Chapter 13
"I greet you, Sir Darc," Bor said in a formal, respectful tone. "And this, my friends, is the man we have waited for. Behold the Singing King reincarnated, arrived from the Golden Age after his long frozen sleep!"
(You try saying that with a straight face!)
Darc entered the packed room and Surabot locked the door from outside. He was instantly surrounded by guests from the banquet: Bor Damon, Osanna, Andon Pasko, Lord Ue Yota and his wife, Lord Bes Orbes and family...
(...Rupert Murdoch ...)
only Inu and Lord Azuch Fache were missing; probably the room was too crowded for him in his injured state.
(What state? New York? Mississippi?)
They all fell silent. The awed guests held a respectful distance.
(To the snarling Rottweiler he'd brought with him.)
The ladies were somehow even more winsome than before, in spite of the fact that they had taken off most of their electronic jewelry.
(And lots more besides... hubba hubba!)
Osanna Damon's blue eyes were moist, her long hair combed straight and shining in golden tones.
The faith was strong in her, her thoughts almost visible on her face: You are the one. I believe, I heard you sing. I love you. Please do not turn away from us. I love you.
("Is the author deliberately making her seem like a backstage groupie?" - "You mean like the way he's deliberately mangling the syntax?")
This was going to be hard, Darc told himself.
(But the old mantra wouldn't work any longer. He had to try Viagra.)
He tried to think hateful thoughts, tried to despise these fat tyrants and their spoiled, privileged families - but he just couldn't.
(For deep down he felt a slavish, slobbering, spineless admiration for them.)
He could only be angry with Bor Damon, the only man who could possibly know Darc for who he really was - Bor, the cynical politician who never betrayed a softer feeling. Damn you for saving my life! Well, I'll show you some of your own game. I'll come out on top of this, whichever way it ends. I'm nobody's puppet.
(The strings are showing, Mr. Author!)
The guests waited for Darc to speak. He realized that he had been standing quietly for a whole minute, and cleared his throat. With a serious expression, he made the greeting gesture.
("Sit on this!")
"Greetings, lords and ladies. I apologize for not having mastered your language just yet..."
(We accept your apology, Mr. Yngve!)
(Sign language of the future.)
Librian was right behind him, more anxious than agitated.
"But I am his son, damn you! Step aside!"
Surabot replied: "Exclusive meeting, my lord. Lord Damon's orders. I apologize, my lord."
("Have you got a reservation?")
("Well, I tried to be Hannibal Smith in an "A-Team" lookalike contest in 1987...")
"But surely I can be of help to you. We can come to some sort of understanding, my lords. I still remember many things from my own age... not just the songs! But powerful knowledge! Things that could be of great help to your people!"
("Such as... how to play Sudoku! And programming your VCR!")
Bor Damon's facial color turned white with red spots - he was on the verge of a busted vein.
(Suddenly, with a mighty grunt, his face exploded. The End.)
Too late he understood that he had underestimated Darc.
"You possess knowledge which did not yet exist in my time," Darc elaborated. "Fusion power, thinking robots, cures for cancer... but you did not create this knowledge. It is old, very old. And I know things that you have forgotten.
("I remember Pet Rocks.")
But it is not enough to just tell you those things. What you need, is a method... we called it 'science'. A certain way of thinking. It will make you free, and more powerful than you can ever imagine."
(*Gasp* "More powerful than Bill Gates?")
There was a price for science too - Darc knew that all too well.
(50 dollars a year, plus a 10 percent fixed interest rate.)
But that was his only trump card, and he was betting his life on it, just as he had done 900 years ago.
Finally, after a minute's silence, the message began to sink into the most flexible minds in the room - starting with Bor:
("Thawing you out was the biggest blunder of my life!")
"I think, Sir Darc... that you should not upset the delicate souls of the noble ladies here. Perhaps if we had a little pause here, an intermission..."
("...a potty break...")
But the greed for knowledge had already been awakened; the other lords were not going to let Bor yank their prize away.
(They struggled frantically for the free toy at the bottom of the box of cornflakes.)
"Please excuse me!" Lord Yota shouted, bowing deeply and swiftly to Darc. The wiry little man fixed the tall visitor with his black eyes. "Sir Darc, could this knowledge help us find a weapon to fight the Paskos' new breed of fighting robot? Could you help us build an... atomic robot?"
