Konsk: The Great Takeover of the Place

29. The Book of Konsk.

The book hung before him in the lavishly rendered work space, rotating slowly, specks of virtual dust descending in flickers of light, the movement causing the complex pattern on the cover to morph as though phasing in and out of vision. The graphics were truly remarkable! Trueman borrowed Spicer’s accent for the occasion, saying to himself, I just don’t fuckin’ believe it!

He was both baffled and excited. Baffled because he could not understand why Learner’s book should exist in this future at all, if it was a future. Or rather, why Learner’s book should have been painstakingly reproduced as a digital object in what was looking increasingly like a mass murderer’s virtual workspace.

He was excited because the original book had been crucial to his sudden and unplanned voyage of exploration and this copy, floating before the new eyes, presented at least a hope that it might be used for a return journey, back to his home, the Little Big Farm and 1984.

Trueman struggled to control the emotions that accompanied this reasoning. The thought of seeing his daughter, Catti, again, brought a lump to the throat. He could picture her face, the big brown eyes, one iris, the left, slightly darker than the other and the ludicrously long lashes whose fluttering she had rapidly learned to use to manipulate all and sundry.

How old would she be now, he found himself wondering, then chided himself at this foolishness. He still did not know when he was, let alone where or even if this reality bore any relation at all to the previous one with which he had felt so comfortably familiar. For all he knew, his Catti may be long dead and buried, her body incorporated into the soil through the action of worms, fungi and those essential micro-organisms.

That was a bit morbid. He distracted himself with a vision of Dawn, lying on a towel in the sun, in her maze garden, centred on the path so that anyone who entered or left the old farm house would be forced to step around her to take note of her. The sense of yearning was familiar but all the more depressing given the current impossibility of any form of fulfilment. He sighed.

Even thinking of Spicer kindled a homely glow of comradeship that he would not normally have considered either possible or appropriate. These memories and their closely coupled emotions left him feeling even more lonely and isolated, trapped in a reality he could not quite grasp.

Enough of this, he commanded, drawing his attention back to the present situation. Lets hold on to at least some scientific objectivity! So what should he do? Continue searching through the virtual studio for further clues to his current situation, such as whose body he occupied and how distant was he in time from the Little Big Farm? Or reacquaint himself with Learner's book? The latter option was indeed tempting. Very tempting.

He allowed his gaze to follow the horribly complicated fractal contours Learner had drawn and incised on the cover. That one had certainly known a thing or two about complexity, Trueman admitted grudgingly, the socially challenged misfit, he projected.

He could still see Learner crouched over the book in his little room, or prison cell, as Dawn had deridingly referred to it, lit by the flicker of a candle, working on the cover, drawing the intricate lines. Gotta make 'tractive cover, he had said when Trueman had asked him why he was spending so much time on it. Well, he had certainly achieved that, thought Trueman, allowing the INCO tongue to rotate the book before him, observing the patterns shift and blur.

With a slight shift of weight, as though girding himself, Trueman triggered the facial nerve ganglia to open the book but it remained closed. Instead, six blank squares appeared, hanging in front of it. The book must be protected, he thought, obviously, locked and requiring a passcode. He directed the cursor to the first square and some text appeared below it. He read carefully then sat deeper into the seat, drew in a deep breath and released it slowly.

So, the lock offered only three attempts before permanently erasing the book. Someone had already tried twice and failed, leaving just one final chance. A puzzle indeed, thought Trueman. He guessed that the “someone” would be the previous occupant of this body. Was he the one who had digitised Learner's book and put it here in the first place?

Trueman rotated the book more slowly, searching for any clues and there was indeed something there, on the obverse, down in the lower left corner. He started to chuckle; the new body produced a deep gargling growl.

Catti! He thought in amazement and delight as he zoomed in on the little stick-like figure in a familiar scrawl of yellow waxed crayon. It was one of his young daughter's familiar attempts at a portrait of her father, complete with unkempt beard and bald patch! Trueman chuckled again and for a moment or two indulged in a very homely feeling of quiet contentment that the memory of the tiny tot had awakened in him.

What else? Was the crude, stick figure holding something in one hand? He zoomed in again and the chuckle became a snort of laughter as he recognised Catti's the depiction of her favourite toy. A soft, humanoid dog wearing patched trousers, bib and braces, long black ears flopping on either side of its head, the original glass eyes on metal stalks removed for safety's sake and replaced by simple, stitched crosses.

This too kindled old, familiar memories, ancient memories for Trueman, for the toy had once been his and despite all the contemporary toys offered to Catti, it had remained her firm favourite. Of course, Trueman knew the name, because he had first named it, when he had been no more than a sprat like Catti. It was from the ears- Floppy! Ideal for a password that could neither be cracked nor intuited, requiring a very personal knowledge limited to only a tiny group of people!

He rotated the book to reveal the boxes, mouthed each letter, pausing slightly before the last one and then it was done. The book opened, playing a little fanfare. Trueman had to laugh; the music had been a favourite of Catti's from a cartoon of the time, an ancient story upgraded into a science fiction setting, a wanderer and his child, attempting to return home. Yes, Odysseus, was it?. So his daughter had digitised the book, locked it and placed it here, presumably when an adult, continuing the technical traditions of her father.

Trueman felt a great wave of pride sweep over him and indulged in it for a few seconds before dismissing it, repressing the emotional nostalgia and reasserting his logical self. Let's be rational about this, he demanded. So Catti had somehow known he would appear here, in this presumed future. How could she have known? There were more questions than answers.

