They were sitting, not at their customary table in Quoils, but in a corner of the smart upper lounge of their local Podport. Other than the view through the gently curved windows and the sporadic movement of passengers the lounge was insulated from events outside; it was a public place where, with minimal expenditure, they could enjoy more or less undisturbed privacy, and conveniently, where they had ready access to abandoned copies of that same daily fabloid.
Having cast off their hats and capes (a rare concession to the comfortable ambience of their surroundings) the two men had been scanning for articles of interest. The Enwitter’s bold strapline was THE NEWS THAT NEEDS TO BE KNOWN. A more socially responsible editor might have been obliged to add MAY NOT APPEAR IN THESE PAGES, but that would have curbed the ingenuity of the staff reporters.
MISSING HEAD SPOTTED IN FRITTER
Cravian Drowl, who went missing inexplicably more than thirty years ago, is reported to have been seen by a fellow angler fishing on the south bank of the Heff in the village of Fritter. Drowl was Director of the Institute of Aeronautics in Meheric, and was believed at the time to have been under financial strain. His former secretary, Mrs C P Greng (née Trasset), now a producer on the show ‘Tessa’s Guests’, commented “I remember him as being a rather solitary man, but he was very partial to fish.” Assistant CSO at Censec, Sevrel Possins, stated “We have had multiple possible sightings of Mr Drowl over the years, both here and abroad. Our case-file remains open.”
They agreed that this item contained useful elements: the enigmatic disappearance, a long quest, false leads, raised hopes, inevitable disappointment, an examination of solitude, perhaps a final resolution. Fucis Gawl was not sure that fish would contribute to a poetic rendering of the events. His friend Legger would very likely find a way to incorporate them, although there was no doubt that they both felt a particular affinity with water.
There were other reports to consider. They hunched over their respective copies, drawing each other’s attention to specific articles. Among the ‘City News’ reports they found:
HUBBIN STREET TUNNEL EVACUATED
BALLOON VENDORS CLASH WITH WOHOKO FANS
INJURED WADING-BIRD RESCUED FROM SUNKEN GARDEN
A glimpse through the windows on either side of their corner seat would have revealed a slight stir of activity as some embarking passengers and Podport guides were craning their necks to squint overhead.
“Hubbin Street. Is that the pedestrian stripway?” asked Legger.
“It must be. We’ve always used the bridge. Better view.”
“Bound to be. You don’t see much from a tunnel.”
“Why was it evacuated? Dead body? Messages scrawled in blood?” They had not yet outgrown a childhood fascination for the macabre.
“No. It says, um… ‘precautionary measures due to suspected seepage.”
“Seepage? That’s a euphemistic way of saying the River Stirrow’s trying to break through!”
They exchanged significant glances. That had definite potential. The threat of a catastrophe was a guaranteed stimulus to their poetic pursuits. And here was water in abundance! They knew that there would be an almost visceral satisfaction in exploring verbally the dynamics of its movement, from the first clammy oozing to the release of the final remorseless torrent. Evacuating the tunnel would greatly reduce possible casualties, but what about the danger to specialist engineers called in to attempt emergency repair or reinforcement? They allowed the scene to play out in their imaginations.
“Crack!” said Fucis, grimly. “Fissure!” He paused. “Collapse!”
“Inundation!” Legger duly responded, with equally horrified enthusiasm.
Outside, people were now turning their gaze to a point on the western horizon. Some were pointing. A few appeared to have their hands raised to their mouths, or were shielding their eyes.
The poets continued their examination of The City Enwitter. Neither of them was a Wohoko fan, being not only of a different generation, but in their own view far too serious-minded for such frivolity. There was a certain nostalgic attraction about balloon-vendors, but the report did not sufficiently interest them. Nor did the case of the unfortunate wading-bird, other than to provoke a brief discussion about whether its injury might be piscoid-related; an unlikely cause, since an essential element of piscoid programming was aversion to physical contact.
“Here’s an odd one,” said Fucis.
TALKING BIRD-TABLE BAFFLES BOFFINS
Earlier this summer, in order to attract more birds to an ordinary bird-table, West Snoak resident Mautus Glone (62) decided to add some customised accessories. Glone, a retired medtech, constructed neatly-branching metal struts and hanging cylindrical containers fashioned from different grades of copper and zinc mesh. “The birds began to avoid it,” complained Glone. “No matter what kind of food they were given. Then one morning I heard a thin intermittent buzzing. I thought it was a trapped bee, but there was no sign of an insect. When I put my ear to the framework I realised I could hear voices.” Specialist engineers were called to investigate. They concluded that by a quirk of assembly the structure was acting as an antenna for receiving invisible vibrancies; that these vibrancies were indeed audible as voices, but the experts were unable to identify in what language the voices might be speaking. Mr Glone’s bird-table is now under the protection of CenSec, and is strictly off-limits to curiosity-seekers. Research into the phenomenon is set to continue.
Legger was sceptical. “Invisible vibrancies! Isn’t that a bit far-fetched?