("An... Astroboy?")
Lord Yota half whispered the last sentence.
Darc was struck by a sobering unease, and replied:
("Ow! Who threw this sobering unease at my head?")
"Now take it easy, my lord. You want mass destruction, go build your own weapons. I would never do that for you, even if I could. But I do have some special knowledge." He hesitated - he had no words for it in their tongue.
("Have you ever seen Spartacus?")
"I have great knowledge of... 'Genetic Engineering' - nothing spectacular, maybe. I know how to change the 'DNA', the human cell memory. My company produced 'vaccines' for the whole world. But I would not use that knowledge to -"
("- eradicate mimes, even though they deserve it!")
Lord Yota reeled back in wide-eyed horror; he cried something in a Chinese-sounding dialect Darc hadn't heard before: "Baokimi! Baokimi! Buwei mono!"
(Translates as: Ring around the collar! Ring around the collar!)
In the next moment, Lord Orbes grabbed a rusty broadsword that hung from the wall. The crowd scattered away from Darc, and Lord Orbes raised the sword to cut him down. Staring at the baffled white-haired stranger, he screamed: "Die, evil one!"
("While I take this sword to the Antiques Roadshow!")
(Cocaine flew through the air!)
Lord Orbes was fat and middle-aged; though his arms were muscular, his movements were clumsy. The sword-blade cut through the air, splintering a huge vase. Darc retreated behind a round table - Lord Orbes turned the sword-point his way and went for a forward thrust. Darc ducked under the table - then pushed upward, growling. He lifted the small but heavy table on two arms, let its weight fall forward - and rammed Lord Orbes in the chest with the tabletop. The nobleman's eyes bulged; he was pushed backward, right into a glass-door cupboard.
(You break it, you buy it!)
The crash was followed by a door slamming open - the two robots burst into the room, and next came Dohan and Librian.
("No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!!")
"Cease fighting!" Surabot boomed in a deafening machine-bass. "We are allowed to use force to protect Lord Damon!"
Bor - his finger on the emergency button on his electronic collar - pointed at Lord Orbes.
"Hold him! And lock up that sword in the armory!"
Dohan rushed over to Darc, who was leaning against a wall - soaked with sweat, his clothes crumpled. "Darc! Are you injured?" Dohan asked.
Librian mumbled: "He must not be harmed - he can teach us so much..."
("...like how to solve this 900-year-old Rubik's Cube.")
Darc answered, gasping for breath: "No... just tired... is all. But why... did Orbes attack me?"
(A heroic attempt to stop this endless story, maybe?)
Bes Orbes was helped up from the shattered cupboard by the two robots - bloody, but alive with fright. He pleaded, as he fought their iron hold: "He is a witchdoctor, Lord Damon! He will kill us all!"
("And revive the career of Britney Spears! He's evil! Evilll!")
Bor snapped: "Quiet, Orbes, or I'll have you thrown out of my city." The city lord saw the urgent need to calm his allies. "I swear by the Goddess," he asserted, "that Sir Darc has never committed any forbidden acts in my city, nor anything criminal."
("Not counting the vandalism in this room.")
The guests were in an uproar: all speaking at once, several of them trying to get to the door and determined to leave the city. Darc, though exhausted, became aware that he had just broken some extremely strong taboo.
("I can fix your taboo! Just gimme some glue and tape...")
He looked to Dohan - who seemed to waver uncertainly when he heard Lord Orbes's hysterical accusations.
Librian came closer, and said rapidly:
("I'msosorryDarcthisisallmyfault Ishouldhavewarnedyouearlier!")
"I am so sorry, Darc - this is all my fault. I should have warned you earlier, but I was afraid, like all of us - what did you say to them? No, do not say it in master Dohan's presence!"
("He's such a priss!")
He urged away the young knight, protecting him from an unclean touch or word.
(UUUURGE!!)
Librian himself was old, and not afraid for his own health - the taboo scared him too, but a threat to the Damons scared him much more.
"I told them," Darc said in English, "that I know how to perform genetic engineering, that is, changes in a cell's memory."
("And then I told them I knew Santa Claus. But they laughed at me!")
Librian replied in the same tongue, so that the others would not understand: "It was the Plague, the pseudo-leprosy..."