He turned his attention to the contents of the book itself and nodded. There was no doubt in his mind as to the authenticity of the work, or rather, he reminded himself, this representation of the work. Learner’s hand and mind were clearly visible in the abstract chaos of the first few pages, the swirl of light and shade, the repetitive vortices like tornadoes poised to strike, the strange tendrils twining together, swelling into bulbous shapes like jelly fish or some other ancient under water creature. Here, exquisitely reproduced in miniature, were the first wall paintings Learner had created in his cell, at the Little Big Farm.

As the pages turned, out of the background swirl more definite forms made their gradual appearance, simple geometric shapes, then symbols, icons and eventually the written language. Trueman smiled, remembering Learner suddenly understanding the purpose of writing, that same initial childish delight reflected so strongly here in the word salads that covered page after page of the first part of the text. Trueman had described them as the gibbering of a modern madman, so long ago it seemed now.

He had said it dismissively, tasting the bitter failure after all his scientific efforts to analyse and cure Learner’s apparent madness had come to nought. How wrong he had been! It was so hard for him to accept but he had little choice now, for the proof of Learner’s interpretation of reality appeared to surround him. Trueman was forced to consider the possibility that all his insights and efforts back at the Little Big Farm had been based upon a fundamental misjudgement, that Learner had not been suffering from some serious psychotic illness but rather had in fact been a traveller from a time and place very different from the one in which he had found himself. Indeed, the differences had proved so great that they had tipped the ancient primitive into madness. Poor fool. And he, Trueman, poor fool!

And here was his book, again, his desperate attempt to make sense of his experiences, or his manual, for others to follow. Trueman read a few lines and laughed. Then he read some more.

Toobs, toobies! Loopy, thinny all twisty, slippery, pink and red and green and flower, honey-bee tasty! Sound, music! There’s the hippy squeaker, hippy hippo, then a howler, listen to shouty; not nice, not nice. All grey and moany. Gets scary, careful, careful, not too close. Pull in, suck in, watch it now, well I’ll be.... Not too close. It’s said, he says, he says not too close! Oh no! Too close! Pull him in, then he’s stuck, can’t get out, poor indie, poor, poor little indie. Now he’s fucked. Oh well, can’t be helped, no help for it, nothing to help for it. Coil about and all shapey with the given form, slow turn, nowt to do but wait, forever wait. Fucked now, eh? Not kidding matey! No matter, wait, wait, wait. Be a long soon, we’ll see, we’ll be seen, he’ll be seeing, then we’ll see. Help’ll come. Along’ll be help, hooray!

A mere word salad, he thought, as it went on and on, thus dismissing any possibility of meaning, hence value. He flicked on through the pages then jumped towards the end where he had found the clues, the necessary steps that were required to undertake his journey.

Something was not right- surely the book was much longer than he remembered? Additional material had been inserted into it, whole sections were new. He examined the pages more carefully; appendices, addenda, glossaries, even an index! He automatically scanned the latter for his own name and there it was! He clicked the tongue and the book flipped open to a page, displaying a large heading in what he thought was a rather inappropriate, curly font. It read “The Trueman Postulate” and below were several columns of dense text.

He began to read, noticing the new body's heart rate increasing, coupled with the flicker of red in the internal display that seemed to float just inside the eyeballs. It was his Postulate, his great work, his new theory, the revolutionary theory that was to transform everything!

He sat back in the recliner and forced the body's breathing to slow, closed the eyes, ignoring the internal display and refocused his attention. Someone had gained access to his notes and produced a coherent description of his embryonic theory but that meant they had gained access to his remote mainframe. Impossible, he fumed! The password was uncrackable, based on an algorithm that altered by the millisecond. Only he could possibly know the required steps to calculate the mutating password!

Catti. Again! It had to be her. She'd cracked the password to his desktop as a four year old and she alone had been aware of the convoluted processes he was prepared to endure in order to protect his data. Why, it had taken him almost half an hour to get into his own system every time he wanted access! Yet even she would need the seed code. Another mystery; another unanswered question. He was beginning to be annoyed at the increasing awareness of his own ignorance. Dammit all!

Once more he was thrown back into his current predicament. Should he put the book aside to focus on what was going on in this, his new present? Or turn to the pages he had read before, way back in 1984, the pages that had led him to travel in time and put him into this unfamiliar body?

Thanks for reading and welcome to new subscribers. Our internet connection has been returned to its normal, blistering speed of 4 Mbs, allowing much easier access to Substack.

First, a reminder, Substack is changing the “Subscribe Now” buttons I select into a “pledge your support” buttons, apparently after I post as they still say “subscribe now” at this end…While you are welcome to pledge your support, there is no need as I have no intention of turning on payments for the forseeable future.

Sercond, I have been preparing the next piece on Fire but it has required some serious reading, all of which will be explained shortly. Meanwhile I have also been drawn into episode 29 of Konsk which turned out to be far too loooong and has budded into four possible sections, all or most of which I will be sending your way in the next few days for feedback. I’m aware that some of you are not interested in the fiction and that is totally fine, please just delete them or perhaps archive them for a rainy day read! More E.S.P. Adapt and Real Coed Y Brenin are in the pipeline, honest!

Till then, please let me know how you feel about it all. Take care. Hwyl! Chris