organic, which has become merely a 'do not thing' (no pesticides, no artificial colours, no this, no that) and is instead about doing all the things that one should do if someone is trusting you to feed them; basically care for them, heal them and then keep them whole.'
Konsk: appendices. from 'The Hampers that Heal.' Conversations with the Gardeners.1
It was only later, as he finished eating the admittedly extremely tasty food they had provided for him, that he began to think more clearly again.
The woman with the recorder had sat at the further end of a large, oval table and continued to whisper, presumably a commentary. His guard remained standing, to the left of the recorder, her whip once more coiled and hung from her belt. Instead she cradled a short, wooden staff with a metal stud at one end. Her gaze remained fixed upon him throughout.
Despite that, being exceedingly hungry, he had eaten greedily from the delicately turned, wooden bowls, using his hands2; evidently he was not to be trusted with cutlery. The food, a riotously coloured raw salad including flowers, nuts and seeds as well as a wide variety of pastes and dips had completely revitalised him, reminding him once more of the powerful new body he possessed and also, rather sadly, of Dawn's salads, way back or forward at the Little Big Farm, with food she'd collected from her maze garden.
The visual disturbances had lessened considerably. At least the angry red, dancing dots had gone and he found it relatively easy to ignore the floaters that remained at the top of his vision.
It was only now, first refreshed by a shower, having rubbed a salve on his blistered hands and various cuts and scratches and mentally noted the thorns still buried in his left thigh, then replenished with food that he was led to consider the new body in a different light. Namely, who was the previous or actual owner and, even more to the point, what had he been like? What had he been doing?
That he had not taken this into consideration before came as a shock. He had assumed that this body had manifested along with his own mind, in the deep past (or relocated present, or future, or other world or wherever and whenever he was), even though he had known this to be incorrect. Now he considered, somewhat fearfully, that in fact he occupied the body of another being, a being who had his own past, his own history. A being who had had experiences and committed acts which were totally unknown to Trueman, including acts that rendered the body naked, in a fenced off wilderness, with blisters and dark, reddish stains on the hands.
Continuing with this disturbing train of thought he soon came to see that the reactions and attitudes of the four he had so far met would have been conditioned by their expectations of the original occupant of the new body and not Trueman at all, of whom they had absolutely no knowledge whatsoever. This brought him up with a start. So what would the original occupant have done to merit retrieval from the wilderness and an ominously focussed and armed guard?
Trueman shivered, despite the warmth and scratched at the lump on the jaw; was it a tumour, he thought, or perhaps some old damage. It itched and the tongue did too, now he thought about it. The tongue felt somehow swollen, tender, as if too large for the mouth.
He raised the hands to his eyes and rubbed them. Strange, that although the hands were not yet his, the eyes most definitely were, directly connected to his brain, even though it wasn’t his brain, just his mind. How could that be? He felt confused again and returned to his present situation.
There had been no mirror in the small cubicle where he had showered, no glass in the tiny windows. All the surfaces were rounded, plaster of some sort, pastel hues. He had been watched, he was sure; It would be a trivial matter to conceal an observing devices in the shower area and he was still being watched now. Then there was the thing about his neck. Had the original occupant of the body escaped from somewhere? He had a sinking feeling. Somewhere like a prison? Or an asylum? Or even a maximum security prison asylum?
He shook his head. Insufficient evidence. The new mantra. He pushed the feelings down and became stern with himself. That is not the point, he insisted. The point is that I am neither a criminal nor insane. I am an intellectual superior, capable of sustained and utterly focussed rational thought. It matters not whose body I am in, it is my mind that is significant and with my mind and my reason, I will combat these and other challenges and bring the light of understanding to this confused and difficult situation. He nodded, feeling better already.
After all, he thought, the building had a primitive feel, a crude, untidy look. Why, the wood wasn’t even varnished and a turf roof, I ask you! That was positively archaic. He’d seen no power sources or evidence of modern technology, apart from the recording device, which was probably salvaged from an earlier civilisation. The business with the whip gave pause for thought but there must surely be a simple explanation. Anyway, he decided, he was not overly impressed with the culture so far. There was a distinct lack of order or clear leadership; where were the men in suits? And if this was the future, where were all the personal communicator devices?
He had dressed in the clothes they had laid out for him, some underclothes and a plain, one-piece garment like a boiler suit, though lacking any pockets. It felt very soft on his skin and fitted exceptionally well but the colour, a bright orange, made him feel even more the stranger in a strange land. He did miss his corduroy trousers, even if the waists were rather restrictive. And his beard; he missed his beard.
When he had finished the food as best he could without a spoon, he raised his sticky fingers, showing them to his guard. She nodded and used the club to indicate the door to the shower cubicle and toilet. Trueman retreated gladly from her gaze.
Once inside he washed his hands at an ordinary basin, the water delivered from familiar taps. On the whole, he reflected, it was probably safest not to say anything yet about his own identity or where he was from. Best to sit tight, continue his observations and just wait and see what happened next. Perhaps they might provide him with a notebook and allow him to make a record of his experiences?
As he mused thus, there came the sound of voices and then a shout from outside. He went to one of the tiny windows and peeked out. A small, colourful crowd of people were gathering in a clear space, just beyond the far wall that enclosed the building he was in. He watched as the crowd grew. They were of all ages, from the elderly with sticks to babes in arms and their chatter increased and burst out in sudden roars and shouts as the dusk drew in.
Dusk, Trueman thought, once more reminded of his past and Dawn telling him of the gaps between day and night, where the spirits could sneak in. The crowd outside appeared to cast occasional glances in the direction of the building.
He was concerned to note that some carried bundles of branches, tied at several places along their length, like long faggots. These bundles were being piled into a heap, like a bonfire. Or a pyre. Was that a stake, upright, in the middle?
A chant of sorts began, begun by a group of mostly hooded youngsters, teenagers perhaps but it was quickly taken up by all. Then a drum beat and they started to shuffle and dance, disturbingly, thought Trueman, as he observed with increasing alarm. Were more of them looking in his direction, pointing? This was certainly something to do with him. Was that a rope that someone was whirling about their head, with a noose in the end? He realised the new body was shaking and the red dots were back.
Then there came an insistant knocking at the door to the cubicle.
Many thanks for reading and thanks for the comments- please keep them coming as they are all useful- positive or negative! Hwyl!
There is now considerable evidence for the health benefits that can be gained from eating food with your hands. For example.
Straw Bale Kitchen at Sychpwll, Llandrinio, Powys. More good examples of straw bale structures can be found on their web site, under The Venue, Straw Bale Complex.
Trueman is confusing faggots with fascines. Facines were originally 6 feet long, about a foot in diameter and tied at three places, as in the picture- details from the Encyclopaedia Brittanica 1795 edition.
They were used in a variety of ways, most notably for earthworks of various types and sizes, bank stabilisation and marsh causeways.
Faggots (above) are much shorter bundles of firewood, originally of brushwood or underwood, that is, cut from the smaller trees and shrubs that grew under the canopy of large trees like oak in medieval forests. These forests (the property of the Crown), were very strictly managed but the peasantry were generally permitted to harvest the underwood for fuel.