(Not to be confused with the author's pseudo-literacy...)
"A man-made plague... I found out that much..."
"But the rest of it is seldom written or spoken of in public. To prevent man-made plagues from almost destroying all humanity again... genetic engineering became the most forbidden crime of all. The punishment for such acts is death by burning... all books on genetics were destroyed many hundred years ago.
(And thus, The Da Vinci Code was forever lost to the world.)
There is said to be a few practitioners of the forbidden arts, but no-one knows where. To us, only the memory of the horrors remain... and the forbidden word... the three letters of evil..."
"D-N-A," Darc muttered laconically.
("Damn you, DNA! Damn you to hell!")
"Hush!" Librian said. "If they hear that, you are finished! Perhaps we can explain it away... yes, a misunderstanding..." He suddenly noticed Darc's weakened condition, and felt at the man's forehead. Librian switched to his own language: "Darc, you are feverish! Lord Dohan, bring the doctor here!"
("A real one! Not the kind you see on Scrubs!")
The physician took out an array of small instruments from a bag, and began examining the patient. He consulted two thick medical books, nodded gravely and grunted to himself.
(Try this drinking game with your friends: every time "grunting" is mentioned in the story, have a beer.)
From a box, the doctor took an adhesive cloth-plaster and dripped some potions on it. He clasped the plaster onto Darc's bare arm.
"Is it bad, Doctor?" Darc asked with a weak grin.
("Do you mean 'good' bad or 'bad' bad?")
The physician's face was stern, almost merciless - he had despised the stranger from the very first moment he was thawed out.
(Join the club!)
"I have given you temporary relief from the fever, sire. But I have not a cure for its cause. To be truthful - you are slowly dying."
Darc let out a laugh: "You must be joking, 'Doc'! You cured my cancer, and now you can't..."
("If I were joking, I'd say, 'You have the cooties'.")
"What is killing you this time is a common virus; people call it 'the one-year flush'. Everyone has it, and lives. In normal people, it only causes mild trouble sometimes. Fevers, weariness. That is - everyone but you, sire. Your bodily defenses are different from ours, and there is no way I can change them. I give you two weeks... three, at most."
("Take two aspirins and call me in four weeks.")
The physician started packing down his equipment, demonstrating that he could do no more. Secretly, he did not want to either. Though Darc was weak, he grasped the whole truth.
"Now I see... to cure me, my 'immune system' must be changed, my 'lymphocyte' DNA. But that's forbidden, right? Nobody is around to know how it's done, right? The books are burned, the machines are destroyed." Darc muttered in English, to himself: "I survived nine hundred years and spinal cancer... and I get killed by the measles of the future. Or it could even be... no. That's too dumb. Everyone is an immune carrier, everyone except me. That's too funny. Ha, ha... Always carry a condom wherever you travel!"
Darc continued to laugh.
(He muttered and laughed at the same time?)
Time had caught up, and was coming to claim back the years he had borrowed.
(With 10 percent interest.)
(Even those two words can feel like hours to read!)
When the chief court physician had assured Bor that there was no risk to others, the city lord allowed his family to visit Darc's sickbed.
(*COUGH* *HARRUMPH* *COUGH*)
The patient was sitting up in bed, writing down as much as possible in his diary - soon, he would be too weak to do even that. He was dressed in a thick wool sweater, and had several layers of blankets over his legs. Osanna's eyes filled up with tears when she saw Darc's pale features. Darc put on his most dashing grin to cheer Osanna up, and greeted her.
("Yo! Wussup?")
"The sight of your beauty makes me feel better already, my lady."
Osanna smiled back, leaving a vase of fresh flowers next to his bed. But little Eveli suddenly cracked up with grief.
(Pieces of her fell to the floor.)
She threw herself onto the bed, clutched his arm, and sobbed: "Oh, please do not leave us so soon! We cannot live on if you die!"
Those words stung him - deeper than Eveli could imagine. He remembered another girl having clutched his hand an eternity ago - or was it just a few months?
Darc said softly: "Now be brave, Lady Eveli. When you grow older, you will understand why these things happen -"
"No!" she whined, clutching his hand harder. "I will never understand why you have to die from some stupid germ, when we are allowed to live! It's not fair!"