“It sounds improbable, yes, but I happen to know they teach Vibrancy as part of the Quizzics course at Platport.”
“How did you ‘happen to know’ that?”
“From my cousin Prista.”
“The dancer?”
“Yes. She had a… relationship with the daughter of the Quizzics professor, and used to find the idea of a ‘Vibrancy’ course somehow amusing.
Legger grunted non-committally, and having turned to the Arts section, abruptly exclaimed “Hey, Fucis, top of page nine!”
SNOAK ARTIST NOMINATED FOR AWARD
Tortica Doublebud, best known for her controversial interactive metaportraits, has been shortlisted for the prestigious Brec-Welms Award. A panel of former winners will select the best entry from among a host of international nominees. The Doublebud exhibit, currently on display at the Art Market, is entitled ‘Multifacet’: “a cryomagnetic suspension of semi-metallic particles”, according to the artist, and kept under her creative control in a manner she has so far declined to reveal. The winner will be announced early next month at a ceremony in the Auditorium.
The two men regarded Tortica Doublebud with something close to idolatry, coupled perhaps with a smidgen of envy. She had achieved the kind of notoriety for which they yearned, pursuing her artistic career independently of schools or trends. Still in her twenties, she had already produced works of startling originality and great technical skill, much to the discomfiture of some hidebound critics. She was clear-eyed, articulate and unembarrassed by any arguments about her art. The fact that she was also good-looking and (as far as they knew) unattached may have contributed to Gawl and Rambersack’s frisson of excitement.
While laudatory poems were not their métier, each of them was confident that an Ode to Tortica would be a worthwhile experiment, and seized the moment by taking out their composing pads.
THE COMPOSING PAD OF FUCIS GAWL
Ode to Tortica
Tortica Doublebud
You quicken my blood!
And by my beard
I find your art is weird
and really smart.
You hear that thud,
and then that thud?
You get inside my mind
And fibrillate my heart.
Not too bad, he thought, excusing himself for the impromptu lapse into medical jargon, and looking up to see how Legger was faring.
Legger was finding it hard to concentrate. He had hit an obstacle straight away. There was no exact rhyme for ‘Tortica’. While rhyme was not essential, and there were other devices at his disposal, it was nonetheless frustrating. After a few minutes he sat back, dissatisfied.
THE COMPOSING PAD OF LEGGER RAMBERSACK
Ode to Tortica
O Tortica!
horticu / lturenautica / lforty ca / binets/
naries/
terpillars/
ndlesO Torty, lovely Torty!
Never prim, or dull or haughty.
Let’s not wait until we’re forty.
Do you fancy being naughty?
“It’s no use,” he sighed. “Once I start thinking about her I get a hormone rush.”
They decided that a visit to the Art Market should be a priority, and might help to restore Legger’s emotional equilibrium. Meanwhile, they had several more pages to study.
A faint shudder jarred the Podport building, hardly enough to disturb the comfort of those within, unless they happened to be looking out of a west-facing window, from where a dark billowing plume could be seen rising in the distance. In dwindling perspective an irregular procession of emergency vehicles could be seen heading westward, towards the uncultivated scrubland beyond the Podport grounds. The clashing whine of their sirens was inaudible through the glass.
SPEB VIRRING TRIAL RESUMES
Following last week’s revelation the initial tumult has died down, and the court is back in session under the redoubtable Prime Legist Tussel. The Laggabard twins, who had played such a prominent part in the earlier proceedings, were conspicuous by their absence. Flanked by two detechs, Virring has remained impassive, apart from the two occasions on which he asked if he might be permitted to sing. These requests were declined on grounds of probable impropriety. Further witnesses are expected to be called over the next few weeks. Will their testimony be influenced by the persuasive arguments of the group known as ‘Speb’s Rebels’? We can only wait and see.
These two Muse-seeking natives of Smatparrox considered themselves to be citizens of the world, but this report made them both feel out of touch and uncomfortably parochial.
Fucis scowled. “If only we lived in Snoak…”
“We might have some idea of who these blasted people are,” sighed Legger, equally exasperated.
“Or we could have tried spending several hours a day like this, picking through the Enwitter.”
“There’s a limit to the sacrifices one should make in the cause of one’s Art,” Legger declared.
“Agreed. This provincial news, it’s…” Fucis struggled to find the right phrase. He cupped both hands and mimicked squeezing a soft ball.
“It’s like catching butterflies?”
“No, No! It… it closes the mind. It narrows horizons. Our scope should be, you know… more ambitious.”
“Global?”
“Cosmic!”
“Unconstrained by Time, or Space… or Imagination!”
“Illimitable vistas!”
Appeased by this reassuring exchange, they rose and stretched, gathered their elegantly unfashionable hats and silk-lined capes, thought it prudent to rescue one copy of The City Enwitter, purely for reference, and made their way downstairs to the street exit.
Back in the open a provincial quietness reigned. The late afternoon sky was almost cloudless. There was a slightly acrid taint to the normally floral-scented air. They noticed a brownish haze to the west, but supposed it to be the vestige of a recent bonfire.