([Girly voice] "Now I'll have to wear Goth, listen to really loud emo and cut my arms!")
You're damn right it isn't, he thought. A desperate plan began to take shape in his mind. Eveli started sobbing again; he patted her head. Osanna gently pulled her daughter away from the bedside, and took his hand.
"We will always remember you," Osanna said. "You brought back the King's songs to us."
(Elvis Presley or Stephen King?)
Darc knew that mattered: he had been trying to write down the old song lyrics all morning, and then he had given it up. How could one write how they should be performed?
(Hip-Shaking and Lip-Curling For Dummies.)
Dohan whispered something in his mother's ear. Osanna and Eveli left him alone with Darc. The young man, brought up to be a warrior and leader, was restless with tension and energy. For all his strength, he felt helpless now.
("Darn it! How do you solve this Sudoku puzzle?")
He folded his arms, unfolded them, shifted his weight, drew his hand through his stubby hair. Eventually, Dohan could not avoid looking directly at his dying friend.
"Darc. They say you are a witchdoctor. Tell me it is a lie."
("It is a lie.")
Darc had been thinking about what to say, and saw his last chance at salvation.
"I don't care what they call me, kid.
("Dork, fraud, blowhard, clown, raving idiot, lying sack of poo, cheese-eating surrender monkey... I don't care.")
I know how to accomplish certain things, but I never use that knowledge to hurt people. Have I ever tried to hurt anyone here?"
("You put Sir Orbes in hospital, and Tharlos Pasko broke several bones thanks to you...")
"No."
"Have I lied to you before?"
([Chorus] Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar!)
"No." There was hesitation in Dohan's answer. Some part of him felt cheated, disappointed that Darc was no divine man, just a dying visitor.
Darc pressed on: "Did you believe in the rumors? That I was the reincarnated Singing King?"
("Who did the swing, and put a zing in your thing?")
"I... I do not know."
"Did I ever try to make you believe that I was him?"
("You mean you're not Captain Chaos?")
"No."
"Have I not helped you?"
("Uhh... do you mean 'Have I helped you', or 'Have I helped you not', or...?")
Dohan's gaze dropped.
"You saved my life, for all I know."
(Then again, what does he know?)
Darc stared at him, as hard as he could, spoke in a tense voice: "And now I ask you to save my life. You are the only one I can ask."
To deny the last wish of a dying friend was against the code of honor that Dohan was raised to obey. "How can I help?"
("Gather all the musicians you know, and stage a benefit concert.")
"I want you to take me to a witchdoctor. To cure me."
Dohan froze where he stood and exploded, so tense his adolescent voice broke:
("It's cold in he-" *KA-BOOOM!!*)
"You cannot ask me to do that! I am sworn to protect the city against all enemies. Witchdoctors are... the archenemies of humanity!"
Darc shook his head, refusing to accept: "It is my last chance. There must be at least one witchdoctor somewhere in Juro. Somewhere on this planet."
("One who makes house calls.")
Dohan looked cautiously about for listeners. There were no hidden microphones in the castle - and no one but Darc could imagine such a luxury. The young knight walked over to the balcony and shut its doors. He returned to Darc's bed and leaned close.
He whispered: "I shall ask Librian. Stay here."
"Do not tell your father anything. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"No. Swear not to tell him."
("Shit, goddamn it, bloody hell, bugger off, bloody not to tell him!")
"I... I swear."
"My life is in your hands."
("...so give it back already!")
They were all silent, and Eveli barely touched her food.
(Eating disorders are an upper-to-middle-class issue.)
Bor had more troubles on his shoulders right now: thanks to Darc's statement this morning, Bor Damon's allies were threatening to end their alliance with him. The guests had already left the city, except for Azuch Fache who was too injured to fly.
(His wings needed three weeks to heal.)
This could not have happened at a worse moment, with the Damons and the Paskos on the brink of open warfare. If only, Bor scolded himself, he had never let that accursed sarcophagus into his city!
("What's 'accursed' mean?" - "It's like being Afghanistan, but not quite as bad.")
After the meal, Dohan approached Bor. "Father... can anything be done for Darc?"
"No."
"It is a great loss. He held such promise. Her Holiness promised us the Singing King's return. It might still be him."
("He said, 'Read my lips - no new taxes!'")
"This is the will of the Goddess. He should never have come here; he did not belong in our time. A troublemaker. If he was not as good as dead already, the Doctors' Guild would claim his head."
(For their skull collection.)
"But -"
Dohan stopped. He knew his father better than to try changing his mind on a settled matter. Only once, only once had Bor hit Dohan... but the fear of Bor's wrath was still very much with him. He went to see Librian.
(If they'd had Wikipedia, this story would be just half as long.)
Dohan thanked him, and sat down to wait in the library.
(INTENSE... SITTING DOWN...ACTION!!)
He wanted to ask for books on the forbidden arts, but he could not take the risk. As Dohan sat there his eyes fell on the big world map, which lay unfolded on a table. He searched the map, not certain what to look for; he hardly expected to find a spot marked "FORBIDDEN ARTS PRACTISED HERE."
(But he found a spot marked "CERTAIN DEATH.")
Suddenly, Dohan realized that he had never been outside Castilia. His life was predestined to begin and end in the same small province, him married away to some boring noblewoman... but Darc had already been all over the world, seen it in its Golden Age, seen the Goddess and heard the Singing King...
(... and met such legends as Paris Hilton and Michael Jackson...)
Dohan slammed his fist into the table.
(A rare Play-Doh table.)
Among all these books, there had to be a clue. On an impulse he sneaked into the private chambers, where he knew Librian kept the most precious old volumes. Inside, he lit the ceiling lamp and felt his way between narrow passages, flanked by rows of dusty volumes. He scanned the titles, and found nothing.
(But he wasn't looking for that, so he put nothing back on the shelf.)
He searched behind the books with his hand - and got hold of something. A small, leather-bound book, almost a leaflet.
(On My Mind, By George W. Bush.)
Dohan held up the printed title page, which read:
The Forbidden Arts: Where To Find, How To Identify, and How To Fight Practitioners Of The Ultimate Evil.
(The Uwe-Boll-onomicon.)
He leafed through it, fearing that someone would discover him, and read a passage:
There are no known witchdoctors in Juro today, or they are wise enough to keep their activities secret. The scholars of the Doctors' Guild have defined four typical locations likely to hide active practitioners: isolated islands, mountain regions, subterranean cities from the Great Wars, and the continent of Awstrala.
(Or go look in Palm Springs, Florida.)
The Kap Verita Islands, to the west of the Awrican West Coast, are said to be the site of a secret society of witchdoctors. A sailor who once survived a shipwreck there and later escaped, told an incredible story about a witchdoctor who had populated an entire island with monsters of his own creation. These islands are known to be volcanic, and no seafarer dares go near them.
("Because walking on the bottom of the ocean is so dangerous.")
There was certainly no time for sea journeys; Darc would be dead before they could reach Kap Verita by boat. Dohan put the book back behind the shelf, and carefully made his way out of the library.
(So as not to wake up the sleeping, carnivorous books.)
He was already planning his next action, without considering the consequences, without fearing for his safety. Such was his character.
(Such was his stupidity.)
Dohan's main concern now was how to distract Darc's robot guardian.
("I've got it! I'll ask it 'Why?' over and over, until it crashes!")
DARC AGES (c)A.R.Yngve 1995, 2000, 2004. All rights reserved. May not be copied without permission.
______________
A.R.Yngve
The MSTing Of
DARC AGES
Book One
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("I'm a little screwed up maybe, but I'm funny how? I mean funny like I'm a clown, I amuse you? Do I make you laugh? I'm here to frickin' amuse you?")
Outside the chamber, Dohan was waving his fists at the indifferent robots who blocked the door.
"So let us get to the point," Darc told the assembled nobles, who had not yet spoken a word to him. "You want me to pretend I am the reincarnated Singing King, right? And some of you think I really am him, right? Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I am just David Archibald, frozen alive nine centuries ago. I have never tried to be someone else.
Darc ducked the first blow with relative ease.
Darc was brought to his chamber and put to bed; the chief court physician arrived.
Hours passed.
Dohan ate the midday meal with the rest of the family in the great hall. At the opposite end of the hall, privileged members of the castle's workforce sat eating, separated by the wide stone floor.
Awonso informed Dohan that Librian was away in the city, and would not return for several hours.
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